War Without End Prose in Vazdimet | World Anvil

War Without End

Space lit up again, causing the small fighter to shudder violently in protest. Lyseid pulled his attention away from the battle outside to check his ship’s status and grimaced. The primitive auto-repair systems had managed to keep him in the fight far longer than he had imagined possible, but they were reaching their limit. If he was lucky, he could survive one more shot like that; a second would most certainly finish him.   He returned his concentration to the battle just in time to see one of the blockade runners filling his cockpit window. Cursing his moment of distraction he pulled away, barely missing the hull, fighting the blackout that tried to claim his senses and his life. He could not afford to lose his concentration. His orders had been very clear: Defend the runners. No matter the costs, they had to get the message out.   Saying a quick prayer to the Conclave he threw his fighter back into the thick of the battle, darting in and out of the devastating fire, born of the desperation of both sides in a hopeless bid for control of the future, striking down any enemy fighter he could lock on to. His own fighter was essentially a flying deathtrap, built to maximize armaments and speed with minimal defense on its own, forced to rely solely on its maneuverability and firepower for survival. She was a good ship, but against these odds, those chances of survival were slim.   As if in answer to his train of though, the enemy managed to score another hit on his frantic fighter. The cacophony of warning alerts filling his ears, Knight Officer of the Hydell Order Lyseid Rikeik whispered the name “Musako” regretfully into the air before the universe went dark.  

  Lyseid awoke in a cold sweat, fists clenched, heart pounding. It had been two months, and still the nightmare haunted his dreams. They'd miraculously found his fighter drifting dead in space, life support almost drained. As the highest surviving Militant officer on the small scientific base he'd been immediately thrust into command of its dwindling forces, a role he'd neither sought nor trained for. He was a logistics engineer at best, who'd only learned to fly a fighter for the convenience of arranging his own transportation. Military strategy had never been his strong suit.   He knew he should be grateful for his survival, should remain strong for the sake of those now relying upon his choices, but his existence seemed empty and pointless. They'd told him that one of the runners had escaped the Sparnell blockade encircling the planet this time; the other two were torn apart mercilessly, killing all on board. Musako among them.   She'd been the real strategist of the base, her well-placed trenches and defensive booby traps and the counter-mining of not only the base's surroundings but their entire planetary orbits likely the only measures allowing them to continue holding their ground despite the relentless efforts of the Confederation to wear them down. He'd protested, when she'd insisted on boarding one of the blockade runners, but she'd insisted she was the best messenger to communicate their dire situation to the Order. She'd insisted and - damn the ancestors - he'd agreed, and now she was dead.   And what had they gotten for her sacrifice? There'd been no response from the Order. No Militant fleet intent on rescuing the insignificant base on the edge of Order space. Whatever the Confederation thought they could claim from the planet, the Militant Order of Descendants seemed disinterested in keeping it from them.   It was up to him.   He sighed sadly, forcing himself to accept the loss of his precious Musako once again, before calling in his aide. “Initiate!”   “Planetary Council Meeting again today, Sir?” the young man asked, appearing sharply in the doorframe, Lyseid’s dress uniform in hand.   Lyseid accepted the proffered garment before grunting the affirmative.   “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I don’t see the point in all these meetings. The Confederation has a strong blockade out there, and we're just a small research outpost. We don’t have the resources to defeat them. We can barely hold out on our own as it is. Our supplies are low, our people are exhausted, and we can't replenish either. I mean…”   The young man’s eyes flickered a moment of sorrow before continuing. “I know they killed your wife, Sir, but we can’t ask our limited personnel to risk their lives fighting a losing battle for your own personal revenge… Our best chance of survival is to surrender. Let them plunder what they came for and leave, instead of wasting our resources on these pointless attempts to kill them. They destroyed our Fareway point. They've brought enough Necromancers to keep us from Hyperjumping. We can't portal through the Shielding they've wrapped around the planet. We have no idea what forces are waiting beyond our planetary orbit…”   The Initiate paused, awaiting a reply from his superior. Finding none, he made one last attempt. “We don't have the resources, Sir. How many times do you want us to keep risking ourselves to drive them away?”   Lyseid pulled his collar shut and gazed at the Initiate coldly. “Until we succeed.”


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Jun 12, 2020 06:51

Love the white and black option!

Graylion - Nexus   Roleplaying
not Ruleplaying
not Rollplaying
Jun 13, 2020 11:55 by Morgan Biscup

That *is* a nice feature of the Prose template. I think I just switched them here for the CSS, so the black would be the default since it's a dark theme.

Lead Author of Vazdimet.
Necromancy is a Wholesome Science.
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