[Lost and Forgotten] The Heights of Ambition

[Don Isaac]

The stars overhead wheeled and turned about the firmament, pinpricks of distant fire illuminating the yawning expanse of the void. Don Isaac De Metralla, the Red Baron, Champion of Dante's Abyss, Herald of Fire, Guardian of the Allspark, Son of Santagria, and many more titles besides, rested against the wrought iron railing overlooking the streets of Arcadia. Far beneath him, the masses of humanity and otherwise that populated the kingdom strolled through cobbled streets by torchlight, the raucous din of their merrymaking echoing skywards.

To think- it was not long ago that he would have been among them, biting back his tongue as he submerged himself among them, trying to desperately hold onto some semblance of pride as he tried to work for a living. Somewhere out there, hidden among gaslit streets, was the hovel that he had once shamefully claimed as his own, a thatched roof now surely housing someone more content with the meager residence.

And now-

A gilded belt wrapped around his waist, and the chitty Syntech swore represented a King's ransom rested within his pocket. His name was on the lips of an audience that witnessed his triumphs throughout a dozen worlds- and it wasn't enough. Ambition burned in his heart, brighter than the nuclear fires that had swept across the Abyss- and if wealth and fame were all that he craved, then he would have thrown himself to the tender mercies of that wretched Free City and played its markets.

He had heights yet to climb.

He turned away from the view, returning his gaze to the well-aged manor that stood before him. Masonry that had stood the test of time had begun to falter, creeping vines snaking their way through crumbling mortar and wrapping their tendrils around mouldering planks barricading the windows. He had an eye for these things, and the musty odour that rose from the open windows only served to confirm it- this was an old place, crumbling beneath the weight of apathy.

But, most importantly- it was a high one. He took a step forward, feeling the earth sway beneath his stride, buoyed upon workings that he had never particularly cared enough to understand. Great chains as thick as his torso anchored the isle to the city beneath, a tentative connection between the heights of nobility and the earth that sustained them, creaking in the gentle breeze that stirred the recently-regrown ends of his moustache.

He'd been born in one of these castles, raised in them, lived in them. He'd tasted his first sip of wine in a similar setting, spurred an engine to wakefulness, shared a first kiss- the only thing he didn't expect to do within the airborne estates of home was die. No- the surly earth would receive whatever was left of him, when the time came.

That time, however, was not today. His tanned hand rapped against an ancient oaken door, bands of iron steeling it against whatever foe had left scars gouged into the old wood. His knuckles only barely grazed the door's surface on the second knock, the door swinging open to reveal the hall beyond- cobwebs, candelabras, and darkness.

"Yeth, Thir?"

The Don's gaze swung downwards, settling upon the scarred, twisted figure of a hunch-backed servant, draped in weathered black cloth that had undoubtedly once been pristine. Their flesh was a motley patchwork, as if their skin was quilted onto a misbegotten frame, rather than grown.

"Don Isaac De Metralla," the nobleman said by way of introduction, affecting a brief bow as he smiled at the lumpen servant. "The Count has called upon me."

"Ah," the servant said, giving a nod. "The Mathter ith expecting you- pleathe, come in," he said, opening the door fully and stepping aside, gesturing for the Baron to enter. Isaac strode inwards, as the heavy door creaked shut behind him, a fine coating of dust shaking itself free from the mantle as he pressed inwards.

"The Count doesn't see a great deal of company, I take it?" Isaac surmised, resisting the impolitic urge to run a finger through the layer of dust coating an ornately carved table resting beneath a veiled painting frame. While its contents had been shrouded in a velvet curtain, two pinpricks of crimson light still seemed to shine from beneath, as if trying to burn through their concealment.

"The Mathter has been… recluthive, thince the coup," the butchery of a butler explained, scars and stitches revealed through the fleeting illumination of a candelabra the servant held aloft in a six-fingered hand. "Arcadia and Him do not thee eye-to-eye, thethe dayth," the servant said, shuffling along in oversized boots as they rounded another corner, festooned with finery that had ceased to glimmer long ago.

"A pity," the Don said, subconsciously taking a moment to polish the slab of solid gold that pretended to be a belt buckle. "It can be a struggle to maintain one's station if there's not a peer to share it in- I can't tell you how much I longed to share a vintage with a fellow Noble," the Don said, passing through another shadowed hallway.

"Ah- I'm afraid that the Count doeth not drink… wine," the Servant said, a rattling set of keys dredged forth from the pocket of his tailcoats as he slotted a toothy key into its lock set within a dark wood door. With a twist of a stitched wrist, mechanisms groaned and creaked as heavy latches gave way, the door slowly creaking open, rusted hinges protesting with every inch.

"Ah, damn," Isaac lamented, slipping a bottle out from behind his back and setting it to rest on the table to his side. "I'd have thought to offer an appropriate gift, but it seems I've been caught off-guard."

"I'd hardly worry mythlef, thir," the Count's creature said. "I'm thertain your own Noble bloodline will thuffice. The Count will thee you now," the servant said, bowing low enough that his broad forehead scraped against the stones beneath as they backed away.

Isaac stepped into the dark beyond, a smile on his face as he spoke brightly, filling the void. "Count Orlok! A pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

The door slammed shut behind him.

1,033/10,000 Words. God help me.

 

[Don Isaac]

"Don Isaac," rasped the yellow-fanged creature sitting at the other end of the table, a pair of eyes like targeting lasers skewering into the Nobleman's soul. "I take it that you are unfamiliar with my kind," it said, talons like knives gently clicking against the old wood of the table. The room was dark, barely lit by cobweb-wrapped candelabras, flames flickering atop their arms as they failed to do more than define the dark pits of shadows that filled the hall.

"I spent quite some time fighting alongside a sentient fighter jet," Isaac stated, looking into the dark crimson of the fluted glass he had been provided, sniffing experimentally. It seemed a fair enough vintage, and he cautiously brought it to his lips, sipping on the dark wine. "I will readily admit that there is a great deal of this world that I do not yet understand," he conceded with a nod.

"Ah," the Count said, nodding thoughtfully, his fangs gleaming in the flickering candlelight. "Rest assured that my kind are not as… voracious as some of the slander would suggest," the ancient horror said, raising a wine glass of more turgid red to his withered lips. "The nature of the rule is to require sacrifice from those we shepherd. Taxes, tithes, levies- what we require to see our lands prosper for the generations to come."

Isaac inspected his glass more closely- blood of the vine, rather than vein, thankfully. "I believe I understand," he said, turning his attention back to the dusty monster sitting across from him. "I've fielded my fair share of levies- would that prosperity could be preserved without blood," he said with a sigh, turning his thoughts to home. The fields of his demesne grew enough to feed his people, on a good year- it was only just to earn his people reprieve by taking from the more fertile lands beyond the borders of holy Santagria.

"Good," the creature said with a sound like an accordion deflating. "So few do. My family and I have tended to our lands for centuries. I have seen families grow and prosper over the generations, and warded them against all the banal cruelties of the world," it said, scything its claws together, gleaming ruby eyes examining its talons.

"Until, that is- the coup," the Count said, baring fangs as long as Isaac's fingers as it returned its attention to him. "Chaos reigned- and those who objected to what we are, rather than what we did, came for us, when the sun forced us back into our slumber." Its hand gripped its glass tighter, throttling the thin, crystal stem- it shattered, shards of glass simply falling away from the Count's leathery skin as the cup of old, coagulated blood spilled, rolling off the table's edge. "Were it not for Igor's hasty intervention, I would have burned- staked out beneath the sun with my sister, my wife, my Son. I heard them scream," the Count said, raising a trembling claw, slick with spilled blood. "And I have tried all I can to hear anything else. I have spent great sums of gold and silver on spiritualists, occultists, men who claimed to have all kinds of friends on the other side," the vampire spat.

"And I still hear nothing but the echoes of their despair," it said, clutching its withered skull in its claws. Its eyes locked themselves with Isaac's, as hypnotic and deadly as the thermal lance of a Rygolic tank.

"You have my sympathies, Count Orlok," the Don said, bowing his head respectfully. "The loss of a loved one is never an easy one to bear."

"No," the creature rasped. "It is not- particularly when vengeance is denied," it scowled, talons tapping against the table, razor-sharp claws impacting against old dents. "The man responsible has been enjoying the hospitality of the Kingdom's lunar prison- until he decided it no longer suited him," Orlok hissed.

"Abraham Hellsinger has escaped the Kingdom's lax custody, and is now loose on the moon. You have proven your mettle, Don Isaac- and I need a man of noble intention and sure aim to free me from the specter of this monster," the ancient horror spat. "Do this for me- and I will see you rewarded. I am centuries old, and I am tired of lying awake, waiting for the stake to pierce my heart. I want relief, from the nightmare my existence has become."

For a moment, Isaac was silent, radium-green eyes staring into his glass as he gently swirled it around the crystal goblet.

"I cannot grant you vengeance," he said softly, turning his gaze back to the vampire. "No amount of violence I can inflict- no matter how gratuitous can right this wrong," he continued, straightening up in his seat, squaring his shoulders.

"But I can give you mercy," he said, standing from his seat. "Mercy from the memory of the dead- mercy from the memory of the ashes you were made to scatter. Mercy from the corrupt, so that you may sleep peacefully. Mercy for what they left you of your soul."

"Thank you," Count Orlok said, inclining its skeletal visage towards the Santagrian. "Igor will provide you with transportation to Mond, and what information I've gathered, over my years," it said, shaking its head, wiping a crimson tear away from its gleaming pupil. "It does these old bones good to know there are still men of repute that walk the streets of this city."

The Don smiled- the pearlescent shine of his own teeth a stark contrast to the yellowed sickle-smile of the ancient creature. "Across all dimensions- every realm that has fed into this one, there are still rules, Count- ways of doing things, laws of chivalry and hospitality. And if you have held to them, then the world has done you a disservice," he said, adjusting the lapels of his fatigues. "And what purpose is the nobility, if not to bare a blade and a grin against all the thoughtless cruelties of reality?"

2,036/10,000 Words.

 

[Don Isaac]

Mond.

Far overhead the multitudes of Edre Nona, its pale surface drifted through the night sky, distant, glittering lights scarcely visible by the populace beneath. For all that its soil was lifeless, the ever-rapacious demands of empire had brought civilization to the shores of its lunar seas. Dome-cities that dredged Helium-3 from beneath the surface, research facilities that savoured the distinct lack of governmental oversight, and deep, dark, dank cells that held those deemed unfit to even share the same planet as law-abiding citizens.

And upon its character-pocked surface, the Syntech Science Station Archimedes' Roost squatted like a vitreous abscess, the light of the sun turning into an iridescent kaleidoscope of colours as it drank greedily from that font of life.

And within its hangar bay, Doctor Ludwig adjusted his spectacles with a rubber-shrouded finger, watching intently as a commercial shuttle coasted into position, rocking to a halt upon its hydraulics. The vessel still glowed from its brief interplanetary flight, heat slowly dissipating into the newfound atmosphere as it squatted like a dragon come to rest among its hoard of unearthly knowledge and power.

"Ah- finally," he said, teutonic accent thick as he stepped forward, a hiss of air escaping the shuttle as its hatch slid downwards. He'd been waiting for this opportunity ever since he'd seen the always-gory finale of Dante's Comet- the precious relic entrusted to the dumkopf that had fumbled into first place. Why exactly his benefactor passed out such potent anomalies to those fools who simply had the good fortune to survive his little amusements escaped the Doctor- but at least this one had the good sense to respond to the call of progress.

From within the halogen-lit cabin, a figure straight from legend strode out, taking the steps two at a time as they maintained a straight-backed stance any ballroom dance instructor would be proud of. Military fatigues pressed to a razor's edge, Don Isaac de Metrella brandished a gleaming smile as sharp as his dueling saber as he approached, ramrod straight spine dipping a fraction as an arm flew out behind the noble to balance himself.

"Doctor," he smiled. "Forgive me for taking so long to answer your invitation, but it's never easy to achieve escape velocity," the Don said, returning to his full height, walking past the Doctor, arms folded behind his back, leaving the scientist to scramble to keep up.

"Ah, there's never a dearth of subjects to keep us occupied- Mond is hardly your average planetary body," Ludwig began, pulling free a notebook laden with scientific notation and orbital calculations. "There's aspects of its magnetic field that-"

"Fascinating!" Isaac exclaimed, briskly striding through a window-lined hallway that displayed hydroponic trays beneath, overgrown with alien flora. Thorned branches rose from imported soil, laden with strange fruits, each bounty bulging obscenely, brimming with some strange potency. "And you believe that the Allspark might be conducive to your experiments?"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor said, flipping through the pages of his notebook as he kept pace alongside the nobleman, skimming past solar accumulator arrays and de-orbiting devices.. "The raw energy of creation, combined with the exoplanetary nature of Mond-"

"Exciting!" The Don declared, rounding a corner as he stroked his magnificent mustache, twisting its ends around his gloved digits. "Truly a wonder of a world- not as verdant as the moon of home, but to each their own. A certain bleak beauty, I would call it. I trust you'd hardly object to me taking a few days to familiarize myself with its mysteries?"

The Doctor's face froze in a rictus of politeness, the small, professional smile upon his lips never quite reaching his eyes. "We are operating on a strict time frame- the alignment with other extrasolar bodies is only expected to last another week before-"

"Capital!" The Santagrian scion shouted, rounding a corner and patting a small satchel at his side fondly, the flap shifting a scant few inches to let the brilliant light contained within shine, the rampant greed in Ludwig's eyes undeniable, if Isaac cared to look upon his conversation partner. "I'll take a day or two to see the sights before we can begin our experimentations. A fascinating place, to be certain. To think, that they'd use such a place for a penal colony- and that there'd be escapes, even here! Just how do you think that happens?"

"Well," the Doctor said, adjusting his glasses once more, a frown starting to creep onto his angular features. "I've only had to escape from a lunar prison the once, so I'm no expert. But I'd hardly worry about it- any sane man would lay low and avoid any further… entanglement. They're likely already smuggling themselves onto a cargo shuttle to avoid asphyxiation once their pilfered oxygen runs out."

"Intriguing," Isaac commented, strolling past a hydroponics tray being pushed by a harried intern in a stained lab coat, reaching out and plucking a scarlet apple-like fruit from twisted boughs, swiftly crunching past its crisp skin and swallowing a mouthful. "Oddly sour, but not unagreeable," he mused, tossing it over his shoulder and letting it bounce off the wall into a waste bin, blissfully ignorant of the acrid smoke that started to billow out from it as he departed.

"You'll forgive me for saying this, Doctor Ludwig," the Don began, pausing briefly by a viewport overlooking an immense array of ever-shifting mirrors arranged in a half-sphere. "But given your profession, I do believe that your knowledge of sane men's actions in a desperate situation may be more modest compared to what a madman may consider."

"Well," the Doctor said, frowning as he adjusted his glasses again, a dangerous glint in that mirror-sheen. "If I was a dangerously insane individual with questionable morality, the authorities in pursuit, and a very specific set of skills- then I imagine I'd be in search of weaponry."

"Very informative, Doctor, thank you," Isaac said, nodding gratefully to the man. "By the way- what is it that you primarily develop in this facility?"

"Weaponry."

Which was when the sound of the detonation boomed through the pristine halls.

3,052/10,000 Words.

 

[Don Isaac]

The nobleman was moving before the echo of the explosion faded away to nothing. The soft, polished leather of his boots pounded against the stainless steel beneath him as the Don charged forth into the unknown. Dimly, he was aware of the cries of the Doctor behind him, alternatively begging and demanding him to return and make his way to a sanctum within these harrowed halls.

Instead, Isaac slipped his saber from its scabbard, the oiled metal sliding free with a hiss, a predatory rasp that sought to match the distant howl of escaping atmosphere, the chaos burgeoning a stark contrast to the misplaced greenery and electric lights trying to simulate some vestige of a natural environment.

No son of Santagria had ever run away from danger.

That danger manifested itself before long- rounding a corner, Isaac continued to careen forwards into the unknown, refusing to pause as he assessed the figures before him- clad in bulky atmospheric suits, the heraldic imagery that would have adorned the environment suits of the militiamen of home replaced with scavenged scrap-metal armour and curious talismans of bone hanging from rusted wire. One of the brigands, visage concealed beneath an opaque visor, turned to face him, brandishing a heavy-barrelled longarm, the kind of caliber that had no qualms about blowing a hole in such a fragile environment.

As confident as Isaac might be in the steel of his cuirass, the yawning maw of that cannon quickly sent him into a diving roll, the lady Skylar's favour fluttering behind him as that rifle spat death, a booming howl shattering the chrome-ringed windows as a shell found its new home at the far end of the hall.

His blood raced within his veins- a vicious, vibrant grin blossoming beneath his moustache as gloved digits grasped the grip of his pistol as he completed his roll, settling into a firing stance, the barrel of his sidearm resting against the curved blade of his saber. It spat leaden death, rounds impacting through the cannon-wielder's knee and sending them sprawling towards the floor as he rose, advancing at a steady pace as the knaves waddled within their armour to face him, bringing their weapons to bear.

Shotguns, rifles, clubs, axes- half a dozen brutes started to advance towards him, muffled shouts and bulky-gloved hand signals coordinating their advance as they started to fire, forcing the Don to dive to the side, a carefully maintained topiary planter briefly providing cover as a fusillade tore through the hedge.

Steady.

Isaac's back rested against the increasingly shattered ceramic as the smell of gunpowder and fresh soil filled the hall, every crack of a bullet shattering his makeshift cover sending lightning down his nerves even as thunder roared in his ears. His foes scarcely seemed like the Yeomen he employed- and they would be paying for their lack of discipline as soon as…

Their guns clicked empty, and Isaac sprung forth, his saber flashing beneath halogen lights as it danced around the spiked club one of the knaves swung at him, blood spraying as a severed hand dropped the weapon to the floor, the crack of his pistol ending the piteous howling before it could start.

Another man, another axe. Steel clashed against steel, a night-contemptuous parry driving the raider's blow aside, its lethal arc never reaching a conclusion as another pistol shot shattered the glass faceplate into a crimson spiderweb of loose fragments. He didn't stop to watch the body fall- clumsy, gloved hands had managed to feed a fresh magazine into a machine gun of sorts, the perforated barrel wandering in his direction once more.

He didn't give the rapscallion time to pull the trigger. Isaac unfolded himself in a textbook-perfect lunge, the razor-edge of his saber striking the yawning maw aside as it roared, carving a furrow into the flooring at his side, the recoil only making the situation worse as each desperate trigger pull sent the gun further astray. He swiftly relieved the man of that burden- and his head - as he stepped inwards, twisting around to bring his blade about in a silvered scything blow that tore through the thick canvas-like material the raider was shrouded in.

And just like that- silence reigned once more, but for the blaring of alarms and the distant sound of further violence. There were bodies unaccounted for, though whether the scoundrels had sought succour from his wroth or reinforcements meant little to the comrades they had left abandoned behind them. The adrenaline, the ecstatic rush of conflict that ruled his bloodline, slowly faded- acutely reminding him of the shrapnel and small caliber rounds that had scarred his arms, his flight jacket stained with crimson, seeping into the once-pristine leather.

"Ah, bastards," Isaac cursed, delivering post-mortem retribution to the headless gunner with a swift kick, sending their skull-meat rolling across the floor. The temerity of this rabble- but if they were here, then he hardly had to go looking for his quarry. The odds of there being two unrelated prison breaks were unlikely, and if this Abraham scoundrel was once a ringleader prior to his incarceration- then no doubt he was behind this attack as well.

"I suppose some men simply aren't fit for a civilized world," he remarked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away the blood upon his blade before sheathing it once more, stepping over the carcasses of the fallen as he made to follow the sounds of gunfire. The yearning for battle still burned in his heart, and there was yet retribution to heap upon the unworthy head of this Hellsinger for his dastardly deeds.

Behind him, crimson lights strobed over signage, casting the bloody remnants of the battle in harsh relief. If anyone alive to witness it had cared to remember anything more than the tears and stains inflicted upon their jacket, they might have named it the Slaughter at Sapient Testing Facility Five- but Isaac had men to read for him, and none of them were present.

4,055/10,00 words. Kept you waiting, didn't I?

 

[Don Isaac]

All around him, the world screamed as if it was dying, a blood-red haze cast over the steel walls as klaxons wailed in mourning. His heart hammered in his chest, bouncing off his ribcage, seemingly trying to leap free of its prison of ivory and meat and dance to the terror-struck tune playing out throughout this realm. But Isaac had need of it yet as he ran through the corridors, blade in hand, much to the concern of the fleeing scientists he passed by, pristine labcoats stained with blood.

They could have easily been dismissed by a less adept man as marginalia- simple set dressing to the glorious endeavour that he had embarked upon. But Isaac had not led his fiefdom for as long as he had without recognizing the simple fact that the smallfolk did not simply spring fully-formed from the mud of the battlefield to fight for glory. They came from somewhere- and wherever that was, there was the danger that lesser men ran from.

A gaggle of grey-haired scientists scrambled around the next corner, bald scalps seemingly ablaze beneath the warning lights, weathered moustaches waggling atop their lips as they babbled in a panic. The walls here were scarred- twisted and torn by powers unknown, bulkheads buckled beneath some unseen strength. He could scarcely comprehend the esoteric words that spilled from the scientists' desperate eyes as they turned briefly to him- the shining sword in his hand swiftly spurring their step as they scurried in search of salvation.

And with a few more confident strides, he bore witness to what exactly these men were fleeing from, illuminated by the sparking of shredded wiring hanging from the ceiling like the spilled guts of a great synthetic beast.

Three armour-bound figures hovered in the center of the devastated plaza before him, dark canvas and darker visors daubed with luminous liquids, eye-searing patterns traced across each individual, seemingly flowing from one suit to the other without care for the empty void between. Their limbs were draped in broken chains, a single sparking camera lens hanging about the throat of the central figure.

"He came, Sisters," buzzed one of the trio, their identity indiscernible among the anonymized coterie.

"As I said that he would," synthesized another, the coven drifting through the carefully pressurized atmosphere above a selection of easily-maintained ferns deemed to be beneficial to human mental health. Scrap metal drifted through an absent breeze, a magnetic maelstrom brewing beneath their feet.

"As I see him before us now," finished the third, innumerable eyes painted onto their forms boring into Isaac, each one appraising, measuring, analyzing, piercing gazes pinning him like a butterfly to a corkboard.

"And I trust the view does not disappoint?" The Don answered, his smile brilliant beneath the harsh red lighting.

A moment of silence- a wrench thrown in the gears of their carefully rehearsed repartee.

"But why does he come, Sisters?" Resumed a component of the cabal, drifting closer towards the Santagrian.

"To know what we did, whispering a fresh refrain to the Hellsinger?"

"To learn what we will do, now that his wrath broke our shackles?"

"To understand why we stand before him now?"

"Quite the contrary," Isaac offered, resting the curve of his sabre against his shoulders. "For that most ancient and honoured of pursuits- fortune and glory," he said, smile still beaming as he casually ambulated towards the coven. "I leave the plots where they belong: on the page," he grinned.

"A man of the classics," one of the sorceresses responded.

"A perpetually dying breed," another offered, their voice crackling through a susurrus of static.

"By their own hand, more often than not," the third cackled, the unbound trio moving in formation through the air, rotating around each other, a shell-game of distorted voices.

"As entertaining of a routine this is," Isaac commented, trying and largely failing to discern one set of twisting patterns from another. "I am afraid that I am engaged upon a quest, and I fear that it will be necessary to cut you down to continue on my endeavour," he said, shifting his blade off of his shoulders with a flourish, its shining tip cutting through empty air.

"But you misunderstand this tale, Sir Knight," one of the witches whispered, a hand clad in a thick glove extending towards the Don as his radium-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He lacks the context," lamented one of the witches, a crackling cackle issuing over their suit's systems.

"He hasn't read ahead," taunted another, twisting in the air before him.

Isaac's brow furrowed, the point of his blade held steady before him as he stood in a pristine fencer's stance. He could feel a familiar flutter in his heart, like he'd heard the opening stanzas of a familiar epic. "What exactly do you mean, then?"

They laughed in harmony, their spokeswoman descending from on high, heavy boots drifting weightlessly across the warped flooring, a broken camera lens staring directly into his very core.

"We have come to grant you a boon, Sir Knight," the trio thrummed, each one lifting an arm in turn and gesturing with a gloved hand down a ruined corridor. "Hellsinger has departed- he has no love for the tale we sought to tell," they continued, the scrawlings upon their suits shifting beneath Isaac's gaze. "He makes to enact his vengeance, and deny the path we had foreseen one would tread."

"And you would have me tread it instead," Isaac surmised, the magnificent moustache upon his upper lip shifting as he considered the Witches' words.

"There are a thousand threads woven into the tapestry that is the world," hummed one of the coven. "We sought one who raged against the Law to do what he saw as right, to free us from our cage."

"And we have seen a great wailing and gnashing of teeth borne of this day- of the black becoming red, of the peaks becoming valleys, of the broker becoming the broken."

"And now, we see a Knight, sparing three Damsels," surmised the third, thick fingers interlacing before an intricate geometric pattern daubed upon her torso. "Ride now, sir Knight- for your Quarry seeks to take the throne of a tyrant for himself."

Isaac stood for a few precious moments, his mind racing- running through the dusty castle halls of his thoughts, seeking answers beneath the light they offered as it filtered through the stained glass of saints long past. Honour, Legacy, Duty, Pride- a dozen concepts warred in his mind, until, at last, one won out, standing tall before the others.

Chivalry.

He bowed low, his sabre sliding near-silently into his scabbard.

"I think you, my ladies," he said, before straightening. "As much as I would like to remain and acquaint myself with your charms, it seems I've a duty left to fulfill," he smiled.

With a turn of his heel the Knight departed, leaving the Sisters three to continue their telekinetic breakout.

5,213/10,000 Words.

 

[Don Isaac]

War raged through these harrowed halls. Isaac's feet fell, adding to the percussive rhythm of gunfire and the snapping cracks of more esoteric weapons. Through the glass panelling lining the elevated walkways overlooking the aesthetically perfected plazas, Isaac glimpsed the carnage below. Syntech security officers knelt behind verdant ferns and abstract sculptures, exchanging fire with brigands wrapped in atmospheric suits, the frost of the void still clinging to their baggy forms as shotguns pounded holes in the foe and fern alike.

That was their battle to fight- Isaac had another foe to attend to. Whoever had masterminded this assault had to be brought to Justice- and such was the burden of the chivalrous to undertake this quest. Whereas a lesser man's lungs might be burning with exertion after his traversal of the station, the highborn anatomy he had been blessed with instead yearned for more- for the glory it had been promised.

A door stood before him, an obstacle to bar his path- were it nor for the fact that it had been blown off its rollers, the airlock scorched black by whatever detonation had shattered its structural integrity. Its ruin still smouldered, thermite melting the steel as wisps of grey smoke rose from its ruin.

He was hot on the trail- a sentiment confirmed as he passed through the blasted portal, revealing the bay before him. Armoured vehicles built to traverse the pockmarked surface of Mond stood ready for Syntech's immediate use- were it not for the fact that many of them had been reduced to slagged wrecks, makeshift explosives more than enough to start an inferno behind those reinforced glass windows.

Gangs of EVA-suit clad bandits ransacked the room- pushing trolleys of pilfered material up the boarding ramp of an oversized rover, its armoured flanks marked with the corporate logos of Syntech, already defaced with the callous caress of industrial equipment. Its reinforced nose was aimed towards a crackling electrical field, some arcane science replacing something as pedestrian as an airlock, the rover's black windows like the soulless void of a shark's eyes.

And standing at its base, haloed in the lambent glow of halogen, stood him.

A dark mane of greasy braids hung from the Orc's skull, grey, sallow hide marred with scars, piggish tusks and glowering crimson eyes completing their brutish visage, an orange jumpsuit denoting their prior imprisonment hanging loose around their waist. Dark tattoos spiralled around his torso, jawed tusks and broken fangs featuring prominently upon the canvas of his flesh.

He was perfect.

Stealth, subtlety, surprise- ancient rules of war that shaped skirmishes such as these throughout the ages.

And guidelines that precious few sons of Santagria had ever paid heed to.

"Avaunt, Villain!"

With that cry of challenge, Isaac vaulted over the balustrade overlooking the vehicle bay below, his further declarations of derring-do lost beneath the raucous rattle of automatic weapons as recently-armed prisoners turned, a hail of leaden fury narrowly missing the Don. He was unconcerned about the actions of lesser men- only a true clash of equals could put an end to this sorry tale, and the convicted killers barking with alarm as they laid down desperate covering fire were certainly not that. Their shots careened past his face, the leaden heat as comforting and familiar as the earnest glow of dawn.

The brutish brigand that commanded them, however, was made of sterner stuff. Beneath thick brows, the Orc glowered at him, animalistic red eyes piercing him with an intelligence he had hardly expected to find in that barbaric gaze.

Good. The quarry was cunning.

Supple leather boots - somewhat worse the wear without his Manservant's talented needle to attend to them- strode across oil-stained floors as he carved a path forward, raising his ornate pistol at it barked a humble retort to the feral snarl of automatics, punctuating the undignified rambling roar as his shots brought low a band of brigands. Vermillion roses blossomed from their bodies as they fell, Isaac's avaricious pace swiftly bringing him to that red carpet as he pressed on, the yawning steel maw that his foe stood within so close, the segmented steel ramp but steps away-

And then the Orc's fist hammered against the side of his conveyance, gnarled knuckles denting the stainless steel as he signalled to his fellows, that ramp swiftly vanishing from view as it rose to seal the craft shut. Its massive wheels squealed to life, rubber burning as the rover launched itself free from the bay, crashing through the luminous barrier and smothering the nascent flames in the cold, yawning expanse of the void beyond.

Isaac came to a halt, his headlong charge petering out into a stunned stumble, his sword faltering, its gleaming tip dipping low as he was denied, confusion wrought upon his fair features, replacing the fervent grin that once dominated.

This wasn't how the stories went.

His ruminations upon the positively unchivalrous behaviour of his foe had hardly begun when it was interrupted with the hiss of another airlock yawning open, Syntech security forces swiftly sliding out from its depths as they took up firing positions behind scattered crates, levelling their chrome-plated rifles at the Nobleman as he stood within the field of carnage.

From the depths of the hall beyond emerged another familiar face, a hatchet-like visage with eyes carrying with them all the warmth and kindness of a frozen hell.

"Doctor Lupin," Isaac greeted warmly, his pearlescent smile gleaming beneath his finely wrought facial hair. "A pleasure to see you've made it through the assault intact-" he began, only to be swiftly cut off by the dead-eyed Doctor groaning out an order to his retinue.

"Apprehend him," he said, not even blinking as he gave the order, his Syntech-salaried servants spitting globules of sparking lightning from underbarrel attachments as the Don set himself into motion, leaping to the side as he sought to shelter himself from the fusillade. As he moved, one of the voltaic orbs impacted against his calf, adhering itself to his flesh as power coursed through his leg, his limb spasming as he fell to the floor, his still-functioning leg kicking against the steel beneath him as he pushed himself into cover.

Clearly, his host had felt as if his hospitality had been insulted. Nonetheless, hesitation was not a quality that generations of warfare had allowed to remain within his bloodline. His blade lashed out, cutting at his pant-leg and letting the sparking mass fall to the floor, still blazing with a decidedly painful luminance. Only fumbling the blade slightly, Isaac pulled the magazine free from his pistol, swiftly counting the rounds still bound to his purpose.

Fewer than he'd like- and he was perhaps not eager to insult his host by killing his sworn men in the execution of their duties. He had an obligation to act in a fashion worthy of his blood, after all- which left him only one option.

Flight.

Staggering to his feet, taking in a deep breath, Isaac's radium-green eyes scanned his surroundings, seeking for a means to escape his entrapment. He could hear the guards moving up behind him, the rattle of automatic fire impacting against his makeshift cover as their cohorts sought to flank his position.

There. A luminous sign hung over a smaller hangar door adjoining the vehicle bay- he had precious little time or inclination to read what was scrawled upon it, but far more pertinent to his interests was the crowbar that had almost levered it open while the convicts had been savouring their opportunity to loot the premises.

With a grunt of effort, Isaac pushed away from his cover, his sword rattling at his side as he moved at a sprint, altitude-adjusted lungs heaving with effort as he ducked, bobbed, and weaved around incoming fire- his greatcoat offering only modest protection as he felt a trio of shots impact against his back, the coursing arcs of electricity threatening to send him sprawling towards the earth as his body revolted against his will. He staggered, almost falling behind the burned-out hulk of a forklift, pressing his agonised back against the blackened spars of steel as he moved past, scraping off most of the electrified gel, much to his relief.

He had to keep moving- this was hardly an ending worthy of his tale. He fired blindly behind him as he stumbled forth, each agonised step bringing him closer to freedom, each step accompanied by the echo of gunfire. There was a cry of pain behind him as he pulled the trigger- but he could hardly be blamed for that.

He heaved himself forwards, his body throwing itself against the crowbar lodged in the doorway, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he strained to force it open, his entire weight forced against the fulcrum of the aperture.

"Atom- dammit," Isaac hissed through his teeth a gel round splattered against the wall next to his skull, iridescent energy pulsating within it as he drove his elbow against the steel bar, trying to ignore the pain that stood in the way of his glory. With a roar- and the feeling of something snapping, he drove his arm down again, the hydraulics finally giving way- briefly- and allowing the Nobleman to stagger through into the darkness beyond before the damaged portal slammed shut, snapping the crowbar like a twig with an echoing twang of tension.

6,775/10,000 Words.

 

[Don Isaac]

The reek of a charnel house greeted him as he stumbled within his newfound shelter- the scent of oil barely penetrating the stench of blood, gore, and- horseflesh?

He staggered forth, hissing in pain through his perfect teeth as he rested a trembling arm against a stainless steel pillar, peering into the gloom lingering beyond, the reek of mortal ruin issuing from within, bludgeoning his senses into submission with the scent of scarlet. What laid within was a horrific sight- the barrel-like torso of a horse hung on chains, its limbs and head carved away as plastic tubing wormed its way through the ruination of its form, each beat of its heart sending blood and neon-bright fluids pumping through those false veins.

"What in the name of God," Isaac uttered, staggering backwards, his wounded arm hanging by his side as frantically attempted to make the sign of the bomb over his breast. He had seen the Ichor ooze from the wounds of Rygomen and their creations, mockeries of man and machine alike. This was nothing like that- a living being butchered and amalgamated into artifice.

Gagging, he stumbled away from the blasphemous sight, a nauseous pallor tainting his tanned features. He was aware that scholars were wont to forget their own humanity in search of the knowledge that they sought, but he'd never had the misfortune to witness such gross malpractice with his own eyes.

This was not a place of honour- no great deeds were esteemed here. It was something between a slaughterhouse and an alchemist's laboratory, the carrion aroma clinging to him as he moved, knowledge of his own wounds buried beneath the bloody blanket tossed over his senses. Every glimpse into the darkness beyond as he moved revealed more steeds in various states of disassembly, bundles of steel fibres twitching with every spasm of half-alive nerves, false muscle woven into unnatural life.

His horror was interrupted as heavy impacts rattled the broken airlock behind him, the distorted sounds of men being heartily encouraged to 'put their backs into it' sounding like the raucous cries of devils from the pits of some ungodly hell seeking to return to their charnel home. Giving a hiss of pain, Isaac pressed on as he seized his arm, trying his best to force it back into some measure of utility as he approached the end of this hallway of horrors.

For a moment, dread flickered within his breast, a trembling note entering the pounding crescendo of his heartbeat. There was no doorway at the end of this hall, the remnants of throats snuffling at him from the stalls arrayed to the sides sounding almost like mocking laughter. There was only one stall left, and as he approached, clear, bright lights flickered to life overhead, illuminating the stall's contents in an unwavering, unrelenting, unmerciful light.

And it was glorious.

A destrier stood within- or at least, perhaps it was once a destrier. Parts from horses and machines alike had been sewn together by a hand of impeccable skill, bestial muscle and silvery flesh flexing idly, a ton of animalistic instinct restrained by the humble stall eager to act. A cybernetic eye whirred as it focused upon Isaac, a steel jaw chewing upon whatever synthesised nutrition had been provided for such a strange creation.

For a brief moment, he could almost forgive whatever mad scientist had mutilated and mutated this beast. It was a magnificent marriage of meat and metal, the perfection of nature's design coupled with the fevered dreams of engineers who had never bothered themselves to ask if they should, merely if they could. Perhaps, in a way, they hewed to their own Noble ideals- but there was a violation of those enlightened ethics, here.

"You were made to run, weren't you," Isaac said, almost cooing as he reached out, the back of his gloved hand caressing the beast's muzzle as he surveyed the stall. It was like witnessing a jet left to languish, its ailerons cobwebbed and its engines silent.

"Well, boy," he murmured, drawing his pistol, the bone-inlaid grip settling easily into his palm, familiarity a rare thing within this surreal land of science.

"Let's run," he declared, bringing that scrimshawed pistol down against the stable's lock, shattering the tempered glass keypad that sought to forestall his plot. Sparking lightning arced from its ruin as he swiftly re-holstered his sidearm, forcing his fingers into the sliding door's handle and straining with all his might. Behind him, the hammering against the door had stalled- that wasn't the sound of surrender. It was the moment of a plan being enacted.

The tremble within his heart- that second of doubt that threatened to upend his conviction- had swelled into a magnificent crescendo, his heart hammering in his ears like a full orchestra, now. With a roar of effort, he resisted the efforts of the stall's door, forcing it back into its housing, and granting the beast within a moment to make its escape.

It did not hesitate- a hiss of pain escaped his lips as he reached out with his injured arm, seizing the saddle built into the beast's back as it stampeded past him, chrome hooves trampling the steel beneath as it raced towards the door at the far end of the hallway. It moved swifter than any mortal steed, steel legs a blur as it careened forth.

Isaac had only a moment to concern himself over the seized door that laid before them before it detonated in a storm of flame and shrapnel, some breaching charge sundering the portal with extreme prejudice. Through the shimmering haze of smoke and the scything, shattered steel, Isaac could barely glimpse the guards pushing through the carnage, swiftly bowled out of the way by the thundering tide of metal and meat that he had unleashed.

Clutching desperately to his mount, Isaac leaned to the side- his still-strengthened arm reaching out and snagging a hose-pipe strung from one of the guard's masks, the murderous momentum of his steed's charge doing the rest as he careened forth, dragging the breathing mechanism with him. He had but a moment to quietly revel in the look of shock and outrage on Doktor Ludwig's face as he sped past, desperately working the mask over his face. It was a procedure he was hardly unaccustomed to- protective suits were essential for everyday life in Santagria, beyond the confines of the floating isles of home.

His heart pounded in his chest- the intoxicating rhythm that coursed through his people, the song that was sung with every swing of a blade and had only grown louder with the roar of atomic fire that rebaptized his people.

The stale air that flowed through his mask as his maddened mount leapt through the energy field was as sweet as the first summer breeze.

7,913/10,000 words.