Topic: An unfortunate manner of return

Denor · Date: 2007-12-18 21:29 EST

Now

Rhydin Harbor

Disembarking from the "Wanderer"

His boots hit the dock with a thump. It was worn, weather beaten, and tattered. Just like he felt. His heart was heavy and his soul, such as it was, felt tired. He was shocked, insulted, and saddened beyond belief at Legate Damar's punishment. He'd once called Damar a friend.

He wouldn't've minded death; He saw it everywhere, he greeted it every day, had flirted with it, had made it his lover in the days before, during, and after the war. To have been made a martyr for his Union against the ridiculous sensibilities of the pompous, arrogant Federation would have been a fitting end. To have been exonerated of all "Crimes" He'd committed during the war would also have been fitting: He'd never done anything but kill whatever enemy he was pointed at. His Order wanted his acquittal, the people of Cardassia wanted his acquittal, and virtually all of the high council had wanted his acquittal.

But Damar had another idea. "Psychological Leave" Had been the phrase he'd used. Of course Damar was unwilling to execute his fiercest soldier for defeating the enemy, even in the spectacularly gruesome way he'd gone about it. But he couldn't exactly let Denor off the hook for what was such a terrible crime to the Starfleet officers he'd apparently become a lackey to. So, when Denor failed miserably a standard fleet psych test, Damar had jumped on it. He'd deactivated the High Gul's command role and banished him from the service until such time that Denor could pass. Denor would've preferred death.

Denor had thought the test might be rigged. He couldn't be that crazy, could he" Were he that insane, he reasoned, how could he have commanded the Third Order to the impressive list of kills and victories he had" Didn't crazy people do things like eat the bodies of the dead" Laugh out loud for no reason' Cut themselves, talk to themselves, have multiple personalities" Denor didn't do any of that. The test surely must've been rigged. Sonofabitch.

The High Gul looked over and across the harbor. It too, looked tattered and beaten. Some of the anchored ships were riding low or had a list, and many of their sails hung limp and tattered, their yards askew. Some of the docks were broken and awash, and some of the warehouses along the waterfront showed obvious damage. Perhaps a wave that the harbor breakwater couldn't deal with had hit. Perhaps it was something else. The one thing to expect in this town, was indeed, the unexpected. He walked down the wharf towards the shore.

He didn't want to be here. Not here, not now. He'd spent too long in this place years ago. He'd had his best times and his worst times here. He'd been engaged to a nasty, mean, beautiful, loving human-Drow. And then he killed her later on in a duel when she'd grown too drow and not human enough. He'd commanded some of these men, and they had together rushed their enemies with blades held high, and they'd been known everywhere and to everyone as those men you don't cross. He'd even taken a wife in this land, something he'd promised himself he wouldn't, not after Llinora's terrible death, not after what Mia had put him through. She'd been sweet and kind and giving and loving, skilled at her magic and her fighting, and everything that she was filled the void in his heart. And it was of course his luck, that she'd been unwilling to go back to Cardassia with him once his peoples' call had grown loud enough and his ship strong enough again to make the journey home. So he'd gone back alone and fought like a demon, as though the blood he shed and the lives he took might somehow satiate his thirst for that which he'd lost. But no, all it did was stain his hands red and paint kills on the prow of his wicked flagship, Vamora.

What else was he to do' He could've stayed home where ordinary citizens recognized him and bought him drinks at the bar, where his people lined up to shake his hand and ask to be regaled with tales of the war. But no, that'd only be a humiliating reminder of the fact that he was too mentally infirm to command his Order directly anymore. He could've gone to any of the unaligned worlds, purchased a ranch, and would have lived in complete anonymity and comfort. But no, he'd be driven more insane by that than he already was; To go from a commander engaged in war every day to a farmer engaged by winged pests every day would've been completely intolerable. He might as well put two in his face, although he wasn't totally sure that would kill him regardless. Maybe one day he'd try it and find out.

He looked to the north, maybe he could see it from here. His black-blue eyes ranged far along the coast with 20-05 clarity, searching for it, shrouded in fog as it usually was and probably was now. If it was even still there. He looked for another few moments, then shrugged to himself. Hell with it. Either it'd been brought down or it was locked in fog too thick for him to see through. He'd find out later on for sure, since he had nowhere else to go in this land. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't about to sleep in the street like a beggar or take a room in a boardinghouse whose owners didn't bother changing the bedsheets between residents. He might be down these days, but was certainly not out. He shrugged his shoulders to get his pack settled just right and took up again the two big duffels that together contained all the worldly possessions he'd brought with him. Then he stepped onto the stone-lined quay that led to the street, and he walked back into this town that he both loved and hated.

tbc...

Denor · Date: 2007-12-18 23:19 EST

Cardassia Prime, 1 month ago Grand Courthouse

His midnight blues gazed down, locking on his boots. They were good boots, strong. Rubber treads over palanck-wood soles over 2mm jointed tungsten ballistic plate for protection from punjii sticks or landmines, whichever struck the enemies' fancy. No laces held together the knee-high gandala leather upper; They would be only a possible point of failure. No, these were jackboots, pure and simple. They went up to his knee, and had been keeping the water, blood, and other, less noble fluids from reaching his calves and feet for the better part of a quarter century. Each of his boots were 390 millimeters from heel to toe.

When he stood in this chamber, sometimes for hours on end, he found that it was easier to lock his eyes on the toes of his boots and let his mind go free for a time. Ironically, the times when he stood here, head bowed in the proper gesture of respect, were the only times when he could let his mind wander where it wished. It was the Cardassian High Court, and in this court, the defendant was already guilty, with the punishment already decided upon before the trial began. The trail was only to help the defendant understand better his crime. This day it might be a little different, but Denor wasn't holding his breath.

"It is the opinion of this council that the only justice for the atrocity committed by High Gul Denor who now stands before us, is the penalty of death." Said Starfleet Admiral Naguma. "It is the opinion of this council that acts of barbarity such as that committed by High Gul Denor around the planet KVG-N3 II have no place in contemporary life or warfare, and are best left as reminders of the terrible past." Many of the gathered witnesses to the trial hissed in dismay at the reccommendation, while a few others clapped.

Denor snorted a little then, but said nothing, as it was not yet his turn to speak. Naguma was an arrogant, unskilled pig of a man, whose sixth fleet had suffered defeat after defeat in the recently concluded war until it had been erased as a cohesive fighting unit. How this dopey fat bastard had come to chair Denor's war-crimes trial was unknown, and The High Gul was just a little ticked off about it.

Now Naguma adressed Denor directly: "You are a monster and a murderer many millions of times over. What you ordered done over that planet and what you saw happen have no place in modern history. You are a throwback to the bloody past, and as such, you will be treated. You have no future, no life, nothing of any note save for a swift execution." He didn't have the authority to order that, not this Starfleet Admiral in a Cardassian court, but he looked at Legate Damar for support with a slow nod and a contrite face. He fully expected his reccommendation to be turned into action.

It was now Denor's turn to speak in this trial. His voice was slow, deep, and full of wicked venom: "I am a murderer. I am a monster, many times over. I'm the worst nightmare with which you'll cross paths in your soon-to-be-ended career. I'd do it all over again without pause, without a blink of consience, without hesitation. I did lay to death those fifty millions on that planet they now say is my namesake," That much was true. KVG-N3 II was now unofficially known as Denor's Massacare, and probably would be known as such for the rest of the thirty thousand or so years it would remain uninhabitable. "But know this: What I did, I did for the Union, for victory, for my people. I neither expect nor request your understanding, your judgment, or your pity. If I took the lives of the enemy in war, and now stand before this tribunal, then this was no real war, and so this tribunal is a sham, a joke to be played on men simpler than myself."

Naguma's ceremonial gavel rose to quiet the High Gul, but already the cheers of his supporters began to unravel the proceedings. His lioneine head began to rise, to show his firey black-blue eyes to those of the Starfleet Admiral, and now that fat man's sloped, pointed eyes opened in something akin to suprise or terror. Denor continued: "What you say now, Admiral, what you reccommend, is the most pointed difference between you and I: While I shed the lifesblood of the enemy for my people, you shed the lifesblood of your people for you!" Naguma visibly flinched at this now. His sixth Fleet had engaged the enemy seventy-nine times during the war and had thusly been defeated seventy-five times. Naguma had won only three minor victories and one draw for all the men and women he'd lost. His Sixth fleet had been whittled down to the point where it no longer could function as a cohesive fighting unit.

The hollow blows of wood on copper that Naguma's gavel made were shrugged off by the crowd, who now mostly stood on their feet, clapping and cheering the High Gul on. He didn't disappoint: "Know now only this, Admiral: You are mine! I'll have you, be it in this life or the next or the one after that!" Three burly starfleet ensigns started to haul him away, back toward the detention center. Three ensigns that he could have dispatched with one strike a piece, two at most. He was shouting now, "Your life is mine! Your children are mine! Your Goddamned blood is mine, you fat sonofabitch!"

The crowd who was mostly made up of members of Denor's vicious Third Order chanted for him relentlessly. They shouted down Admiral Naguma's gavel time after time until the Starfleet Officer was forced to flee to his temporary chambers. Outside the imposing black marble courthouse, a riot erupted in favor of High Gul Denor, and the ordinary citizens showed their displeasure of the tribunals' ruling by flipping hovercars onto their roofs and then burning them. They broke windows and set fire to storefronts and offices that the halon fire extinguishers could not put out. But none of the citizenry's collective anger at the fate of their hero could forestall the brand of justice that another war hero Legate would dispense.

TBC.....

Denor · Date: 2007-12-27 01:02 EST

Now Near the Rhydin waterfront The High Gul's black-blue eyes roamed up and down the midday street. The smell was the same: It mixed garbage, spicy sweet smoke from joints, pipes or hookahs and whatever went burning within, and flat beer, cheap booze and the piss it eventually eked from those who chose to imbibe. It was like some inexperienced bartender had mixed a long Island Iced tea from hell, then poured it over a mound of burning feces. The constant, almost frenzied array of activity was the same, too. Street merchants hawked their wares, as did the occasional hooker, clad in last night's clothes and last night's makeup and last night's hair. A few random street performers sang or danced or juggled or played an instrument or whatever. People and creatures dashed this way and that on errands that were paramount to them, and meaningless to everyone else.

Denor had left the activity of the dockside behind him, but not so far that he couldn't hear mallets pounding wooden pins into place. Not so far that he couldn't hear gangbosses screaming abuse at deck crews, or the gentle clanging of ships' bells as a change in the watch was signaled, or the cries of white gulls that incessantly jockeyed for the best scraps. Everywhere was purpose; Everything had a clear mission, regardless it's relative importance. Everywhere but one small spot, and everything but one. He felt cast adrift; He felt meaningless, for without a mission, a goal, a purpose, what was he to do' Survival wasn't a question; He'd shown himself to be more than capable of fending off the dangers of the mortal world both here and back home. Wealth wasn't an issue; He had it aplenty and knew well how to make more when the need for coin arose. Companionship was no problem; Matters of the heart was the only area in which he was markedly deficient, and as such he'd learned well and long ago to avoid romance and relationships. Supposedly his mission here was to de-crazy himself, to pass a psych test and to get back on the bridge of his ship. That wasn't coming anytime soon, because this land was good for one thing and one thing only, for driving a man out of his mind. What was he going to do, go lay on some shrink's couch and cry about how some kid had made fun of his hair in primary school" That sort of thing was for the weak, and if Denor was anything, he wasn't weak. So instead then, he'd manufacture himself something to do right now. He still needed lodging of some kind, and he was particular about that. Though he'd slept easily in muddy foxholes while rats devoured the flesh of dead comrades mere feet away, it didn't mean that he wanted to. Though shamed and disgraced, he was still an officer and a gentlemen, and as such, would seek accommodations that befit him. He'd also need food and drink soon, and not the hogswill that many people here subsisted on. He didn't need four-star french cuisine, but it never hurt to treat oneself. He pulled his last, slightly bent cigarette from behind his ear and wedged the filter end between his lips. He could've then fired it up with the chrome zippo he kept in his cape's inside pocket, but then he'd need to put down one of the heavy duffels he now carried. He instead concentrated on the unlit end, and it smouldered a bit. Two quick puffs lit it fully, and then he was off to accomplish what little he had to do for the day. Cardassia Prime 1 month ago Grand courthouse main detention center

Now he simply sat there, eyes closed, left hand cradled in his lap. He rocked back and forth gently, humming a hymn he'd learned as a child and had never been quite able to forget. In the three hours since he'd allowed himself to be tossed into the cell, he'd gained an intimate appreciation for the feel, the smell, the noises, and the routine of the place.

He'd first raged and roared, intent on showing his displeasure plainly. He'd smashed his closed, rock-hard fist into the solid duranium wall a hundred or so times, until a great rusty smear of Cardassian blood graced the dented, battered metal and landed in spatters across the ceiling, cot, sink, and other walls and settled in puddles on the cold deck. Then, his hand a broken, mangled, torn-up mess, he'd refused to relent; He kicked the wall with all his strength until the supposedly unassailable wall looked as though a truck had hit it. His fury thusly spent, he paced the cell a hundred or so times until he'd tracked a gory little rust-red highway around it's periphery, listening only to the sound of his own heavy breathing and the quiet symphony of snap-crackle-pop that the swiftly-knitting bones and tendons of his ruined left hand made.

He didn't open his eyes, or give any indication that he heared the cellblock door slide open, fifty or sixty meters distant. He still rocked gently, still hummed gently. Then he heared an unaccompanied man with a limp shuffling his way down the corridor, towards Denor's cell; Of course Denor had been put in the last cell to the right, the absolute furthest point from possible egress. Legate Damar had been shot in the leg during the war, but the doctors had been able to save it, mostly.

Denor still refused to acknowledge his visitor, even though the man stood outside the buzzing forcefield for the better part of a minute. Then, finally, "If I come inside there, will you kill me?"

The High Gul didn't look, didn't stop rocking, but after a handful of heartbeats, stopped humming. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

Damar paused. "I owe you an explanation; I know that, and I'm here to give it to you if you'll hear me out. But I'll suffer neither us the indignity of preaching it to you like a caged animal. So I'll ask you again: Will you kill me if I come inside?"

Oh hell. The High Gul would've loved nothing better then to choke the life from the alcoholic war hero Damar twenty seconds before. But now, with humility offered and sincerity aplenty, Denor couldn't do the Legate any harm. He opened his fierce eyes and nodded to Damar, "I swear I won't." He slid over so that Damar could sit and take a load off his leg, if he wished.

The forcefield blinked out of existence and for once there was near complete silence in the cell. Damar paused again, then shuffled inside the cell, took the offered seat. There was a light clink of glass when Damar placed a pair of iced tumblers and a bottle of kanar between them. "I know that you understand how close we came as a race to Federation martial law and occupation after The War ended." Indeed, the recent war had been so catastrophic and complete, that for many hundreds of years to come, the Cardassian people would refer to it only in capitals, "But I'm not sure you understand why." The Legate poured both tumblers full, then recapped the bottle.

Denor bit. "Why?" He picked up one of the glasses.

"You, primarily." Damar fixed him with an unblinking stare. "I gave you up to avoid our people suffering another occupation. The Dominion was enough." He said it frank and plain. "You were the Federation's main stipulation, that I take you out of circulation, otherwise they garrison our remaining planets for our own good." He spat the word like a curse.

Denor gave him a sidelong glance, then took a sip of the bitter alcohol. "Like they think they could. Like we wouldn't smash them flat and tail them back to Tellar or Vulcan or Earth and end for all time their planet from orbit. Like I wouldn't end their planets for all time." Then he paused only a little and hoped Damar didn't notice. "They haven't got the sauce for it, and they never will."

Damar knew that Denor was right, that the Federation couldn't conquer and occupy the Union, battered and defeated as it was. He knew that Denor was right, that he would end them for all time, and that was what everyone was afraid of. He chose his next words carefully: "I can't control you the way I control the other Guls; We both know that. But I can take your command and send you off on psychological leave. I've done just that to spare our people another war. A war for what? To prove we're indomitable" We're not. To satiate your belief in yourself and your men" You'll all go into the history of dead races as a reminder of what the finest and fiercest can do. And you'll take your entire people with you. The moment you come unhinged again and kill millions to prove our invincibility, the Klingons jump on us. The Romulans jump on us. We can't afford another war. Not that war, not now. Not right now." It was Damar's turn to drink.

Denor knew that the Legate was right. "My entire people," He realized it like a hammer-blow to the chest, and he fixed his black-blue eyes on the black swells that his tumbler held. "I fight with all my heart and all my soul and all my might." Was all he said. He started withdrawing, quiet and sullen and brooding.

"So then fight now. Fight yourself, so that you needn't eventually fail fighting off the world for them. Pull yourself back from the path of ruin, because you'll lead them down it if you don't." Damar clapped Denor on the shoulder, leaning forward to try and catch his lowered eyes. "They love you; They riot at my verdict still. They riot for you, not because you killed the enemy with illegal weapons, but because they know that you'd give your life for any of them. They don't mind the threat of giving theirs for you." The traditional punishment for unlawful assembly on any of the Cardassian home worlds was death-where-standing.

Denor's eyes rose instantly, with flames in them. "You would never."

Damar smiled and rose to leave. "No, never. The planet's ruined as it is, what worse will a little more do?" He took another belt off his tumbler. It showed tiny beads of condensation on the outside. "But they don't know that." He paused again to let that sink in. His hand still held fast to Denor's shoulder. "Go now, go find yourself and be worthy of them." And then the Legate turned and shuffled off.

Denor · Date: 2008-02-13 23:45 EST

Now Just beyond Rhydin Harbor Getting food in a diner He'd traveled inland some fractions of a mile and had let the sounds and bustle of the waterfront fade into the dull distance. He could still smell the sea air however, and he fancied the idea of heading back down there a little later after he'd set himself up with somewhere to sleep and a method of travel just a bit faster than foot. Trouble and violence were his aphrodisiacs by habit—not by nature—and the promise or even possibility thereof were plainly irresistible to the hulking Cardassian Gul. And so he would come back to the docks as soon as it was convenient. He'd just spied a small diner that had a few tables out on the street, with more seating inside. He angled towards the door because he'd found that were he to spend too much time in plain sight that some asswipe would eventually see his large size or unfamiliar facial structure and decide that he wanted the chance to prove his might against the High Gul. Some asswipe would make a problem that, to date, had never gone badly for Denor. Ever since he'd undergone The Treatment, Denor had never lost a fight, though it'd been hairy against a pair of big Klingons just after the war and several times against Jem'Hadar during the hell that The War had been. He tried not to look for trouble; It simply found him wherever he was at. He opened the door and strode into the diner, bold as brass. He neither wanted nor needed problems, but once a problem became apparent, Denor was the sort to seize it with both hands and not let it go until it was done; Usually Men or Jem'Hadar or Klingons would lay bloodied on the floor before him when it was done. He let the door close gently behind him, easing it shut with the tip of his booted foot. He brought inside with him the pair of 150-kg duffels that held most of his stuff, and he did so gently so as not to make waves, to not draw attention. Most of these people and Elves had never seen a Cardassian, let alone one that was Denor's size. He was of Orc-size and more than Orc-strength, but he had none of the nasty teeth or body odor or the impolite table manners that the greenskins were renowned for. He hoped that would give him some good standing off the bat. He sat by a window and faced the door, then flashed the waitress a dazzling smile, his best, when she approached. He hadn't looked at the menu, didn't need to. It was still before noon, and any dining establishment worth it's salt still served a breakfast menu till then, if not all day. She wasn't looking at her customer, but rather at the floor and then her pad, and she skidded to a halt when she finally did look. She stumbled over her words, but only a little, to her credit: "Um...Hi, good morning. I'm June, I'll be your server today." She was probably no more than thirty and cute, in that humanish sort of way. "Mornin' doll, how're you doing?" He flashed her another sunny smile, expecting her to see and recognize it this time. She was tenative, unsure of this big, pasty, funny-looking fellow. "I'm, uh, very well, thanks. Can I start you off with something to drink?" "Yeah. A Bloody Mary, please. Extra spicy and extra tall. Hold the celery." Denor had found that reptiles usually made humans wary pretty fast, snakes and lizards specifically. And since Cardassians were, in fact, descended from reptiles the way humans were descended from monkeys, Denor's scaly, quasi-reptilian visage usually put uninitiated humans on edge. Normally he'd've gone for a tall cold kanar, but he'd also found that drinking human drinks put them less on the defensive. So he ordered a bloody Mary. He was also quite fond of mixed vodka, tomato juice and horseradish. "Extra tall, extra spicy, and hold the celery." She nodded, jotting it on her pad. "Are you ready to order, or would you like some time while I get your drink?" She'd noted that he hadn't even bothered touching his menu, much less looking at it. Any waitress who knew what she was doing wanted to get the order cooked as soon as possible, get the customer eating and then paying without delay. "I'll have a steak, a dozen eggs scrambled, four orders of bacon, two orders of sausage, and a double order of white toast." Denor loved bacon. Her pen scrabbled furiously on her pad for a second, then she stopped and looked at him. "Um, you're serious?" He nodded, smiling and gesturing up and down his massive, bulky frame. "I'm a big boy. Takes a lot to keep this machine going." That earned him a little grin from her. "How'd you like your steak cooked?" "Rare, please." "Rare, you got it. Be out in a few." She flashed him that same smile that all customers got, then turned on her heel and went to put his order in first to the bar and then to the kitchen.

Denor · Date: 2008-03-20 01:52 EST

8 months ago in orbit of and on planet M3-A2M

Breen Space He'd never minded bleeding. Actually liked it in a way. He was a little bit of a masochist at heart, and that suited him well. He'd been shot many times, stabbed many times, slashed many times. He'd been run over by all manner of animal and vehicle. He'd had attack animals claw him and spit venom at his eyes. He had almost a kilo of inoperable shrapnel in his head, chest, and abdomen that had been the favor of an airburst antipersonnel artillery shell. For the rest of his days, he would carry a 27mm long arrowhead in his back, just a little north of his third intestine; It was a courtesy of a native boy whose tribe had disagreed with the takeover of some of their territory by the Cardassian Union. Denor kept the arrowhead because he liked it, because he was proud of it, because the little twinge of pain it gave him when he turned from the waist reminded him that he was still alive. It was a part of him now, and his body obliged him by growing a cyst around the rough hunk of iron, instead of rejecting it outright. He'd never minded the hurt or the blood, and a part of him liked it. The far greater portion of him, however, saw the bleeding and the hurting and the death that invariably followed it on both sides, as necessity. Pure and simple. It was necessary to protect and defend Cardassia and the Union it'd spawned. To protect the planet of his birth, and the resting place of his wife. The resting place of both his parents, and of his four brothers and of his two sisters. To protect the home of all those who were to come long after his bones had become dust. To secure the future of the species. That's what drove him, his people. For Denor himself was not a person, not anymore. Since his wife had passed in the dreadful way she had, and then the rest of his family in ones and twos, The High Gul had ceased to be what he once was. Since he'd undergone The Treatment, there was no more happiness, no more sadness. No friends, no loves. And no regrets, save for that one. Only cold. So now Denor was a weapon to be wielded against the enemies of his people. He'd never been very much good at anything other than commanding, or killing, other people. So now he was set to do both of those at the same time. It was night, and cold, though the chill or snow didn't bother him in the slightest; Nothing bothered him. He turned his gently glowing dark-blue eyes to look over his shoulder among the rocks and craggy outcroppings that grew sparse lumps of grass and little thorny bushes. To the left, right, and behind him, some concealed and some not, were his men. Marine Officers and enlisted all, they were all specially selected from amongst the regular ranks for service aboard the High Gul's Flagship. The chill or snow didn't bother any of them, either. "Give me eight snipers, please. Three on that ridge," The High Gul pointed, "Three on that butte over there," He indicated the position with a nod of the chin, "And two in the scrub over there." He nodded now toward a gentle rise that had a good vantage point overlooking the area. "Cannon behind that rock there," Another nod, "Cannon and mortar there, and give them a designator and a 'scope". Denor believed heavily in the idea of prepositioning, because the men he was issued were finite in both number and ability. Most of those who would live through the night were veterans, and those who weren't, would become so. So Denor needed to spend the lives of his men carefully. "All the rest are to arm for assault and HTH." He spoke quietly and rapidly to his XO, Karl Ressel, who issued the orders moments later with hand signals and quiet chatter over the directional microcommband. The one hundred and thirty Cardassians were now to attack the remnants of a village that was held by both Dominion and Breen forces; It'd probably been a paradise before the war, but now was only a shadow; The townspeople had long since fled the war and the carnage it wrought. Now it was only held as a semi-strongpoint between the mines and the spaceport. Now it was a part of the war, a piece of the war to be used and expended for what might have been a National gain and what might again have not been. From the western hills that were part of the mountain chain that sourrounded the small, formerly idyllic villagge, did issue a company of Cardassian Marines; A company of the Cardassians' best.

First, a dozen antipersonnel mortar bombs crashed down amongst the massed ranks of the enemy. Denor started walking down the craggy slope, leading his men, when the bombs started their falling; He drew a blade that showed alien runes and drank the souls coldly of those he cut or stabbed with it. Then, a pair of nasty auto cannons opened up on those Dominion and Breen who thought foolishly to defend their position, and they were cut down mid-stride; No enemy who made himself visible was spared. Denor jogged toward the beleaguered enemy under wicked covering fire with his blade and his pistol ready. Then, when the enemy organized themselves behind ramparts and in hastily-dug ditches, did some Cardassian snipers begin to sell their wares: It was a Brave Breen who showed it's face, or a stupid Jem'Hadar, and then just as quickly were they dispatched. While aliens either ducked or cowered before the barrage, did High Gul Kill'Rel Denor run forth, leading his men as he'd been instructed.

He jumped into the first trench, smashing the sharp of his blade into the commanding Breen's faceplate; It died immediately. Denor then shot a subordinate officer in the face five or six times; better to use overkill and be sure than to leave a living enemy at the back. He smashed the butt of his pistol into the face of a Jem'Hadar, then grabbed him by the collar and forced him to the ground, then stabbed him through his throat with his wicked runeblade. Then he shot another Breen to death, and upon rising, thrust his blade through the dying Breen, and into the body of the next. He yanked his blade from the dead body of the enemy with such force that it splattered purple blood across his face and upper torso. He heard screaming, a great terrible bellow, and he didn't recognize it as his own voice until later, when the enemy had been vanquished. Until such time as even his own men, who'd come into battle with him and had slain with him, looked upon him with amazement and awe and dread and what might then be called fear, had he fought and slain so fiercely.

He stood on the mount to the next line of enemy trenches, but then saw that all his enemies had been defeated; He'd extinguished them all, mostly with the blade. He bled a little, but not much, and all the enemy were dead. He huffed and puffed, partially from exhaustion, and partially from the emotion he carried. But mostly from the exhaustion. "What the hell are you sons-of-bitches looking at?" He slid a cloth down the length of his blade to clean the clinging blood, then he slid it, blood not fully cleaned, into his scabbard. "You're looking at someone who did his Goddamned job!"

Many of his men now cleaned their bloody blades also; Their Commander had not been the only one to engage the enemy in hand-to-hand. Their Commander had not fallen, but several of them had. No one except Karl Ressel dared challenge the Crazy Gul. "You're looking at a few who did their Goddamned job!" Karl Ressel paused to light a cigarette, then stared Denor in the eye. "So who are you calling a son of a bitch?"

Denor · Date: 2008-08-18 22:15 EST

Now Just beyond Rhydin Harbor Getting food in a diner

"Thanks, I'm good. Just the check, please." Denor reclined a little in his booth, having gorged himself on a dozen eggs, half a pig worth of bacon and sausage, a loaf of white toast, and 6 tall bloody maries. He felt like gold. He slid down a little, and nudged one of his big black warbags aside to make room beneath the table for his big feet and long legs. He nudged it aside quite gingerly, because he wasn't sure if this was the bag that contained the demolition charges or not.

"Sure, I'll bring it right back." Said the waitress. Gave him another smile then turned towards the register. She'd warmed up to him bit by bit over the course of his two hour long meal. His alien looks and large size had put her off initially, but his plain intellect and soft words and gentle introversion had won her over. At least she didn't believe him to be in the ork or gargoyle family anymore.

He looked after her for a few moments when she left his table, then turned his gaze back towards the entry doors he habitually scrutinized. He always sat facing the door, and in fact, had been doing that for the better part of a quarter century. It was a "Better safe than sorry" sort of thing. He reached for his wallet, shifting his ass over and upwards as he did, but relented a second later; Though he had several hundred thousand in Imperial scrip and some Union Kronol on him, he doubted mightily that they accepted what money he had in his wallet on this planet, let alone in this diner. He pulled a big silver coin that had an eagle with thirteen arrows in it's talons from his right thigh pocket and lay it on the table before him. Though it probably covered his meal five times over, he'd already pulled it out with the intention of receiving no change. On his own world, he was rich, and of lesser nobility, had nobility still reigned. On this world here, he was quite literally endlessly wealthy. On this world here, they still accepted copper, silver, gold and platinum as legal tender. Denor had a shiny new Federation replicator in one of his bags and could manufacture new wealth as it was needed. Denor could turn piles of firewood into piles of gold on a whim. So he was generous in the extreme, sometimes absurdly so. At least he had been, all those long years ago. And so now he was again.

June walked back to her scaly customers' table with a trace of a smirk on her lips, his check in a little tray in her hand with one of those cellophane-wrapped, red-and-white mints sitting atop it. She lay it on the edge of the table at his booth and then saw the huge silver coin he'd lain near the edge of his last, empty tall glass. He picked it up and lay it atop the check that read "148 copper or 1 pound, 10 pence". She looked at her watch and saw that it was only 9:15 am. No way the register could cover a 50-dollar silver piece. It worked out to something like 27 pounds. "Hey, I'm sorry," She said as soon as the 4-ounce piece had settled on the tray, "I don't think the register can cover that this early. Have you got something smaller?"

"Not in anything you'd take here. I have some paper money, but not pounds." He looked down at the big silver coin. It was like he was trying to pay for a ten-dollar meal with a one-thousand-dollar bill. Not a lot of places opened with nine hundred bucks in the till, and he knew it.

"Well, I could see about having the owner come down to open the safe, I guess." June stood alternately on one foot or the other.

But then he looked up at her, a bit perplexed. "Why does the owner have to open the safe?"

"To get your change, of course. No one else nearby is going to be able to break that, either"

"Who says it needs to get broken" Who said anything about change?"

Now June's eyes narrowed a little. "What else am I going to do with that thing other than turn it into your change?" She shot the bright, bright silver coin a look.

He shot a mischievous grin up at her from next to his shoulder. "Why don't you just put it in your pocket and have a good day?"

"Oh, come on. I wait tables, not anything else. I don't do that." June started getting a little pissed, but not so much because this wasn't the first time some big spender had come in and tried to impress her with money. This guy had pulled out the most off the bat, and was also the weirdest-looking of them all. Not ugliest, oddly, but he was the weirdest.

He put on a face of incomprehension, shoulders forward, grimace on face, palms up with elbows at waist. "You don't do what? What do you think I want out of you?" She started to say something, but her mouth had only opened a fraction, her breath had only barely increased in intensity, and odds were that she didn't even know yet what exactly what she was going to say. Denor drilled her with his black-blue stare, silencing whatever she was thinking of saying. He went for pre-emptive guilt. "Ok, fine, whatever you want to think is fine. No sweat, right' I thought that I'd presented myself better than that, but apparently not." He then reached into his pocket and withdrew a dozen or fifteen identical 4-ounce silver pieces. "It so happens that I'm what you'd call pretty damned rich, and I think it's a good idea for me to spread the wealth." He shoved the silver back into his pocket then got up, shrugged on his pack, and took one of his bags in hand. Turned back toward the table for a moment, then backed off, grabbed his other bag, and trudged toward the door.

June had barely enough time to listen to his last words before he left. She'd been annoyed, and some color had risen to her face, but now it was draining back away to normal. She looked back at the little tray she'd served him his check on, and took in that there was a spinning 20-dollar silver on it, the red-and-white mint was gone, and in its' place was a stack of copper that undoubtedly added up to 148. "Oh, damn." was all she said.

So now, belly full and bags in hand, Denor walked on the double back towards the waterfront. He'd originally intended to walk inland, hire a carriage or other transport, and head directly to the north, towards the old tower or ruins thereof that mist and haze had denied him sight of. But now he struck on an even better idea. He needed a place to stay because he would certainly not be here for the short term. Though a three or more-star hotel would be warrantable and enjoyable, it wouldn't quite be fitting. Though he intended on heading north, there was no guarantee that it was still there, and even if it was still there, he had no guarantee that it was habitable on any level. And of course, like a moron, he'd taken the construct he'd called the Third Order Spire with him instead of leaving it atop the tower. God knew he wasn't trying to camp about a collection of ruined stones and timbers, though had he needed to, he could've. No, Denor needed a home away from home in this land, and in seconds, he decided that a sailing vessel would be an excellent home-away-from-home. He was in the Navy, after all, had been for nearly fourty years, and probably would be until he died. If he ever did. And so Denor angled towards the nearest broker of ships to purchase a vessel both to be home and to take him north and to serve him in some measure as a command that he hadn't failed to command well in a third of a century.

Denor · Date: 2008-08-22 22:31 EST

Now Docklands At the office of L.M. Heinegen, Broker, LLC "No, that's just too big. I'm not looking for a battleship. I have plenty of them back home." Denor told the man. He was thin, balding, with bright blue eyes that spoke of a measure of intellect. He'd been trying to sell Denor a 118-gun, four-masted, three-decker. Square-rigged, ten knots in good wind, with a nine hundred man crew. Weight of almost five thousand long tons. "Who am I going to go fight with this thing?" The pictures showed her to be a monster, with steel hull and wooden upperworks. Asking price of 125,000 pounds or 95,000 gold, without crew. Mr. Heinegen was quick with the wit and the logic. "It's always better to have and not need than to need and not have, Mister Denor. As a man of means, you'll tend to find a need for artillery more formidable than that to which you're accustomed. Men of means in this land tend to accrue enemies rather faster than anywhere else." "Well that's a point, I'll give you that." Denor nodded while passing the pictures back. She really was a splendid ship. Named Alexandria. "She is beautiful." But Denor was mostly unwavering. "But for now, I'll still be going with something smaller. Fast and low. Two masts. Thirty-five or fourty meters long. Six hundred tons, maximum. Deep draft and iron-keeled, if available. Small a crew as possible, and with eighteen to twenty-four guns. And a copper bottom. That's what I'm buying today." As if to drive that home, he pulled the stack of silver 50-dollar pieces from his pocket and lined them up on the mans' desk. 22, in all. "I've got more of those, too." Mr. Heinegen blinked once, licked his lips, and sighed. "I'm sure that with the case being as it is, we can find you something to fit your needs. If you'd give me a moment, I need to see what else we have available on consignment." He stood to leave the room, and as he moved from behind the granite-and wood desk he called home, he once again passed the stack of pictures of 'Alexandria'. "Just give her another look, Mister Denor. Perhaps something for another time, but give her another look nonetheless. She's fitted with Armstrong-Whitworth long twenty-five-pounders on the bottom deck." And then he left the room. Denor knew vastly more about disruptors and plasma torpedoes and the occasional railgun or neutron blaster. He was accustomed to weapons that ranged in the hundreds of thousands of kilometers, not the mere five or six that Alexandrias' best could reach. But damn, Alexandria was a sexy ship. And destructive, if Mr. Heinegen was to be believed, and he was. He'd put the bug into Denors' head. He took the one picture of the Alexandria under full sail, gunports open, and banners flying, for himself, then dropped the rest of the stack on Mr. Heinegens' desk. He folded his picture of 'Alexandria' and slid it into a breast pocket. The door clicked open and Mr. Heinegen had returned, carrying a folder. He sat down and smiled at Denor from across his desk. "I believe that I've got the perfect vessel for you." He opened the folder and slid across a few pictures and a line drawing, all dated seven years ago. "This is the Corvette 'Aurora'. Thirty-nine meters on the water line, Ketch-cutter rigged with square topgallants, copper bottom, iron keel, accommodation for twenty-four guns and two carronades each on the bow and stern. Six-hundred and ten tons, full. Minimum crew of fifty-eight men" Denor leafed through the provided pictures. She was a shockingly tidy ship at dock, with all lines coiled neatly, fresh paint, and straight booms, provided with vangs, roller furling, and what looked like new sisal sheets. Denor found himself nodding as he looked through the stack, smiling a little. For as magnificent and grand as the Alexandria was, the Aurora was quick and clever. In pictures, at least, they were both spectacular indicators that man had finally mastered both the wind and the sea. "Where is she now?" He asked without looking up from the pictures and paperwork on the desk before him. "Dock eighteen, I believe, perhaps a mile from here."

"Why are these pictures seven years old" How long's she been for sale?" Denor suddenly got a bit suspictious.

Mr. Heinegen paused, and his eyes shot up and to the left. "Because good things don't change, Mister Denor. There's no need for new pictures."

"Ok, sure. I'll go give her a once-over. Anything off the top of your head she needs?" Denor slid one of the Auroras' pictures into his breast pocket alongside the picture of the Alexandria.

"There are several items that have been removed for either age, pre-existing wear, or whatever else."

Denor shrugged, looking up with a thin little smirk. "I'm assuming, then, that you'd have no problem functioning as my agent as far as crewing, provisioning, arming, and maintaining this vessel?"

A pause, and then a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Of course not, Mister Denor."

Now a big smile, and Denor stood. "Very well then, Mister Heinegen. Shall we not go see my new vessel?"

TBC...

Denor · Date: 2008-08-28 01:56 EST

Now Docklands, Dock 18E Inspecting 'Aurora' They'd taken Mr. Heinegens' personal transport down to the location of Denor's new ship. Despite the time he'd spent here years ago, he'd never had the pleasure of riding in the gentle grandeur of a lavish, black high coach drawn by four strong brown horses. Two of them had white blazons between their noses and eyes and two didn't. The rearmost horse had white fur at it's hooves that made it look as though it was wearing socks. The trip was short and winded down paved roads that were either dirt or not present when Denor had been in this city last. And through the short trip, Denor got the distinct impression that Mr. Heinegen was at the least uneasy; Uncomfortable in the extreme at worst. He did a good job hiding his feelings, but ever since The Treatment, Gul Denor found himself to have the most finely-tuned bullsiht detector of anyone he'd ever met. And Denors' BS detector was pinging now whenever he looked at Mr. Heinegen. The broker of ships answered questions shortly and directly, and made little conversation otherwise. Otherwise, his gaze only roamed out the carriage window, to the not-so-expansive view that it offered. Like so: "So how long has she been sitting in port?" Denor asked, leaning forward, hands on knees, genuinely excited of taking possession of such a pretty little vessel. Mr. Heinegen took a moment to meet Denor's eyes. "I'm not quite sure. Since the end of her last cruise with her former master." Denor's BS detector pinged. "I understand. And when was she last hauled to check her hull condition?" "Three months and some days ago, Mister Denor. Clean as a whistle" Two thirds of a ping. Denor nodded and fell silent for a minute or two. For Chrissakes', He thought suddenly, fiercely, Why can't a damn thing I do not come with problems attached" He didn't know what the problem was, but he knew it was there, and that he'd deal with it. Because that's what he did, deal with problems. Either with torpedo and disruptor or with railgun and blaster, or with artillery and sniper rifle, or with blade and pistol. If there was only one pile of dog crap in the whole city, the sole of his boot would be sure to find it. He was a crap-seeking missile. "Where's her last master, and is he available for me to speak with?" Now Mr. Heinegens' eyes met his directly. "He's dead, I'm afraid. Heart attack at one of the dockland pubs, just after the last cruise." pingpingpingping. "Ok, sure. It's of no matter anyway." Denor offered a smile, but he felt for some reason that the Auroras' master was still aboard her. But now there was no more time for talking. Mr. Heinegens carriage had taken the short road off the main spur and onto the dockyard line, where various victualling wagons jockeyed for position among other wagons carrying shot or powder or 'pressed crewers, or any of a hundred manner of wagons involved in general supply. The driver judiciously applied the brake and reigned in the four strong horses a few hundred feet before the crowded street gave way to the last few piers. Pier 18 East was still the furthest. The road there was hardly crowded and Denor saw no reason to halt their progress here, but when he got out of the carriage, the carriage driver disagreed, citing the tiny ruts in the cobblestone street as the problem: "Quite sorry sirs, the carriage can go no further. The ruts rip up 'er wheels."

Denor hopped from the carriage door, "That's fine," He nodded amicably, "I'll just unhitch one of the team to bring my bags down there," He was already almost done releasing the pretty horse with the socks. He'd started with one of the rearmost horses because it was easier to release them from their harnesses than were the front pair who wore half-yokes and T's, and his fingers were deft and sure of their business. No one could ever accuse Denor of being a bad horseman despite the fact that nothing even near a horse had ever been set eyes on by a Cardassian earlier than thirty years ago. "I've been carrying them all day and can't stand the thought of carrying them a moment longer."

Socks was unhitched barely a moment later, and was free save for halter, bit and lead, before Mister Heinegen or the driver could cohesively assemble a sentence as to why Denor shouldn't be unhitching the horse. Denor took the lead gently in hand, and led the horse a step or two away, leaving his bags and pack on the cold cobblestone street where he'd dropped them. He stroked the horses face a few times, then scratched her a little behind the ears like he would a dog. Combed her mane for a few moments with hooked fingers, then he smoothed a palm over each of the ears while he leaned in close to whisper something nice to this horse that didn't know him.

Socks seemed to warm to the Cardassian a little then, and stood by idly as he retrieved with one arm his bags and pack - all 300-some kilos of them - while her rightful master, the coachman, whistled and clicked at her, ineffectually ordering her back into her rightful place. Mr. Heinegen sat by, watching Denor impassively out one of the eight windows that the carriage provided.

Denor had become gradually more wary the since Mr. Heinegens light evasiveness started. Now that he'd started outright lying to the extent that Denor could catch it instantly, well, that meant that something was hidden, that something was amiss, that something was not on the up-and-up, or some combination of the three. And now the Coachman was claiming that the coach could go no further when Denor who was not a moron, plainly knew that it could.

Denor led the horse away toward the trim-looking corvette that was still two hundred meters distant. The road dipped a little and then leveled out again, and the more the horse and the Cardassian moved away from the coach and the broker, the quieter and more still the harbor became. His eyes glanced upward, and though the rest of the harbor was covered in clouds of gulls and terns that might be a bank of fog they were so thick, there was nothing here. A single, lonely cormorant swam around and dived to hunt the small fish that were it's staple, but that was still a few hundred meters away, and Denor only saw it because his vision was vastly better than what humans considered perfect. The horse and the Cardassian approached slowly, and had drawn to within perhaps a hundred and fifty meters. That's when Denor saw the first cat of the day.

Felis Domesticus was, by necessity, well-distributed throughout the city. They would kill rats and insects, and thusly help maintain sanitation in the densely packed city. They would act as friends and companions to those too infirm or old to handle a dog or horse anymore, and occasionally would act as a familiar for a sorcerer or witch. They were quite common in and around this area. But not like this, and for the first time in quite a while, the hairs on the back of the neck of the wickedest Cardassian currently alive rose to give alarm.

There was a cat sitting on the far side of the road, staring intently at the Aurora. Ok, fine. Then Denor spotted another, then quickly three more, all watching his new ship; Two were intently stalking it and two were sitting there, watching it from a distance of what might have been a hundred and twenty meters. Denor looked the other way and counted - no joke - thirteen cats sitting on the dock next to one away from the good-looking Aurora. All just sitting there, staring at his new vessel-of-war. Now eight or nine more slinking through high grass or sitting there, blending in at or near the side of the road, still all staring with their deep, night-glowing eyes. And now there were too many to put into groups; The road was lined with cats on or near or close to the road. Some lounged on a nearby pier, some hid in tall grass and weeds further afield. All seemed to have their attention fixed on the Aurora. As he moved onward, he saw that there must have been a hundred cats clustered around his ship at around a hundred meters, all intent on it to the exclusion of all else.

Socks snorted a bit and her hindquarters danced almost perpendicular to their path of travel with what Denor assumed was agitation. What her agitation was directed at, Denor didn't know. She got herself back in line a moment or two later, but still seemed a little uneasy; Instead of walking alongside Denor, with her head up, she now lagged behind him, head down, being dragged to the destination, rather than guided there. Denor noted al this and started his mind to spinning.

He soothed Socks as best he was able when she stopped about a hundred yards away from Aurora. She whinnied, bucked a little, hopped sideways and back alternately. Denor was surprised that she didn't bolt outright, and he wasn't going to make her bolt by trying to drag her closer to somewhere she didn't want to go. He turned her back toward the carriage that still held still a hundred and some change meters distant, released her lead and shortened it enough so that she wouldn't step on it when she ran. Then he leaned close, whispering, "Go, baby, go!" in her ear before smacking her firmly on the rear. She took off to her master and her herd like a shot.

So now Denor took the last meters on foot. More cats along the road, and more on the further side that was toward the ocean, but none within what was their self-declared perimeter of a hundred yards. Denor trudged to the dock bearing his load, then went to the foot of the gangway. All of a sudden, the early evening, the birds, insects, harbor, even the sea itself had gone silent. Denor heaved his bags aboard except for the one that contained the explosives, which he placed gently. The vessel appeared deserted, but Denors mind knew it was anything but. The cats, the lack of birds, the quiet, the skittish horse, all combined in his head to lead him to the conclusion that his ship was haunted, and quite badly at that. He hadn't had to deal with this sort of thing since he'd left here fifteen years ago, and hadn't even been good at it then. He didn't need to be.

With his short fingernails, he dug a nail from a nearby board, then strode forward, bold as brass, and tacked his receipt and registration papers, which Mr Heinegen had given him and signed with him earlier, to the base of the mainmast. He drove the nail home through the papers with his bare, closed fist. Blood didn't even run, not a bit. He turned and declared loudly, "This is my ship now! Come and look!" He paused to fire up a cigarette, smoothing his papers against the gentle breeze that blew. "This ship sails in six hours," He told his undeclared enemy. The temperature dropped noticeably then, and Denor's breath turned into frozen, billowing clouds. Some of the stays and other standing rigging frosted over. An icicle or three formed in the 75-degree heat. "And if things prove more of a pain than they're worth, I'll send this bastard straight to the bottom!" He dug one of the 5-kg demolition charges from the right bag, tossing it to the deck near the mast and his papers. The blasting cap was in, and active. The Cardassian Gul wasn't fooling around.

As it was, he didn't need to. Whomever was still there backed off, withdrew enough to make the cats lose interest. They started leaving in ones and twos. In a few minutes, a gull landed on one of the topgallant yardarms. A few more noisily swooped overhead but were rewarded with no scraps, because a Cardassian Gul was the sole occupant of the ship. Denor picked up his bags and went towards the aft of the ship and to the commanders' cabin there.

TBC other thread