cross-posted from: https://lemmy.wtf/post/19256400

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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Khenal on 2025-04-07 19:58:13+00:00.

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Earl Paulte Heindarl Bulifinor Magnamtir if'Gofnar

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In the luxurious Guildmaster’s Quarters of the Calm Seas Guild, the Earl scowls, gripping his glass of brandy tightly. A lesser elf would be pacing, tugging at his ears like he means to pull them off! But he is no lesser elf, letting setbacks make him so distraught.

 

Jondar Helmsplitter may technically be whom the room is meant for, but he’s wise enough to be in his office right now instead of arguing with the elf who is bankrolling this venture about who gets to brood and drink fine spirits in the luxurious chamber. Still, Paulte can’t let himself get too dejected. He’s navigated harsher storms than this. He will see the new sunrise, as he always does.

 

He takes a calming breath and eases his grip on the glass before it can shatter, forcing himself to go over the setbacks with a critical eye, instead of an invested one. He’s played the emotions of enough people to know they can make fools of even the shrewdest negotiators. If he’s going to plot a course through this dangerous reef, he needs a clear head.

 

It’s the same kind of thinking that got him to agree to miss Toja’s proposal. If she had suggested putting his son in harm’s way before he arrived, he would have happily reported her to the Crown and seen her carapace cracked and the life slowly drain from her body. But after seeing how his son has grown, and how he has the nerve to throw procedure in his face to slow him down… the lad has chosen a poor time to start playing politics.

 

It’s still regrettable, and he may still turn her in after all is said and done. He’ll need a scapegoat for the incident, and he doesn’t doubt she’s trying to secure some bit of evidence to ensure he can’t. He smirks as he imagines her secreting away the agreement with the wax seal on it. As if he would use his actual signet ring. Her ‘proof’ will only be proof of her forgery, when the time is right.

 

He takes a sip of his brandy, his spirits lifted by the image of her shocked face when he serves a warrant for her arrest and execution. That, and the mounds of gold to be gained are potent incentives for him to see this stormy weather through.

 

If only his other problems were so simple to imagine besting. The garrison will make it trickier for him to move directly, but he already has his pawns in place. They will either do their work subtly, or be cast aside if they are discovered. As far as anyone should be able to tell, he is putting his head down and working to get his guild up and running. He’s securing supply contracts, negotiating for exclusive escort deals, and otherwise working to establish a foothold here.

 

The other guild is putting up a moderate fight, but there is only so much they can do when an Earl is backing a guild. The Calm Seas must take care not to make too many waves, but barring a disaster, there is little the Slim Chance can do to outright keep him from getting established.

 

The dungeon is proving to be its own barricade to progress as well. He’s spent no small amount of time here researching it, as well as dungeons in general. He’s hardly an inspector, but he has some small understanding of how a young dungeon should behave, now. While he is surprised to hear none of the guild members have died yet, it would seem there are other ways to discourage a party than the threat of death. Or at least the overt threat thereof. The adventurers have been complaining about the constant stares from the ravens, of being unsettled at how they are always watching, oddly silent. With the addition of the dire ravens, even without any hostile movements, the adventurers are rushing through whatever delves they have planned, skipping opportunities for other gains and withering under the gaze of the large birds.

 

They’re not failing any of their quests, but when adventurers from one guild will go above and beyond, while the other will do exactly what the contract stipulates and nothing more, buyers will of course flock to the one that offers more. It also doesn’t help that, while gathering and escort quests are the lifeblood of most guilds, the gatherers here seem able to handle themselves in some parts of the blasted dungeon! Quests into the lava labyrinth are still numerous and lucrative, but the low effort quests that usually abound simply don’t exist with Thedeim!

 

If he had known, he would have ensured he brought more crafters to establish his own crafting offshoot guild, but he’s well behind in something like that. He could try to force his way in, but fighting on that many financial fronts would be a fool’s errand. The window for an easy profit is long past. He can’t go throwing coin overboard, thinking he can chum the waters now.

 

He already has a shark he needs to deal with anyway.

 

His scowl begins to reassert itself as he considers the elf that appears to be his true foe in all this: Miller. He can think of no other reason why little Rezlar is suddenly able to navigate the harsh tides of politics, filling his sails with loopholes and technicalities to avoid capsizing in the rough seas of the Earl’s displeasure. He’d feel pride in his son if he wasn’t certain there was someone else actually at the helm of his ship. That deft hand at the wheel can belong to none other than Miller.

 

He’s surely guiding the dungeon, too. It’s too simple minded, too young to be subtle in its observations, but the adventurers prove how effectively one can be unbalanced simply by knowing someone is watching. He needs to undermine Miller’s meddling… but how? It’s not like he can just ask the dungeon to stop staring.

 

Hmm… or can he? If Miller can manipulate it, why can’t he? It’s even classified as Cooperative and has a Voice. If he can have elves, dwarves, beastkin, and more dancing to his tune, why not a dungeon?

 

He smirks and finishes his drink, feeling motivated as he strides to his travel trunk. The enchantments to make it able to hold so much more than it should cost him a pretty coin, but it’s worth it in times like this. He may not be a proper adventurer, but he does have a fine set of chainmail for the occasions he needs to project physical power. His best rapier easily slips into its place on his belt, and his best adventuring hat soon finds itself upon his head. The color and bright plume make it seem only a fashion accessory, and he supposes it technically is. The metal band hidden inside has all the protection of a fine enchanted circlet, with the cloth and feather providing excellent camouflage. He laces up his best delving boots and checks himself in the mirror before making his way to Jondar’s office.

 

The stout elf looks surprised, but doesn’t voice his questions as he stands and bows. “Ah, Earl if’Gofnar. You look ready for adventure.”

 

“I suppose I am, at that. Have you visited the dungeon itself yet?”

 

Jondar quirks an eyebrow and slowly shakes his head. “No, Earl. I’ve been busy with paperwork.”

 

“By now, I hope you’re down to things that can be delayed for a few hours. It occurs to me that the dungeon has a Voice. Perhaps the staring the adventurers are reporting is because the dungeon simply doesn’t know us yet. If we introduce ourselves, things will go much more smoothly.”

 

Jondar doesn’t look especially convinced, but he doesn’t argue. “Let me get my armor and axe then. It should only take me a few minutes, unless you wanted a larger escort?”

 

The Earl shakes his head. “No, it would be wasted on a dungeon. I don’t expect to delve, but one must dress appropriately for negotiations.” Jondar clearly doesn’t have a head for deals, but he still has enough wits to not talk back. True to his word, it only takes him a few minutes to get into his heavy plate armor and carry his large single-head battle axe.

 

The Earl’s carriage has ample room for the two of them, even with the armor and axe of the stout elf, and as the sun sits at its peak, the two exit in front of the gates to the manor of Thedeim. The Earl strides confidently as Jondar follows, his gaze always moving and looking for threats. It’s plain to the Earl there are no threats here, but for an experienced adventurer like Jondar, old habits are the ones that let him grow old.

 

Paulte pays him no mind as he speaks plainly, as the reports say one should if they wish to speak with the dungeon. “Dungeon Thedeim! I am the Earl Paulte Heindarl Bulifinor Magnamtir if'Gofnar. We need to talk.” His declaration earns a few glances from the other delvers around, but they quickly return to their own business. It seems speaking to the dungeon directly really isn’t that unusual here.

 

When a rat crawls out from a clump of grass, the Earl fights his disgust and resists the urge to draw his rapier and dispatch the vermin. Such creatures should consider themselves lucky to drown in the bilges of his merchant ships, but he needs to talk to this one, at least for now.

 

“What’s up?” it asks, its vocabulary simple and crude. Now the Earl has to fight the predatory grin looking to establish itself on his face. This will be easy.

 

Paulte motions for Jondar to explain, which he does without even sighing. “The Earl here has been generous and kind enough to finance me setting up a guild here, but my adventurers are… unnerved by all the staring.”

 

The rat tilts its head in confusion for a few moments. “Why?”

 

Paule deftly steps in. “Because staring is rude, young dungeon. You’re trying to learn about a...

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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/Spooker0 on 2025-04-07 19:43:47+00:00.

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Previous

First | Series Index | Website (for links)

++++++++++++++++++++++++

65 Critical Mass I

The Frontline, Znos-4-C

POV: Mgnistr, Znosian Dominion Marines (Rank: Four Whiskers)

The first sign of friendly losses Mgnistr saw as they drove towards the temporary frontline was not from the effects of the nuclear weapon detonated by the predators. Rather, they took a break at an improvised resupply station about a dozen kilometers away from the front, where she observed a large gathering of abandoned vehicles less than a hundred meters from the converted tanker that was now transferring fuel to her troop carrier.

She squinted at the pile of twisted metal and frowned. “How did they get those?” she asked the three whiskers supply officer in charge of the fuel point.

He didn’t even bother to follow her pointed claw. “Our field artillery battalion? Well… former field artillery battalion. Flying machines and the enemy’s own light precision artillery,” he replied casually. “They have a lot of those. Not a good week to be in artillery. Or logistics.”

Mgnistr did a double take at him. “Logistics like you?”

“Like me. And you too at the moment, Four Whiskers, since you’re standing right next to me,” he replied dryly. “We’re their favorite. Most of my company has already rejoined the Prophecy. And if you don’t hurry up with the refueling, you will too. If— when they find us important enough to send one of their guided shells at us.”

She saw a million small holes through the barely recognizable steel barrel of a former Znosian artillery piece. “One of their shells did that?!”

“Yup. We call it metal rain. One shell, and it pokes those holes in everything within a couple hundred meters. That’s the one for if you’re more important than the flying machine swarms.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard about those.”

“Yeah. My own four whiskers rejoined the Prophecy from one of those… not two kilometers from here.” He pointed in the direction of the enemy beachhead. “Nobody came back from that supply convoy.”

She quickly muttered a prayer for the fallen — she’d been doing a lot of that lately — then asked, “Is it really that bad?”

“Bad? You haven’t seen bad yet. They’re attriting our logistics at an unsustainable rate. If we don’t overrun them in one or two more days, our Marines are going to need to start hopping towards their position on their paws.”

“What are they even doing on this planet?” Mgnistr asked idly. “I thought they’re supposed to be trying to get rid of us on some of the predators’ old planets all the way out there.”

The supply officer shrugged. “No idea what they’re doing, but I hear they’re digging.”

“Digging? Like digging in? In their positions?”

“More than that. Some of our people back at temporary headquarters said that they can detect constant shaking in the soil, like if they’re making tunnels. Whatever they’re doing, the predators are moving a lot of dirt over there.”

Mgnistr contemplated it for a few seconds, but nothing came up. “What do you suppose that means?”

“No idea. They bred me to deliver fuel, not think about soil.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Mgnistr’s troop transport stopped again, another few kilometers in. They’d thrown a track, and the fix took two hours: more than an hour just digging the heavy vehicle out of the mud-ash mix. She noted in the back of her mind that the radioactive nuclear fallout they were now breathing in was probably not great for their long-term health. Then again, neither were the predators on their planet. She decided those were far more likely to kill her first.

By the time they were finished and got moving again, Mgnistr determined from her communicator that they were near their division command point, which had surprisingly moved all the way up here. She ordered her crew to drive towards it. “That way,” she pointed. “I want to see what’s going on.”

Entering a lightly forested area, they arrived at a bizarre sight.

Six friendly vehicles and their crews were parked up next to what appeared to be an alien equivalent of a Longclaw behind a thick dirt mound. The front and left side of its hull were heavily scarred from battle damage. Its reactive armor tiles were missing. Its barrel was bent and perforated. And pieces of its tracks were scattered over the forest floor near it. A small squad was behind it, carefully examining its insides from the open rear hatch, led by a young-looking officer.

Very young-looking.

Mgnistr dismounted and hopped over to the group on her tired paws.

They looked up at her. One of the group — another barely-adult five whiskers, acknowledged her presence. “Nice of you to join us, Four Whiskers.”

“What’s going on here?” she asked, some excitement creeping into her voice. Finally, some signs of the battle.

“We overran this position earlier today,” the commanding officer said as he stepped out from the enemy vehicle. “Great Predator Longclaw.”

“Did we get many of them?” she asked in awe, her eyes searching around for more signs of the battle. She glanced at his nametag and insignia. “We just got here… Seven Whiskers Spazglu.”

“We got this one, and another small group of lightly armored vehicles further into the forest.” Spazglu pointed a claw north. “Anti-armor missile carriers, it seemed. Their mobile mortar carriers got away.”

“Any prisoners?”

“None.” Spazglu sighed. “They weren’t even crewed by any… living thing. Just machinery. One of our squads made the mistake of moving up and thinking about capturing the crew of one of the vehicles that had been heavily damaged.”

She winced. The new instructions and recent training they’d got made it clear that the only dead Great Predator was one you personally put a bullet in — twice. It looked like not everyone got that training.

“A squad of predator combat robots came out guns ready. They liquidated the whole squad, got picked up by another transport, and then they retreated further north into the forest,” he continued. “No one should be making that mistake again.”

She pointed at the wreck. “This one too?”

“Not this one.” He shook his head. “No. This Longclaw was scuttled by the predators themselves.”

“Scuttled?!”

“Yeah, look again.” He gestured toward the blackened interiors. “See? There was a fire inside. We didn’t do that. No shell penetrations as far as I can tell. Their vehicles are built to be hardy. We must have immobilized it — tore off the tracks. Then, its crew sabotaged and abandoned it when we got close.”

Surprised at his insight, Mgnistr took another look at his face. He was about as tall as average, but the youthful look of his face betrayed his age. He was surely just a hatchling. “Wait. How old are you?”

If the non-sequitur caught Spazglu by surprise, he did not show it. Most likely, it was not the first time he’d been asked that question recently. “Eleven months.”

“Eleven months old?!”

“Yeah.”

Mgnistr asked, “And you are a…”

“Battalion— no, division commander now that ours died. Your division commander actually.” He pointed at her unit patch. “But most of the division is now missing or destroyed anyway.”

“Eleven months old division commander?!” she exclaimed.

Spazglu shrugged. “I was blessed by the Prophecy.”

“I’d never heard of someone as blessed as you,” Mgnistr said after a while.

“Or perhaps cursed,” he sighed sadly.

“With all due respect, Seven Whiskers. I take full responsibility for any—”

“No offense taken, Four Whiskers,” he interrupted her. “I get that question a lot.”

“Yes, sir. What is our directive, Seven Whiskers?”

“We’ve spent most of the armored assets we brought up here. And with that last nuclear strike disrupting our coordination, I doubt we can push further today. We should take a break and defend our current position.” Spazglu turned his head to the setting Znosian star at the horizon. “And hope we can survive the night.”

“We still have our night vision equipment,” Mgnistr offered. “We can mount an attack.”

“Whatever night optics we have, the Great Predators have better, I’m sure,” Spazglu replied. “And night time is not good for the offense. The enemy will be waiting for us, or worse, perhaps they are gathering for a night counterattack of their own right now. We should prepare for that instead.”

Mgnistr scratched her whiskers, once again impressed by his insight or… “Is that from your Digital Guide?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ours died before the predators even landed. That is my assessment based on my training and… limited experience. Why? Do you have a better idea?”

“No— no, of course not, Seven Whiskers,” she said hurriedly, bowing in respect for his rank. “My squad will dig in for the night, as you directed.”

Mgnistr hopped back to her squad vehicle and ordered them to dig the troop carrier under the dense foliage. She knew that if the predators wanted her dead, being so close to the new division commander, she was dead anyway. But training and bred instinct did not go away easily. They did as they were ordered.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

As dusk fell, she heard some commotion near the other vehicles. Curious, Mgnistr hopped over from her squad.

A new vehicle had joined Spazglu’s original six, another troop carrier like hers. But this one was a completely unarmored one with an open to...

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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/mikeromeokilo on 2025-04-07 19:09:41+00:00.

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Chapter 7

First | Previous | Next

***

"Long before the human race had invented fart jokes, the rest of the galaxy had figured out how to traverse the stars - using jump points.

The first had been an unstable anomaly, poked and prodded until it stopped shredding curious appendages, and eventually stabilised into a much less unstable, stable anomaly. And, like the saying goes, once you've tamed a dog, creating a dog from its component atoms using only advanced physics and a lot of energy is relatively easy."

"Why're we watchin' this again?"

"Everyone has to be in-date for the safety training. Katie and Gordon are due a refresher, so we're all doing it."

"Once scientists understood the theory, artificial jump points were created, and the galaxy infrastructure that we know and love today was born.

Now, because these anomalies don't mix well with gravity, most have been created far from the massive gravity wells of stars and planets, or in some cases - the special areas in between where gravity is stable enough to allow it.

Since that time, jump drive technology has also evolved to the point where very large ships can even generate their own anomalies to travel to distant stars!"

"Has it always been a cartoon dog? I thought it was a cat last time. Or a mouse?"

"Now, there are a few important rules to remember when traversing a jump point.

1. No large masses. This means no moons or large asteroids.

2. Quantum devices should be deactivated before transit. Active quantum technologies may experience unpredictable, destructive side effects.

3. Only enter the transit corridor when instructed to do so. When instructed, do not delay.

4. Upon arrival, clear the transit corridor immediately, or as instructed by your local traffic coordinator.

5. Many species experience adverse side effects to jump point travel. Securing any delicate appendages is advised.

Just remember these five simple rules, and enjoy your journey! You may now deactivate this instructional video."

"S'posed to be every three years, right? Coulda sworn it was only last year we did it."

Luke nodded. "Now it's every year. Thanks everyone, I'll get your records updated and we'll have all the boxes ticked by the time we get to the jump point this evening."

"I...quite like it." Katie smiled, leaning gently into Gordon like it was movie night.

***

"God, this has to be some sort of record. Four hours is obscene." Mel groaned.

"Complaining about it won't make it go any faster." Luke shot back.

Scott said nothing, his foot tapping away on the deck.

Frustrations were starting to show. New security procedures, customs checks and border enforcement were like the latest fad; and traffic was a mess. Over twenty ships sat waiting to transit with more arriving every hour, being slowly cleared by customs and patrol craft shuttling around like bees collecting pollen. Big, fat, incredibly slow bees with clipboards.

Cargo manifest checks. Then food contamination checks. Radiation sweep. Background checks, destination clearance, license validation, stowaway screening, cultural assurance checks(?!), and next, finally, transit clearance.

"Whole damn galaxy goin' mad." Scott muttered.

Luke shrugged. "Maybe there was another attack, or something else happened. We've been in the dark two weeks - we don't know. Like I said - I don't want to risk holding us up any longer here; let's get through this and see if the transit station can do a data sync when we arrive."

Mel pointed at the small yellow square lighting up on the console. "There."

Luke tapped his comm. "Here we go everyone, wait's over. Strap yourselves in if you need to." He tapped again to deactivate it. "Need a sick bag, Scott?" he asked, deadpan. Melanie smirked.

Scott shook his head, carefully navigating the ship into position. "Ya make one mistake..."

The Eventide moved carefully into transit position, between two small cargo craft. Luke glanced briefly to port, drawn by the motion in the bright cockpit. Another human pilot; not incredibly rare but noteworthy enough for a smile and a small wave. He returned the gesture before strapping himself in.

Scott freed the controls and double checked his straps, staring at the blinking amber light. Once all ships were in position, it would turn green and they'd be quietly transported fifty-thousand times the distance they'd travelled in the past ten days. No matter how many times he did it, he couldn't help but hold his breath when that little light turned green. He tapped the console, looping everyone in the cockpit into station communications.

Melanie shook herself loose, like she was getting ready to step into a boxing ring, letting her hands rest on her legs.

Luke mentally crossed his fingers.

They sat in silence, and a minute later, the light turned Green.

"All ships clear..."

Tiny flashes danced in Scott's vision. The hairs on his arms stood on end, a reminder of the immense power the station was silently radiating.

"...cancelled! Repeat-"

Everything blinked out of existence for a brief moment. The only sound was the quiet ticking and clanging of the hull; metal returning to its original shape. Scott had the sensation of looking through someone else's eyes, like his consciousness hiccupped and then caught up with itself, while his body stayed perfectly still. He fought the sensation of nausea and set to work checking their status on the console. Everything looked good; he just had to wait for the traffic coordinator. They'd arrived safely.

Silence permeated the cockpit as everyone gathered themselves, broken by a quiet sound. Scott tilted his head to listen. Was that...sand? Like someone pouring out a bag of sugar. He looked out.

A mid-sized cargo vessel, but something didn't look right. It was...twisting? He wasn't sure. He squinted.

An orange plume erupted silently from its aft port side, accelerating it slightly. It was awkwardly tilting, forwards and sideways. Another silent plume sent it twirling faster. He blinked and squinted harder, trying to make sense of it. Was that...? Legs, two arms...and there was that sound again - sand. He looked to Luke.

Luke was looking out to the port side, mouth slightly open. Scott followed his gaze. The small cargo ship with the human pilot, should be...

There. A massive, torn slab of twisted hull plating was wedged firmly into its darkened cockpit. It was pitching slightly downwards. Scott frowned, not quite understanding. He blinked, trying to get the images back to the way they were. His body was moving, but he wasn't moving it. His ear hurt - someone was yelling into it.

"-US THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" Mel screamed at him.

He turned his head to look at her. She was wide-eyed. Furious? Terrified? She was shaking him, really hard. He looked back to the console. That was a lot of red and yellow. His hands hovered, quivering. He wasn't supposed to move without clearance. A flash of light made him look up again.

The twisting ship was in two pieces now - one of them looked like it might graze them. Sand. Yelling. Bodies spilling out like a split bag of dolls. His hands looked strange.

"-FUCKING CHRIST-" Mel stabbed at the console. He watched her fingers move. The Eventide started pitching down.

That was it. His hands came to life, slapping Mel's aside. She looked like she was going to punch him out of the chair, until she saw him working the controls again. She unclenched her fists but kept her eyes on him.

Find a spot, radially away, avoiding traffic...there. He pointed The Eventide's nose where he wanted her to go. A loud scraping, crunching noise nudged it back in the opposite direction, jostling the cockpit.

"Shit," he cursed, "wasn't me." he said out loud. The environmental panel started flashing yellow in the corner of his eye. He ignored it, turning the nose again. Another scraping noise nudged it back again. "Fuck it." he pressed the button for the rear thrusters, pushing them away from whatever they were snagged on. No time for protocol. The scraping and grinding metal noise became worse, briefly, then stopped. He nudged the thruster power up, eyes flicking wildly back and forth between the local space display and the cockpit window.

Mel took her eyes off Scott to check on Luke. He was sitting motionless, staring out to port, his face completely white. She tapped her comm.

"Gordon, Katie, check in."

"What the hell is going on?!" She winced at Gordon's yell, but ignored him for now.

She waited. "Katie?"

Silence.

"Gordon, there's been some kind of accident. Check on Katie and then-" she glanced at the environmental panel.

Warning: Crew Cabin #4.

"-SHIT! Go get Katie, get your breather FIRST - and a patch kit!"

She glanced at Scott, and then the console. They were moving safely away.

"You good?" she asked him, suspiciously.

He nodded quietly, wiping his face with his hand, his eyes still flicking wildly between the consoles.

She unstrapped herself, grabbing Luke by the shoulder. "Hey. Hey!"

Luke looked like he was starting to pull himself together. "Uh. Yes. Okay."

He'd be better off staying here. "Keep an eye on him." she said, pointing at Scott. She didn't wait, turning to jog quickly down ...

---

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---

The Tulaxsuin fleet had crossed into Terran space several weeks after the declaration of war. The Terrans were a relatively young race, emerging in a section of the galaxy long since divided by the elder races into their respective territories. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, the ancient elder races had risen and, to avoid costly wars, had partitioned the Milky Way into exclusion zones. Younger races, once discovered or having emerged on their own, were automatically subjected to vassalage under their designated elder.

There was usually some resistance at first, but that was swiftly dealt with. The newcomers’ pitiful fleets were no match for those of the elder races. Only the Hydroxians had posed a real challenge. As a hive species, they had grown their own fleet—nearly half a million spacefaring craft across their 14 worlds before their discovery. But even they were ultimately crushed: entire fleets wiped out, six worlds purged, and only then did they recognize the futility of resistance. They submitted to managed control under the far older and, in their eyes, wiser Tulaxsuin. Despite their prolific growth, the Hydroxians had never come close to matching the Tulaxsuin’s fleet, which numbered in the millions. Massive military spending was essential to avoid appearing weak before rival elder races, who would seize upon any sign of decline as justification for intervention.

Vassals were forbidden from maintaining combat fleets. Their populations underwent extensive reeducation to reshape their cultures in accordance with Tulaxsuin principles. Outmoded religions were dismantled, and population controls ensured proper societal management.

Fleet Admiral Vu’Shun’Tori reviewed the latest reports. The humans had emerged in a relatively isolated arm of the galaxy, in a region apparently unsurveyed for the past 4,000 years. Oversights like this were common in an empire over a hundred thousand of years old. It was often how upstarts like these Terrans managed to develop unnoticed. This particular group spanned over 26 worlds. Their fleet strength was unknown. Biologically, they were similar to the Tulaxsuin—though mammalian rather than reptilian—and likely had a faster reproductive cycle. Perhaps 25 billion in total population, at best. Respectable numbers. Securing them as a vassal would bring great honor to his family, though the fleet engagements would likely be underwhelming.

A call came from the sensor bays. An officer relayed the alert.

“Contact made. Appears to be a destroyer-class vessel.”

The Admiral nodded. “Most likely a long-range patrol. Let’s see how interesting this will be. Limited engagement protocols.”

“Aye, Sir.”

On the holo-projection screen, six Tulaxsuin ships were highlighted, selected to carry out the first strike. It was tradition to allow junior commanders and fresh officers the honor of first blood, especially if they lacked prior combat experience.

Three destroyers, two cruisers, and a smaller battlecruiser accelerated away from the fleet. The screen zoomed out to include the Terran ship, an oddly designed craft with a cylindrical midsection and weapon systems distributed along its periphery.

The symbols converged, and the view zoomed in again. Tulaxsuin ships followed perfect engagement protocols. The enemy was outnumbered and outgunned—by all logic, the engagement would be brief.

Except it wasn’t.

Minutes passed with no decisive outcome. Perplexed, the Admiral zoomed into the tactical view. Rapid flashes and lines represented the exchange of kinetic and energy weapons. It was a storm of fire. Damage indicators flared on the cruiser Golthain’s Mercy, while the destroyer Vultun Muri disengaged after catastrophic engine core damage. The condition of the Terran vessel remained uncertain; without internal sensors, only external data could be used. Still, its shields remained intact despite damage that should have crippled a battleship-class ship. The damaged cruiser also disengaged, and then, suddenly, the Terran ship detonated in a supercritical explosion.

“Get me a report from those ships—now!”

This was new. The Admiral hated new. New meant unknown. This one Terran ship, roughly destroyer-sized, had resisted far superior numbers for far longer than it should have.

⸻

Fleet Admiral Vu’Shun’Tori sat in his command chair, reading updated reports. The entire conflict with the Terrans had escalated beyond imagination. Twenty-six fleets had been redirected to the sector, and several worlds were now under siege.

The planetary shields had been the first shock. Most planetary defenses covered key installations or limited regions. You could always land somewhere else—or simply annihilate other areas to collapse the ecosystem. But the Terrans? They were shielding entire planets. Populations beneath the shields continued their lives as if nothing were happening. Bombardments had been ongoing. The Fourth Fleet had to return for resupply after exhausting both kinetic and nuclear arsenals, and this was on a relatively minor world.

Ground-based anti-ship weapons had taken a heavy toll. Fleet 65’s command ship had been crippled. Its admiral was confirmed dead. Vu’Shun’Tori dreaded what Terran inner-world defenses would look like. Scouts reported that the Terran home system was saturated with activity: colonized planets, moons, and orbital stations spread across the entire system. The race grew and moved fast.

“Fleet contact, sir!”

“Report.”

“Three ships, sir. Larger than anything we’ve seen. They… look odd?”

“On screen.”

The holo-display adjusted. The Admiral raised a brow.

The ship was massive. A central spine of cylindrical sections made up most of its bulk. Every surface bristled with weapons—mounted in seemingly every available space.

He turned to his staff. “What are we looking at?”

Tactical consulted their datapad, frowning. “We believe it’s a decoy, sir.”

“Why?”

“Here.” A section near the rear of the ship was highlighted. “Based on power plant size and engine requirements, they only have enough output to fire maybe fifteen percent of the weapons. If they focus on kinetic weapons, perhaps twenty. The layout is… haphazard. It doesn’t make any sense.”

The Admiral nodded slowly. “None of this war has made sense. We engage. Position the fleets and prepare to fire. Remind all ships to keep clear”

Terran ships had a habit of exploding violently upon destruction. Too frequently for it to be random. They were self-destructing—likely trying to take as many enemies as possible with them.

The fleets closed in. This was a staging area, and the Terrans were comically outnumbered. Five full fleet groups were present, preparing for an assault on the Terran world of New Tokyo.

The Admiral watched the combat unfold. The computer rendered the scene in vivid clarity—space was silent, and many weapons left only brief visual traces. Green beams and bolts smashed into the Terran ship. A pitiful number of red-tinged return shots fired back.

But as minutes passed, something became clear.

“Tactical.”

“Yes, Admiral?”

“You said fifteen to twenty percent of their weapons could fire. That looks like a lot more.”

“We noticed. Scans indicate they’re at twenty-five percent. Possibly approaching thirty.”

“Do not wait for full confirmation. Adjust your analysis immediately.”

Chastised, the officer bowed their head.

More of the fleet engaged. Each of the three Terran ships became the center of a growing sphere, with Tulaxsuin ships surrounding them on all sides. And yet, they held. They fought back. And they began to win.

Ninety percent of their weapons were now firing. Firepower poured in every direction. Hundreds of ships were being targeted simultaneously. The volume of fire crippled the surrounding fleets.

Once losses exceeded thirty-five percent, the Admiral gave the order.

“Disengage.”

It was a last-resort command, rarely used. The last time had been during a lopsided battle against the Hydroxians. But this? This was three ships against four fleet groups—and they were losing.

The Tulaxsuin retreated from Terran space. They had never encountered resistance like this. A young race had not only pushed back—they had won.

⸻

The video feed cut off. The professor turned to face his students: cadets of Earth’s Naval Academy. Human and non-human faces alike looked on with rapt attention. Some were from Terran Commonwealth member races, others from independent worlds allied with the Galactic Council.

“Hundreds of thousands of years old, and they became stagnant,” the professor said. “They relied on brute force to maintain control, preventing other races from rising while trapped in an endless cold war with rival elder powers.”

He paced, gesturing animatedly. “For most of history, the best defense was considered a good offense. If you’re pushing forward, everything behind you is safe. Makes sense, right? Gunpowder defeated knights. Artillery toppled castle walls. Given time, any offense breaks through a static defense.”

He smiled. “But that was before the development of null-point shielding. This isn’t a physics class, so I’ll leave the details to Dr. Fishbourne. But the concept is simple: everything is energy—plasma, railgun rounds, missiles. If you can absorb that energy and safely redirect it, almost all weapons become useless.”

“Early losses in the war were due to smaller ships—destroyers, cruisers—being unable to dump energy fast enough. When overwhelmed, they detonated. But the Onslaught-class v...

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Cover|Vol.1|Previous|Next|LinkTree|Ko-Fi|

Sylvia Talgan’s POV.

Great, we just had to be separated, and fate just had to match me with these two.

I turned back slightly and watched Cerila and Kaladin’s mom sign to each other at a rapid pace. I could follow along…somewhat. The two were going so fast, and I swore they were doing things I hadn’t seen before. Was it just a simplified version of things? Or slang?

Could there even be slang for something like this…?

Whatever the case, I sighed as we trudged through this damn forest. The place we got dropped into could be summed up in one word: unnatural. An entire forest in a dungeon was already unnerving, but the fact that the trees, which were underground, looked to be alive and healthy while there wasn’t a single sign of animals or even bugs. The stagnant, although cool, air also only added to the abnormal atmosphere.

We were heading deeper into the forest when I heard a loud explosion echo far off into the distance. I saw an enormous fireball spreading in the sky when I looked up.

“Mmm, that looks like Kal’s magic. It’s difficult to judge, but they are probably half a day away,” Kaladin’s mom said.

I asked.

She nodded and gathered mana into a spell core, and after a few moments, a large glacier flew into the sky. I sent an arrow of blood directly into it, and the shard exploded into an icy mist. It wasn’t as loud as Kaladin’s explosion, but they should have been able to see it. We waited a few minutes, but nobody else launched magic into the air.

“Are we the only three that were separated?” I mumbled.

“There’s a chance the others got sent somewhere else entirely. This forest appears to be rather large, but it clearly has an end, as we can see the ceiling and the walls. We just happened to be close to Kaladin and whoever else,” Kaladin’s mom answered.

“Either way, we can change course slightly, and as long as we all walk in the same direction, we will eventually meet up. Should we run for a while?” I asked.

Kaladin’s mom put a finger to her chin as she thought momentarily. “It could be dangerous to run around blindly. We don’t know what’s lurking in this place; the last thing we want to do is spring a trap. Let's maintain our current speed,” she said.

“Alright, let’s do that,” I agreed.

We walked for a long time after that, but it was all the same. The same type of tree, brown bark with green leaves, shrubbery, and dirt, was all so similar. Honestly, if we couldn’t see the ceiling, it would have been easy to think we were walking in circles, as there was so slight variation in the greenery. However, after a few more hours of trudging through in silence, the first change happened. I looked around with a frown; the shadows had changed, and when I looked up at the giant glowing rock on the ceiling, it seemed noticeably dimmer.

Cerila tapped my shoulder and shook her head. She signed

Although I wanted to reunite with the others, she had a valid point. Moving in utter darkness in such a place was basically asking for problems. And if something were to happen, it would be in the darkness.

“Let’s move for a while longer, then set up a small camp,” I suggested.

The other two agreed, and once darkness was on the verge of taking over, we stopped and set up a small camp—just a fire for light and dry rations for a quick meal, not that I ate anything. I offered to take the first watch as I wasn’t tired, and I didn’t think I could sleep in this forest even if I wanted to. It felt like something was gnawing at the back of my head, but there was nothing whenever I tried to find something out of place.

I sat with my back to the fire and stared into the darkness, waiting. It made me nervous…not being able to see, but I just had to do it. Guard duty would be pointless if I were too afraid to look beyond our camp. I made sure to pay attention to our surroundings, but I was more scared of something coming from the forest's center. So I jumped slightly at the noise behind me and sighed deeply.

How embarrassing…I’m too tense.

“Did I scare you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Kaladin’s mom asked.

“Just a little,” I admitted.

She giggled, sat down next to me, and smiled softly. “Sylvia, you keep sighing. And you didn’t look happy to see that it was us who were separated together. Do you dislike us that much?”

“Ah…no, I don’t dislike you or anything,” I mumbled sheepishly.

I looked over at her slightly. Kaladin’s mom was truly beautiful with her long golden hair and sharp eyes. She had an elegant atmosphere around her, that of a true noble. Maybe it was just the way she talked or held herself. Something I felt that I lacked.

She hummed to herself and stared off into the forest. “Then do you think that I dislike you?”

Well…maybe a little. It’s clear I’m not her favorite. Not that I could say that aloud.

She chuckled to herself again and smiled. “You really aren’t afraid to let your emotions show, huh, Sylvia?”

“Wait, I didn’t—”

She put a finger up while still smiling. “It’s okay. It’s not like I don’t understand your feelings. A few months ago, you wouldn’t have been wrong.”

My heart sank slightly at that. “So…you really don’t care for me. Can I ask why?”

She shrugged her slim shoulders and laughed. “Not for any valid reason. How can I say this…it felt like some vixen had come from nowhere and stolen my son’s heart.”

…

Well, that’s how I felt about a certain someone…

“Of course, that wasn’t the case. I was being too harsh and selfish. You are a wonderful girl, Sylvia. And I’m very thankful for all you’ve done and all you will do in the future,” she said quietly.

My eyes went wide as I looked at her. “Do…do you really mean it?”

Her smile softened. “Yes, I do. You see, I’m a greedy woman, Sylvia. I…don’t deserve much. I’ve done evil things to people: some who deserved it and many who did not. Even so, I still wanted to find happiness. And I managed to. And now, the only thing I want in life is for my family to be happy. And you, Sylvia, are a part of that happiness for my son and granddaughter, and that’s all I can ask for in this life.”

I felt tears well up in my eyes. I honestly hadn’t expected her to say that to me. I believed that she just tolerated me because of Kaladin and Mila. That if she could, she would remove and replace me.

Her hands were cold as she softly gripped my hand. “I just want you to know I don’t hate you, Sylvia. Not even a little bit. I feel blessed to have met you and that you were the one who helped my son during his darkest times. So, will you promise me to keep making them as happy as you have been?”

“Yes, I promise to do that. No…I’ll make them even happier,” I choked out.

Kaladin’s mom squeezed my hand and drew back. She closed her eyes and mumbled quietly, “Good, that puts me at ease knowing I can trust you because I won’t be around forever.”

“Huh? Wait—what do you mean by that?” I asked hesitantly.

“Mmm? Well, one day, I will die. Just like everyone else,” she shrugged.

I shook my head. “No, no…you didn’t mean it like that. I can tell. Why did you say it like that?” I asked adamantly.

Her smile faded as she asked me, “Can you keep a secret? I don’t want you to tell anyone, especially the boys.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and answered, “Yes.”

Kaladin’s mom lifted, put a hand to her head, and parted her hair to expose the roots close to her scalp. It was challenging to make it in the darkness, but it wouldn’t be that easy to spot regardless unless she showed it to someone on purpose. A small section of her roots amidst her golden hair, some of it…

Was graying.

“How long have you known?” I asked.

She let her fall back down and smiled again. “I noticed a few months ago that I felt more tired in the mornings than normal. I thought that maybe I had gotten pregnant again, but that wasn’t the case. I noticed my hair changing, so I’ve been dying it regularly. But I haven’t had the chance with everything that’s happened recently,” she explained.

I shut my eyes and looked down at the ground. I…never really thought about getting old, and it never occurred to me that Kaladin’s mom was at that part of her life. If anything, it felt too soon. Wasn’t she too young to be entering her final decade?

“It’s okay. Getting old is a part of life, even you will experience it one day. And it’s not like I will suddenly keel over from old age soon. I have many years ahead of me to look forward to. I’ll be able to see Kal and Dallin grow up even more, maybe see them raise their families before I’m gone,” she said softly.

“Then why haven’t you told anyone? Does Alanis know?” I asked.

She shook her head. “You are the first, Sylvia. And I want to keep it that way for some time. I don’t want to worry everyone when there is far more to be concerned with,” she said.

“You should tell Kaladin and Alanis, at least,” I told her.

“Perhaps. But for now, I want to keep it this way. I did tell you I was a greedy woman, right? If a little makeup and dye is all it tak...

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This is very much a two-parter. I wouldn't call this one of the best things I've ever written, but it was screaming in my head to get let out somehow ‐-------------------- Marie Alexandra Matthis stands in awe of the alien library’s architecture around her. Or rather, the lack of it.

The shelves in front of her were all holographic, of course, or at least something like Hollywood-esque holographic- even if the Hollywood of old only existed in an academic sense. She could certainly walk among and through the shelves, and upon laying her hands on a book a title and summary appeared, ethereally, in front of her. And instead of going through the minor-yet-universal humiliation of having to wedge a book out of the squeeze of its shelf then pull it by the exposed portion she could just hook a finger on the spine of its ghost and pull, according to her chaperone.

“I hope you’ll forgive us for the simulated space,” said the grey. “I argued furiously that you, at least, should be able to visit one of the homeworld’s libraries, but, alas…”

The greys- formally known as the Korshanth, a moniker that absolutely no human being used in casual conversation- had not invited any of humanity’s heads of state. After all, to invite one would be to snub the rest. And Marie had qualifications that fit what she knew would be called in grey society a “Librarian General”, and their homeworld's Librarian General was eager to meet her. Marie was the only one spared the honor… nobody else owned a planet as a sovereign, after all, and anybody else who did was not likely to devote it to science.

The diplomatic vessel did a great job of making, what she knew was a room not much bigger than a small warehouse, seem vast and expansive. The shelves seemed to stretch for miles and miles, to a blurry horizon, where “windows” sent refracting pillars of “sunlight” shining down on the endless shelves. One didn’t need to do all that walking, thank goodness- simply swipe on the shelf’s spine and choose from a catalog what sort of books one would like to browse.

The greys used a system a lot like the Dewey decimal system.

Those windows, holographic as they were, gave the appearance that they could be hundreds of feet tall, and they animated in stained glass fashion events in Korshanth history as unimpeded shafts of colored “sunlight” from each window shone down on the endless shelves. Those animations alone, she could study for days. She felt about to burst with curious questions as to how they affected the total ambience, not just visual, of the large space- how, in a space only as big as a small warehouse, she could feel the light of an alien sun, and feel the eddies of wind reach down from the broad, open ceiling and tickle at her hairs. Was that birdsong? What did birds look like, on the grey homeworld?

But she was here as a diplomat, not a tourist- the greys had denied humanity tourism of their worlds- and they wanted to show off something that, apparently, only they and few of the herbivore species shared with humanity: making grand spaces where one could appreciate and study under the collective knowledge of their kind. And as a born academic, Marie was painfully appreciative of what she could access in this space: many more millenia than human civilization’s meager few’s worth of an alien civilization’s literary achievement, not so far from the palm of her hand. The feeling was heady, and it was all she could do not to tear up at the majesty of it. This was humanity’s potential; better, even. Not in conquest, not in counts of stars or planets or parsecs, but in the ability to fill a library as vast.

Marie shook her head, anchoring herself back to the here and now. She was a fellow academic, and she was in an alien library as a guest of the highest honor. Composure was paramount. The greys were obviously pleased as punch to have another predator-borne species in the galactic community, but it was important to present as respectable and independent, even in the face of such humbling.

“Can you believe most herbivores don’t believe in libraries? To most beings in the galaxy, finding a book is not an endeavor to be done like picking berries out of bushes. They find out which books they need and buy them directly from wherever their nearest retailer is.” The grey looked meaningfully toward the virtual horizon. “Some might say it’s more rational that way, that the dedication and work put towards making a place where one can simply browse books is a waste, but…” Nisren shrugged. “Corpse-eaters. They think in such strange ways, don’t they?”

A quirk of sapient evolution, it seemed, was that the art of cooking meat seemed to be essential to the growth of large brains. But where species that hunted cooked the meat of their prey, species that were hunted cooked their dead to deny their planets’ predators. Taming fire for one purpose was, apparently, no more miraculous than the other. Except, until humanity joined the galactic fold, the greys were not only the only obligate bipedals known but the only known sapients borne from predators… which, according to theory, was a fluke. Allegedly, deathworlds made sapient predators more likely, and though the greys had a lively homeworld, a deathworld it was far from being. So far, the only known deathworld of sapients was Earth.

Marie was weeks past these considerations. Choosing not to comment on her hosts’ prejudices, she cleared her throat, and drew with her finger a line, slowly, across the shelf. Different titles jumped at her: “Learn to Read and Write Tsutkian in [One Month]!”, “How Music Theory Shapes Language”, “Holographic Linguistics: How Diverging Cultures Shaped the Korshanth Linguistic Diaspora”... it was clear the last person- that wasn’t incorrect when talking about greys, was it?- to browse this shelf was scratching a linguistics itch. Her own curiosity at how they approached something so abstract was beginning to itch, too, but she knew that to be just because it was what was in front of her. She couldn’t decide what to be curious for. Instead…

“Nisren, would you happen to have anything, ah… curated for special visitors?”

“As a matter of fact, I do!” beamed the grey. “Go ahead and set the shelf in front of you to x99.001. Your alphabet is already in the database,” added they, either unaware or uncaring to betray a longer history studying human cultures than any humans knew of the greys’. Marie mirrored the gesture she was shown earlier: make a knife-hand, plunge it into the heart of the shelf, and slide quickly to her side until her arm pointed directly away from her. As expected, a holographic interface appeared, annoyingly populated with her familiar English letters and numbers superimposed over the grey alphabet present. How and when?... thought Marie. Would it look like this to Nisren? Is it tailored to the observer? She was skimming the titles that now appeared before her- various sports, geographical, and civil histories- and simultaneously considering which questions she should ask when something caught her eye.

For the sake of diplomacy, Marie had familiarized herself with the alphabet of the grey lingua franca- what they called “Quortanis”. She knew little in the way of vocabulary, but could- at a rate of several letters a second- parrot words as she read them. In the lower front quarter of the shelf, however, a title jumped at her that she scarcely needed more than a moment to read. By ludicrous coincidence, human history had a book of the exact same name. But what of the contents…?

“Nisren, is this…?

The grey paled when he realized which book had caught Marie’s attention. “Oh dear!” He put a hand to his cheek, seemingly embarrassed. “Ah, well, I’m sure you must be surprised, just as much so as when our own xenanthropologists discovered your species’ cultures had an identical work.”

Her hands almost moved faster than her mind could follow. She hooked her finger in the book’s holographic spine, and looked up in time to see the book descend like an angelic gift from the holographic skies above. She could not tell when it had actually physically entered the room, but it slowed to a stop just in front of her. She grabbed the book and had it open even before the two halves of its metal cradle had ascended out of the room into their holographic portal.

No way, she thought. The greys also have a Kama Sutra.

“I could’ve sworn that one was supposed to be one of the ones restricted from you. Perhaps an intern thought it would be funny, but how that intern knew that your species had one as well…”

Its contents were unmistakable- pages of little grey men and women, in various coital positions. Accompanied with little bodies of text, tantalizingly untranslated.

“You know what the funny part is?” spilled Nisren. “The herbivores don’t have one. Not a single one. No sapient of any other species has seen it necessary to, ah, codify various means to accomplish intercourse in their literature. We might share the concept of libraries with a couple of corpse-eaters, but the ancient idea to make a rudimentary sex bible is…”

Marie only half-listened: she couldn’t tear her eyes from the pages. She gorged on the images, and swept the text with intensity as if hoping to burn the letters into her retinas. Maybe, just maybe, if she read hard enough the meanings would jump into her brain. Her fingers turned the pages eagerly, yet reverently.

“Yes, I have no doubt that book is very ...

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Stupid MF by Mindless Self Indulgence

https://genius.com/Mindless-self-indulgence-stupid-mf-lyrics

TL;DR: Nintendo of America president Doug Bowser discussed with Wired the impact of new tariffs on the Nintendo Switch 2, which may increase its price from $449 to $600. The tariffs affect manufacturing in Vietnam, Cambodia, and China. Nintendo is assessing the situation, having already moved some production out of China.

Hmm like the disruptive environmental protesters but with malignant aims under the guise of eco protection a la Team Plasma

cross-posted from: https://slrpnk.net/post/20514746

photos by Lumicon

This plant should not be thriving in this environment. It is growing on compacted oxisol in an area that gets over 4 metres of rain. Yet here it is, growing completely out of control. Nothing makes sense. Climate change?

Ballpark de Tsukamaete!, episode 1

Alternative Names

The Catcher in the Ballpark!

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• Info - AniList
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• Streaming - Crunchyroll

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Die Frage steht schon im Titel - das Win10 Supportende kommt und damit dürfte es auch zig Millionen Geräte auf dem Gebrauchtmarkt geben - und damit eine Chance auf richtig gute Schnapper.

Und ich mag Linux.

Ich würde mir durchaus gerne einen weiteren Server ins Proxmox hängen. Ich hätte auch irgendwie Bock auf ein "Offline-Gerät", an dem man einfach ohne dieses Internet und ohne Ablenkungen wie früher basteln, zocken und spielen kann. Oder geiert ihr schon auf das eine Sammlerstück an PC, das ihr schon seit Jahren haben wolltet und euch nie leisten konntet? Also: Welche Geräte sind interessant, um sie sich in den nächsten Monaten gebraucht zu besorgen?