MechWarrior: Periphery Lord Quest (Archive)

[Lord Of Flames]

A Foreword.


The description of this story is the original sales pitch for Mechwarrior: Periphery Lord Quest, and the initial summary of its plot. It has since grown far from that premise, but the same characters at the beginning continue to grow and develop as people and leaders to this day on the world of Freirehalt and its new Periphery state.

This is the archive thread for a quest taking place every weekend at Fiction(dot)Live, and can be easily reached through the link if you wish to participate in the live writing of the quest. There is no voting in this thread, and exists so that if Akun goes down, as the site grows increasingly unstable, Periphery Lord is not lost.

Fair warning to you, reader, most of the quest is written in the second person, and so the prose will overly-frequently cite 'You', Sir Elric Gawain, or 'Your', our Protagonist's, thoughts or feelings. I've done my best to edit the quest as it was written, but as I create this archive I find that many small errors have slipped in over the last three years, and I'm working slowly to correct them. Given the almost 815,000 words of the original Story on Akun, you'll forgive me if detailed editing doesn't rank high on my list of priorities.

This will not be a massive dump of scraped chapters that are tens of thousands of words long on their own, but broken up into more manageable threadmarks as best I can.

Still, if you can bear with that, I thank you for your time, and hope you enjoy the story of Elric Gawain, Freirehalt, and the Jaeger Protectorate as it unfolded over the last few years.

Prologue

It is the year 3029, and war ravages the myriad nations of man once more. For over two hundred years, mankind has existed in a state of perpetual war and technological downheaval, a course of events only mitigated by the need to repair, rearm, refit their machines of war, and grow the next generation of soldiers as they battle over the same planets as their ancestors did. The rare find of Lostech, advanced technology that cannot be produced any more, occasionally tips the scales in the favor of one great house or another, or merely allows the all too common mercenary a better weapon to do their bloody work.

Across the vast space known as the Inner Sphere, war is fought with infantry, tanks, advanced fighters, but they are often lost in dust of the favorite toy of the Successor Lords, massive robotic machines known as BattleMechs. Ranging in height from as short as a two-story house or as tall as a midrise apartment building, clad in enough armor to shrug off blows that would level a skyscraper, they make up the focus of the Great Houses war efforts.

These five Great Houses have fought three Succession Wars over the past few centuries, the first coming right after the collapse of the Star League, and the end to the War that saw the mad tyrant Amaris dead, and Kerensky flee with the Star Leage Defense Force into the unknown of the distant periphery, far beyond where anyone could track them.

Industry was the first thing to be destroyed in the dire arithmetic of war, where if you could not capture a thing, you destroyed it to deny your enemy any slight advantage. Attrition saw the death of the War-ship, as many were lost in combat, or simply ruinously expensive to upkeep as the decline of technology was spirited on with the loss of so much infrastructure. Today, Individual BattleMechs chassis are produced in design runs of a few dozen in a year, less than three thousand across the entire inner sphere, managing to just overcome the losses that their militaries suffer. Only the most rugged, most wide spread, and most guarded designs have survived the centuries of war, with many designs simply falling apart as replacement parts become impossible to source with the destruction of their only factories.

Despite the constantly threatened nature of continued service, the BattleMech is one of the finest tools of war ever devised, and its pilots are no different. Inside these machines, they are piloted by some of humanities finest warriors, trained from a young age to work the intricate controls and manage the overwhelming amount of data fed into their senses by their neurohelmets, the true tool that takes a BattleMech from just a walking tank, and turns it into a weapon unmatched in its theatre of war in human history.

They are called Mechwarriors and stand heads and shoulders above the other forces of the battlefield.

Centuries of war have taken their toll, as machines that once faced each other from across the plains of a world now fight with inferior means in desperate knife fight ranges, Phased Particle Cannons replaced with heavier autocannons as attrition destroyed and damaged almost irreplaceable parts, Engines downsized to fit heavier weapons at the cost of speed, the very skeletons of the 'Mechs cannibalized to repair their less damaged brethren, or replaced with heavier, easier sourced bones.

It is a time of violence, where the Succession Wars have brought humanity to the brink time and time again. The Great Houses stand just at the end of the Third Succession War, and the call for a lasting peace has gone out to the other great houses, Archon Katrina Steiner of the Lyran Commonwealth having offered a blanket peace to any other house that was interested. Politics has resulted in interesting bed fellows, and the following years will be a time of great interest for many in the Inner Sphere.

However, that is not your story.

The prologue to your tale begins eight decades before you were born, when the Mercenary company of your Great-Grandfather landed on the world of Freierhalt, located Anti-spinward of the Lyran Commonwealth and more than three months travel by Jumpship to the edge of the Inner Sphere and further to reach actual civilization.

What brought the Round Table to Freierhalt is not exactly clear, but the legends that your ancestors spawned certainly paint a picture of tired warriors turned gallant rescuers and eventually, the new leaders of the planet.

The Mercenaries of the Round Table had seen enough of their hazardous lifestyle, too many friends left behind or literally sprayed out of their cockpits after a contract gone wrong, too many debts that had been engineered to strip a Mechwarrior of his machine and leave him dispossessed unless he could find a company with a spare Mech and not the pilot to crew it.

Too many employers that were just as likely to turn their guns on the 'Mechs that had arrived to save them, as pay them their due. Even with Comstar and its Mercenary Review Board, there were too many times where a simple refusal of further service and a black mark on a record had felt like too little for the bloodshed.

The company had made its choice with a vote, and those that had wanted to stay in the business were given their severance, a handshake, and left to find a new outfit, while the rest took their chances in the Periphery, the space past the Inner-Sphere that was lawless by default, where minor nations and independent planets were as common as the pirates that would try and raid them.

Your twice-great grandfather and the rest of his company had the misfortune to land during the tail end of the largest pirate raid the planet had seen in its history, with almost a myriad of ground pounders joining nearly a reinforced company worth of metal as they took almost everything the people of Freierhalt had to offer and when that wasn't enough, they started collecting slaves for their cruel sadism.

To the people that saw them, the Table's dropship appeared to come from nowhere, and from its spherical body, tall war machines painted in the livery of the Round Table marched to war, striking crimson crossed over with black and white, a Lion rampant proud on the panels of every 'Mech.

They fell on the pirates with the wrath of the gods, as giant guns slammed shells the size of a person into the armor of the ramshackle 'Mechs, lightning appeared to tear through their internals, vaporizing the mynomer bundles that made up the muscles of the enemy, and lasers and missiles tore through the vulnerable structure of the savaged sections, laying them low.

When the pirates fled, the mercenaries were hailed as heroes, and all but begged to stay as the protectors of the world, with much that the pirates had failed to take offered up as a kind of down payment for a contract. Your forefathers had refused, and instead took up the protection of the planet for free, settling among the peoples of its distant shores with towering giants of steel as the spears bristled against the pirates.

It was fitting they had been called the Round Table, for the Mechwarriors, many of whom had been the lead officers of the company, found themselves settling down across the world as feudal lords, their BattleMechs turned into shields against further raids, and for a time, they ruled in peace.

But people change, and times turn tough. On a world where farming is the primary occupation, where technology is limited to a sub-20th​ century standard by and large, something as common place as the Internal Combustion Engine is rare and modern medicine may as well be a magical hope just out of reach for the terminally ill, conflict is inevitable.

With time, the mercenaries that had first arrived started to die out, leaving behind families that had fewer connections with the people around them, and small resentments started to grow. The 'Mechs that had been the salvation of the people of Freierhalt took to the fields of battle once more, this time against each other.

The first wars saw them clash like champions of ancient antiquity, while all around them their peasant levies armed with everything from spears to bolt guns and automatics tried to turn the tide in the favor of their lord. Crude rocket launchers could distract a Mechwarrior in a critical moment, costing him the battle and the prize that lay at the end, or just as like just earn that brave fool a burst from the 'Mech-sized machine guns that were mounted on the enemy 'Mech.

This lasted until the first time that one of the ancestral machines was crippled beyond repair, in a conflict over which lord rightfully ruled over a dozen acres of fertile soil with grain ready to harvest. Of similar size, the two BattleMechs surged to the front, finding each other in a forest clearing, and in the ensuing combat, it was not a limb or the cockpit, but the burning fusion engine at the heart of every 'Mech that was destroyed.

The house that lost its 'Mech lost much in the way of land and resources during the years that followed, before they eventually bought out another house's salvage claims, and replaced the destroyed engine with one taken from a legged Pirate 'Mech, finally restoring their honor and prestige in the eyes of the other houses.

Quickly, it was accepted by everyone that total war was unacceptable, as was the destruction of a machine as prized and unique as a BattleMech on the surface of Freierhalt. This simple realization allowed a code of chivalry to be written, the Lords of the most powerful houses bending the might of their own machines to make the lesser houses abide by the terms.

It would be treated as a duel between Knights, the matter settled when the opposing machine was rendered unarmed, or the MechWarrior within yielded, ending the conflict then and there in the favor of the victor. Forces would be determined in advance, as it was with ancient heralds, a third party to see the matter resolved properly was suggested, but not enforced.

It would be all too easy for such to side with one or the other, and as a whole it was not without its drawbacks.

This 'better' form of war could only take place when a Mech stood on either side, preventing the knightly houses that rose as retainers under the MechWarriors of the still teething noble houses from exercising a similiar principal, and should a 'Mech be in repairs from a pirate raid or a previous fight, well, to the bold go the spoils if they can capitalize on such a moment of weakness.

Any chance that the more powerful houses would see these problems resolved died in its cradle, as the alliance that had spawned the terms of war splintered rapidly under the weight of the members ambitions.

After all, no one likes to be just one of the big fish in a small pond.

Among the Nobility of Freierhalt, your Family stands at an odd point between the Mech-owning families and the Knightly houses, having owned a Mech at your founding, even if it has been lost in the interim.

What is your Family Name and Crest?

> A White Longsword, set on a Navy field.
>+House Gawain.

When your great-great-grandfather founded House Gawain, he took for his banner a silver-white longsword on a field of navy blue and rose as one of the major players on the planet now that the Round Table had officially retired its mercenary license.

He had piloted the same BattleMech that his father and grand-mother, and a long line of Gawains back to their service in the Star League Defense Force, had; a Heavy 'Mech at the limit of its class-tonnage, with a layout of weapons that would make any 'Mech its tonnage or lower think twice about facing it in a prolonged fight.

Between the long-range cannon, and range closing lasers, massive guns mean little when you can't get into the range to use them, and the few that outranged its arm-mounted cannon wouldn't be able to do damage fast enough to matter before it could close the distance and start cutting like it was salvaging space debris.

The Black Knight was a command platform once, its enhanced sensors and targeting systems coupled with its weapons to make a 'Mech that demanded and required your respect on the field. Its energy-only loadout provided it a degree of survivability not seen by many of its tonnage-sharing compatriots, and the thirteen tons of armor gave it almost the maximum degree of protection afforded to its chassis.

Admittedly, its division of armaments made it a jack of all trades, forgoing the doubled up long range punch of a Marauder or a Warhammer for a lack of ammo-explosions and a greater focus on up close Mech-vs-Mech combat.

And of course, that same 'Mech caused your family no end of trouble.

After Kerensky's exodus, the original pilot turned Merc, along with a few other disillusioned MechWarriors. Offers by Inner Sphere noble houses for it were soundly rejected, their attempts to confiscate it to make up 'Contract Deficiencies' responded to with violence-backed threats, damage usually patched up as best it could with dwindling spare parts.

Early on, there was the salvaging of the rare Star League supply post, little more than piles of lasers and internal components, found operating on the border of the Sphere and the Southern Periphery during long term contracts. Some of the lostech inside the 'Mech had been irreparably damaged over time and stripped out for more useful components, taking its heat curve that little closer to neutral. The simple fact of life and combat use has seen lasers replaced when they burned out, or were burned out, the PPC it was said to mount had been stripped off a pirate Warhammer during a contract, after the same 'Mech had slagged the original's capacitor with a lucky shot, only to have the useless barrel of the thing slammed into the cockpit until the lack of neuro-feedback saw the engine shutdown.

But for all that the design has become Lostech with the destruction of its factories at the end of the First Succession War, it has served faithfully despite its issues. Mechs are durable, but not invincible, and even though many 'Mechs will see a dozen owners and operators over the course of their use, they wear like people. A hitch in the hip from a heavy blow and a poorly replaced actuator, a grind in the waist ring that no one could fix, a laser emitter an inch off center no matter how you banged and pushed on it.

The idiosyncrasies that set it apart, the scars of use, the legacies of those that came before. No 'Mech is identical to others of its chassis after a few years, and with inferior copies roaming about, the gap between them is ever growing.

Your family held a position of power in the region you settled, Laoricia on the northern coast, the informal rule of it shared with House Knightway, a virtually unique arrangement considering that the hierarchy of the new nobility had been established based on the tonnage and power of the 'Mech they'd taken as their own. Assault 'Mechs are slow and cumbersome, but overwhelmingly powerful in general, putting them at the very top, with the smaller weight classes that followed taking their place in proper order.

It's a common belief in the Inner Sphere that only the new and the knowing pilot Light 'Mechs, owing to their fragility, made up for only by their sheer speed, and as a MechWarrior became more experienced he would move up in tonnage, class, rank, culminating in ascension to a command lance, usually made up of the heaviest 'Mechs a formation had, and if they survived long enough, and served well enough in a House Military, they might end up with their own command.

Mercenaries have no such clear lines of advancement. Ranks are often a matter of payroll, command taken by the most competent, or the most belligerent depending on the circumstances. Nepotism is as much a part of the trade as it is in the House Armies, and it isn't uncommon for mercenary bands to find themselves being led by successive generations of a family, for good and ill.

This naturally led to the original mercs that had worked together well to settle in the same area or in nearby regions, making their homes across the single continent that Freierhalt sported, otherwise surrounded by island dotted ocean in every direction. Even the poles simply froze over in icy sheets that bobbed in the water, the south barely anchored by a tiny spot of real land that grew many times its size in the chill winters.

House Sanmon had sported easily the heaviest 'Mech in the company, in the form of a King Crab, one of the few dozen that existed still in the Inner Sphere, and settled with a pair of vassal Houses in the Region of Kedia, one of the largest and most wealthy on the continent.

House Summermere and its Awesome went north, and took the region of Corum as its holding, two more houses joining it in the dense forests there.

House Armmore headed south, Its Highlander giving it a powerful tool to keep its vassals in line inside of mountainous Meleutia.

House Andercher sported the lowest tonnage of a ruling machine, its Catapult only just outmassing the medium 'Mechs that made up its vassal lords' rides, in boggy Alylia.

House Gladwell and its well named Victor settled to the Northeast in Mulstadia, where its titanic class-20 autocannon could spell doom in a single volley in the tight ravines and mesa paths. They and their vassal houses are your nearest neighbors, just east of your home.

House Ruxhall rounded out the southern stretch, along with House Godsfield in Mapon and Doponaria respectively. They had clashed many times with their Grasshopper and Archer, never to a decisive conclusion, leading to the smaller regions remaining separate.

And You and your family were settled in the rolling hills and forests of Laoricia, a larger region controlled by the power of the machines of both House Gawain and House Knightway. When the original pilot had joined the company, no one knew where or how he'd gotten his hands on a Hammerhands 'Mech, and he'd never said, keeping the origins of the 75-ton predecessor of the Warhammer a mystery unto his death, his son taking over the 'Mech and becoming the first Lord Knightway when they arrived on Freierhalt.

Despite the conflicts between them, and the distrust it fostered, when the next raid came, the MechWarriors honored their oaths.

The wording was never exact, and some were taken at the deathbeds of their fathers and mothers, taken before the machine that they were destined to pilot, or in a ceremony in their place of worship. Regardless, all were sworn to protect the people of Freierhalt from all who would predate upon them, and to come together as a mighty force to repel the invaders. The selflessness of the old guard fading in time for the enlightened self-interest of the noble class to protect their main source of wealth. Even if it came with a yoke of loyalty, it was a welcome change for the nearly defenseless people of Freierhalt.

Raids were an almost yearly occurrence despite the presence of the planet's new BattleMech-riding overlords, and came as a conflict with no few prizes to be won.

The first new house to be uplifted in the decades since they settled was a knight of House Gladwell, who using his pair of tanks managed to lure a pirate Warhammer into a waiting mine field, crippling its legs and dousing the thing in crude Inferno gel, taking potshots at the overheated 'Mech until the pirate surrendered. The knight took the 'Mech, and using spare parts purchased from other houses, restored it to working condition.

Your family had maintained the BattleMech that had been your Great-Grandfather's dutifully, with lessons of repair and maintenance passed down from father to son and master to apprentice. Its paintjob was updated to sport your family's heraldry on a jouster's shield, but little else had changed in the decades that passed, a blue shield on a skin of red. When the call to war came, your grandfather answered, leaving behind his only son to rule in his absence.

It was far from the first time he had gone to face a raid, and it shouldn't have been the last.

~~~

March 3008, Southern Forests of Laoricia.

Arthur gave a grunt as the Black Knight forced its way past another tree, sending wooden shrapnel and a broken branch harmlessly to the forest floor. He had neglected these paths in the last year, hoping optimistically that the last raid would be the last.

It was a foolish hope.

His eyes flicked up, his neurohelmet clamped tight around his head, as the familiar voice of the Black Knight's onboard computer pinged an alert on his Neurohelmet's HUD.

"Warning, Fusion engine signatures detected. Heading, -6 degrees off current course. Nearest Engine Signature, 300 Yards ahead."

Possibilities went through the mind of the lord, before he switched his sensors from passive to full burst, and watched as a wave seemed to ripple from his machine, and when the information return ran its course through the system, he had a new set of three glowing cores hovering in the air just out of sight.

"Landed Scattered, or purposely wide to avoid our counter attack? Doesn't matter." He muttered to himself, adjusting the switches on his console to cycle full power to his weapons, the temperature in his cockpit spiking momentarily as the lines charged.

"You're all going to hell anyway."

~~~

Arthur engaged at least three BattleMechs that day, a forward Locust, which was crippled quickly, then two more Medium-weight BattleMechs.

He would destroy them all.

~~~

Seeing the Gladiator approach and level its large laser at Arthur, he watched as his heat gauges fell all too slowly for him to easily avoid it, his 'Mech's legs sluggish after unleashing so much firepower against the soft armor of the Griffin. It won't be critical damage by any means, but anything Arthur takes here is something that he'll have to deal with until he can return home after driving off the main band.

The image freezes in his mind's eye for a moment, as his gaze falls to the fish bowl like ferro-glass of the 'Mech before him.

The Griffin.

With both arms, and his paint job the only thing damaged in this scuffle, Arthur hoisted the oversized poptart of a 'Mech into the air, just a few feet, and put it directly into the sights of the enemy just as they pull the trigger.

Blue energy beams across the clearing, and he watched as the armor slagged under its fire, before you catch a small glow from inside. With a push he threw the 'Mech forward, and watched as the right torso exploded, sending the arm spiraling to the ground- the rest of the 'Mech a ruined mess- and the ejection seat of the pilot flying at a bad angle towards the woods.

He doesn't need to be psychic to know that's going to hurt.

But that does leave him alone with the Gladiator, and not a scratch on his armor.

Arthur raised his PPC like a knight leveling a sword, and the fight is on.

~~~

As Arthur watches his lasers dance across the hull of the Gladiator, his PPC bolt slams home straight into the head assembly, right between the oversized pauldrons, and he can almost imagine the whiplash that bouncing in your restraining straps, if the pirate had any, would have given the poor bastard.

He waits a few seconds, dumping heat and walking in a fast circle to keep his enemy guessing, only for the Gladiator to unceremoniously slump over. Arthur wondered if he hadn't managed a nigh perfect kill, considering the lack of damage done to most of the enemy 'Mech, but that seemed unlikely.

Still, this 'Mech was his and his alone to claim when he got back to the castle, and with a second 'Mech in his roster, he knew a few knights that he'd trust to have his back through anything. It would be a fitting reward for their loyal service.

Suddenly, his sensors screamed at him of an incoming attack, something that saw him just barely twist out of the way as a crackling bolt of lightning tore across the side of his Black Knight's head, slagging the communications array and radio antennae. He couldn't call for help, but despite the bruises forming under his straps, he was in a virtually fresh Black Knight, even as the visor smoldered on one side.

He turned to face his new opponent, which only leveled it's paired PPC's at him in challenge, and-

~~~

That was the last anyone ever saw your grandfather, as he would be ambushed on the way to the rally point by a lance of pirate metal, the only sign of the battle the three totally-wrecked machines found in a burned-out section of forest, only some fifty miles from your family keep, and no sign of the old man, or the proud 'Mech when neither arrived at the rally point to see off the enemy.

Searches were conducted, but aside from some unidentifiable 'Mech components, nothing was ever clearly found to indicate his death, or the fate of your family machine. The Mechs themselves had clearly put up a fight, two dead from ammo explosions that reduced the salvage from at worst half a 'Mech to a limb thrown clear, while the third had been, for lack of a better term, melted, like someone, likely your grandfather, had emptied his PPC into it for several minutes.

At least, that's how you'd like to think it went down.

Your family was not the first to lose their 'Mech to the attrition of the raids, but it did serious damage to the prestige of your House, and despite the salvage left behind in the wake of the pirate attack, there wasn't enough to even attempt to bring one back to service as a family machine.

Attempts would be made in the future, but none ever held the interest of your father for long, and he would not abide a substandard replacement for a machine that had once served in the armies of the long lost Star League, a machine that had seen your family through centuries of warfare as soldier and mercenary among the black of space, and so your position in the hierarchy of nobles fell, even if you were still welcomed as an original house.

The loss of your Grandfather's 'Mech saw the martial tradition of your House fall aside, as your father found success instead in business and mercantile affairs, his first acts as Lord seeing him auction off the remnants of the pirate 'Mechs to the lords around you that had similar-sized machines, where the parts could be best used to repair and refurbish their own in the future, earning him a not small amount of funds.

It would be with these funds that he would start to trade across the planet, acting as an intermediary for many delicate deals, his given word and a large contingency enough to see some especially lucrative contracts to completion for a small share of the profit, and his personal dealings rapidly fill the family coffers. A find of profitable minerals, what he'd never quite explained, also did its part, and kept you from becoming irrelevant in the day to day dealings of the world.

So it was that even on the technology starved and money-poor world of Feierhalt that your family came to own a majority stake in a Jumpship, an outrageously expensive proposition, if not for the many issues with it, chief among them the single working collar left on the Tramp-class Jumpship, as well as the downgraded weapons, and generally poor repair that the last crew had left it in.

In all honesty, your father had been amazed that it had been still jump-worthy by the time it came into his possession, but it quickly became a source of great wealth for your family, becoming the sole connection back to the Inner Sphere, ferrying rare goods and only-slightly-used parts to repair the machines and salvage of the houses willing to pay through your family's import company for spaces at the top of the requisition list, leading to a yearly surge in available funds, before much was reinvested and it headed back with a new list of requested items and surging commodities.

This was the lifestyle you were born into. Your playmates were the children of loyal vassals and important business partners. Tutoring was the basis for your education in most matters, your father too busy with his many investments to see to your everyday studying or hobbies, and your mother was trying her best to manage the politics of the hold and surrounding region, all the while they both tried to strengthen your house in both the short and long term.

 

[Lord Of Flames]

You were born in the winter of 3009, a year notable for little more than the Wedding of future Lyran Archon Katrina Steiner to her husband, Arthur Luvon, inside the inner sphere.

On the world of Freirehalt, it was a year to be celebrated, a year of births and happy days as more than half the noble families welcomed heirs and spares into the world. Grandchildren graced the world, securing lines of succession that were strong, but could be strengthened, solidifying alliances that would otherwise have lasted only as long as the marriages.

The bells tolled in joy week after week, only a little less often than the clang of the sabbath, and the people enjoyed their overlord's happiness and the generosity that came with those times of peace.

George Gawain, a Man gifted in making Money.

Spoiler: George Gawain Portrait

Your father, Lord George Gawain, had married the sister of a loyal knight, the new Lady Valeria, only a few years previous, and your birth was a bright spot in a downturn in the fortune of the family, happening only a few months after the loss of your grandfather.

With your successful birth and good health, your father felt comfortable enough to leave the holding under the control of his wife, and headed off to establish a position of strength before the other nobles capitalized on the evident weakness of your house, forming alliances with promises of trade and protection.

The mounted knights sworn directly to your house were nothing to scoff at, numbering between six and seven at any one time, bringing with them powerful vehicles that were akin to the mail and horse of ancient cavalry in the eyes of Freirehalt. By no means mercenary work, they were still a welcome factor to bring into the deadly games of chicken played by the lesser nobility, when all it would take was an imagined error and suddenly all-out battle would break out.

You grew fast and became a devil for some of the help around the keep, startling some and making a nuisance of yourself in the course of play for others. You felt your mother's wrath more often than not, and the firm resolve of your father only once.

"I know you're in there." He had said, after you led a particularly daring raid of the pantry, through the heavy wood of your bedroom door. The other children had realized the error of their ways and hidden as best they could in your comfortable room, hoping to evade your father's ire.

"So by the time I count to three, I expect this door to be open. Do you understand,-"

>-Elric?"

His tone left no room for negotiation, and in hindsight was the exact tone of voice when he was as much dictating something as asking a question.

You swallowed your last bite of the pastry with difficulty, your throat suddenly dry, before you squared your shoulders like your father always told you to, and opened the door, stepping through it before he had the chance.

You're not quite sure what went through your brain when you did that, but you can only imagine it wasn't something as sophisticated as 'Punishment shared is Punishment multiplied', and more like the earnest wish of a child to spare his friends trouble.

Despite your good posture, you couldn't find it in yourself to look your father in the eye, and the man's voice betrayed nothing. "I see you're willing to listen. Now, the Head Cook told me that a group of gremlins stole into his stores and made off with a great many sweets. Is that true, Elric?"

There was no point in lying about that; "Yes, Father." You mumbled, face downcast.

"And if I went in that room, I wouldn't find the other gremlins, would I, Elric?"

You worked over his words in your brain, hoping to find a way out for them, before you settle on a truth. "I'd rather you didn't, Father."

The man claps a hand on your shoulder, a firm weight to keep you in place as he lifts your chin with his other hand. His eyes are stern, but he's not blazingly angry, but the frown on his face is at odds with the raised brow. "And why is that?"

Call it loyalty, or naivete, you answered as only the leader of a pantry raid could. "Because I- I made them do it, so I should be the only one punished."

Your father just looked down at you, disappointed, but satisfied.

"Very well. You know you are banned from the Kitchens, but that was already in place." He thinks for a moment, before he pulls you away from the door, walking the two of you forward down the hall. He spares a glance at your door, still closed, and speaks in a slightly raised voice. "I think a day in the yard with Sir Christoph will do you some good, maybe he'll beat some discipline into you, lighter than he would any other pantry thieves he came across because you confessed, Elric."

You wince as you head down the hall with your father, but you think it worth it anyway. The others would feel bad about your fate, but better you than them.

The day would end with a few bruises, tired arms and aching muscles, but you paid the price, and come the next luncheon there was still a small plate of honey-cookies waiting at the table.

~~~

The duties of a lord often seem simple and straightforward.

Protect your people, advance your family, honor your oaths, and rule justly as sole judge over the matters of your court.

The requirements of an Heir are a little less simple.

For an Adult, it is representing their family in all matters, and a reminder of their lord's reach in distant matters or when they are away from court. For a young child, it is mainly a matter of education.

As you grew a little older, your time became more scheduled, and learning became your primary duty to the house.

In your case, tutors taught you maths and history, showcasing parallels as patterns emerged in the coincidence of time. They taught you about how science makes itself clear with examples of evolutionary trees, how different chemicals can make a pain-addling drug or a gas toxic enough to need industrial respirators. Your good judgement was questioned with probes of philosophy and rhetoric. Your days were exhausting between these lessons, with only a short time to stretch your legs and play in the sun each afternoon.

You were never a poor student, but occasionally a disinterested one.

Your education was fit for a princeling of a ducal house in the Inner Sphere proper, but you found a niche that you thrived in. What was it?

> (Martial) -Despite your father's skill at making money, you found yourself training with your family's small group of household guards, and the knights that you had attracted to your banner. Not MechWarriors themselves, these knights instead are often the commanders of armored vehicles, and for the very rich, aerospace pilots.



As a young man your mind was full of tales of War and Glory, the climactic duels of family ancestors, retold and exaggerated for the glee of a dozen generations of sons and daughters. You never knew your grandfather, and your father said little of the man aside that he was a just lord and a skilled MechWarrior. The few pieces that you'd managed to gather in your early years painted you a picture of a beloved lord, a man of strength and bearing, but one that did not consider himself so high above his people that he wouldn't lend a helping hand.

There was a particular story, based in fond exasperation, that some of the older servants told you, and you listened intently as they talked about how during a blazing-hot summer, the crop was being hauled in at a snail's pace because the animals and the laborers were too exhausted and drained by the heat to work, only being able to do their jobs before the sun rose and after it set. Your grandfather heard about this, and rather than issue reprimands, perhaps demand they worked harder despite the heat and the dangers it provoked, ordered his resident Mechtech to ready the Black Knight.

When they first arrived at the farms, it scared the workers and the landholders, until their lord asked them how he could help, having come with a machine that did not tire, and a will to see the work done.

For two weeks, the man toiled within his family-machine, using chains to pull half a dozen harvesting plows at once behind him, finishing one plot before moving on to the next.

It was a struggle, they told you, because even the coolant circulating through his vest was only keeping him from passing out from the heat, and every night he would climb down from that 'Mech, as exhausted and sweaty as any farmhand, and have dinner with the stead-holders, sharing drink and tales, and sleeping it off until morning, where he'd climb back inside his BattleMech, and keep going.

When he'd finished, he returned home, the sabatons of his 'Mech covered in dirt and grain, and a mountain of paperwork for him to chore through, but Grandfather bore it with all the grace of a man who longed for a proper scrap but knew his obligations.

He was a proud man, who loved his people, and had gone to battle for them a half dozen times against his neighbors. That he'd won them was a forgone conclusion in your mind, but against his equals the Black Knight had come back covered in fresh scars, like a lighter taken to a wax figure in places, but walking, which was usually more than his opponents could say.

It filled you with wonder, and come the next year, you would become an older brother, as your sister, Natasha, was born into the world full of life and screaming.

~~~

Your father had slowly been bringing materials back to Freirehalt from the Inner Sphere thanks to the jumpship, trying to better the quality of life for the people in his holding, and selling the excess to his neighbors for a small profit. It was one of his few purely philanthropic endeavors, but he reaped the benefits of it today as the guard escorted you to a newer building in the castle complex.

When you entered the clinic, the first thing to catch your attention was the cloying smell of antiseptics, the sort of smell that sticks in your nose so overpowering that you can smell little else. The second was the haggard gaze of your father, leaning forward in his seat, and the small smile he gave you as you hurried over. The guard that had found and guided you here took his place beside the door, and you could hardly contain your excitement.

"Are they here yet?" You asked, bouncing in your nice boots with the golden clasps, the usual cape your tutor insisted you learn to wear absently discarded in your room right before the guard found you.

"Not quite, but soon enough, Elric. Your mother's doctor has exiled me, saying I was only making her as nervous as I am." He chuckles at his own retelling, giving you a ruffle atop your head and lifts you into the seat beside him. You didn't always understand why your father spent money how he did, or why he would have certain shipments brought straight to the keep, but this clinic was as much your mother's idea as your father's creation.

You spent hours in that waiting room, fidgeting as you sat, toying with the clasps of your collar and the buttons of your shirt, while your father absently twirled an unlit cigar around his fingers. He'd gotten a dirty look from one of the nurses when he'd pulled it out, before he'd mournfully handed you his lighter, and you'd instantly started playing with it, making a racket as you worked the top up and down, over and over.

As annoying as the sound was, you imagine it gave your father something to focus on as life took its course without your input, and soon you heard a muffled cry from a distant room, and a worn-out nurse peaked their head out, waving a hand for you and your father to approach.

The man rapidly reclaimed his lighter from your hands, tucking it back into his pocket before he took you by the hand and lead you through the door, into a room that is the definition of pale, and to the small smattering of color on your mother's chest, a pink blanket wrapped around something that she's holding close. Your mother has the beginnings of bags under her eyes, and when she gives the two of you an exhausted smile, she sounds out of breath.

"Look, George, we have a little girl." Your father leans over the edge of the bed, pressing his forehead to hers as he looks down at the little bundle.

Spoiler: Valeria Gawain Portrait

"And what a fine job you've done, Val. She looks just like you." Your father gave his wife a gentle kiss, before he stood back up, and lifted you up and over the railing of the bed. "Now be very careful, El. She's still so new to the world, so you're going to have to be gentle." He sets you beside your mother, your head leaning on her shoulder and letting you look right at the gently sleeping face of your brand-new sister.

"You're going to have to protect her," he says, a giant hand gently brushing against the blanket covering her little head. "And to do that she's going to need a name for you to shout."

Your mother looks at him with a raised brow, before she presses a kiss to the baby's nose, breathing deep as she pulls away. "Natasha. Little Natasha of House Gawain."

Perhaps you were too young to realize the true depth of what crossed your mind, but almost instantly the idea of Knights sprang to mind, protecting the pretty princess in her castle against all the evils of the world.

You watched her for a while, before you started to think she had the right idea, and closed your eyes, the thought of shining armor and gallant heroes in your dreams, cuddling your mother and new sister as your father stood close.

---

For the next several months, the thought that you needed to protect your sister hung in your head, and the stories of your grandfather made it clear that to protect your people, you needed to be strong. So, despite how much it grated at your sense of self preservation, you sought out the strongest person you knew.

Spoiler: Sir Christoph, Master-at-Arms and Marshal

It was with that imagine in your head that you first approached Sir Christoph, one of a dozen knights in the employ of your family and Master-at-Arms for your father. You had only been eight years old, and it took several attempts before the man humored you. You knew the knight was a skilled fighter with almost every weapon, but he just handed you an oversized training sword and telling you to swing. He didn't say how, and he didn't say for how long, just to 'Do it.'

So, you did.

Initially, you brought it down hard from above and only succeeded in jarring your grip and sending a shock up your shoulders. Intuitively, you realized that swinging a heavy sword down hard at a target taller than you were was only going to result in something bad, so you switched to side slashes, haphazardly striking with poorly thought-out movements and terrible footwork. Your hands didn't hurt as much as you did this, and so you continued.

He watched as you strained your small arms, lost your breath, and sweated up a storm just swinging it against the dummy he'd planted you in front of, watching it all with the slight frown of a man judging something and finding it wanting.

Eventually, he demonstrated a handul of swings, and you adapted quickly. You would never be quite sure how long you repeated the simple set of swings he'd shown you, but eventually you dropped the sword from chaffing fingers, and looked at the man.

Though his frown didn't disappear, the look in his eyes was a little more thoughtful as he nodded his head.

"We'll work on that." Was all he said before he sent you on your way with a winded recruit to make sure you got back to your room. That was the first time you'd 'train' properly under his supervision, rather than as a punishment, and come the next week, as fixed a part of your schedule as your tutors.

Christoph came across as a hard man, unrelenting in his demands for perfection, and easy to dislike with his ever-present frown, but over the years that followed, you'd see the way he double checks the men during the drills, yelling at them mercilessly over careless mistakes.

You'd sit there beside him and help him when he took the time to check over the House armory for defective or damaged weapons. He is a man that comes across as sadistic, ordering men to swing until their arms shake, and then some, but he stands with them, swinging just as hard. He issues laps of running for every score in marksmanship training that falls below the average but is quick to provide corrections to the recruits that risk falling below that mark. He trains the men in the heat and chill, standing there as indomitable a presence despite being in the same heavy gear in the heat, and the uninsulated uniform in the chill.

He cares, because these are the men that must go out and fight with nothing more than their bodies and their equipment. They can only rely on the training that has been drilled into them and the men beside them. Christoph himself is a knight not just for his martial skill, but also the modified Pike-Tank he commands, the weapon taken as his sigil on the shield he hangs in his office.

You found that once the pattern was built up, the training came easily, even if you didn't do as much of the physically intensive work as the older recruits and soldiers did, instead helping the good knight to prepare for them.

For all your success in the yard, You couldn't be good at everything, and naturally an area of your education suffered even as others thrived. What was it?

>-(Diplomacy) You found it difficult to open up to new people. Those in your household, or that you had come to know well were easy enough, but at the few parties and get-togethers that you had attended with your family, you felt isolated, and despite the attempts of a few other scions of distant houses, you were typically left alone.

As you grew older yet, it became expected that you would start to attend a few parties, get-togethers, and deal with the feelers now moving between families as to betrothals and the like.

To say you had no desire to is an understatement. To say your mother would hear nothing of your protests just as so.

You were ordered to behave, packed away with as nice a suit as could be tailored quickly and with little notice, and sent off with a guard of trusted guards and Sir Christoph for a small party in Mapon, held by the honorable House Ruxhall.

The journey itself was unremarkable, but fascinating all the same for a young boy on his first journey out of the keep and surrounding lands, once the miasma of being forced into it had drained away, your family lands stretching far further than you had ever imagined.

Forests made from old oaks gave way to grasslands, and eventually large clumps of maple and birch trees, their leaves turning a brilliant orange as the fall season arrived.

Even the lands of Mapon were amazing to see, as you crossed the border into their lands and entered into a far more vibrant forest than any you'd seen before, where the trees were a brilliant array of yellows, reds and lighter greens, the colder temperatures seeming to stay away for a few weeks more the further south you went.

When you arrived at House Ruxhall's keep it was to little fanfare, your invitation accepted with formality by one of the family's yeomen, and you were shown to a small parlor where you could freshen up.

The keep itself was well furnished and warmly lit by small slits in the stony walls, the tapestries and the paintings on the wall done in bright colors to break up the monotony of grey stone and dark wood.

With a few days' ride behind you, and clean clothes, you were sent into a dining room, where you found many other noble guests, many of them wearing the colors of their families, much to the annoyance of those with similar heraldries. Young Ladies dominated the room, a sign of just skewed the births of '09 had been, and you found many an older face in the crowd, even if that just meant they were more than twice your age.

You recognized people from the lands of Houses Summermere and Andercher, a few from House Gladwell and his vassals, but a conspicuous lack from the Godsfield lands.

Whatever musings you had were interrupted by the host rising from his seat at the high table, a glass and spoon in his hands.

"I thank my honored guests for arriving for this dinner of friends and family, and I would ask you take your seats so that we may dine before the enjoyment of the night begins." His voice is steady, even if the old man has styled his hair to hide the burn marks that crawl up from under his right eye.

You quickly find your seat, clearly marked with your family crest on the cloth in front of it, and find yourself beside a man you've never met before, a girl old enough to be a much younger sister or his daughter beside him.

Trying to remember your courtesies, you offered your hand to man, introducing yourself.

"I am Elric of House Gawain."

"Olin of House Ginenet." He returned, his voice flat. His eyes were uninterested in you, instead scanning the ladies at the table. He seemed a severe man, and his companion had to sneakily kick his leg under the table to remind him of his own courtesies. "This is my Lord's daughter, Serina Gladwell. It is… pleasant, to make your acquaintance, Master Elric."

You give the lady a small bow of respect, one she returns with a smile.

The dinner itself is pleasant and flavorful, featuring several courses of soups, well roasted meats, pleasant breads, and sweet puddings and pies. The conversation around it is stilted, as Olin wants nothing to do with you, giving curt and single word answers, and you find yourself a touch shy to try speaking with the Lady Serina around him, lest he take offense.

When the dinner concludes, the tables are cleared off and pulled aside to create a square for dancing, as musicians switch the songs for ones better suited for the act.

You had thought Master Olin as Lady Serina's escort for the evening, but the man seems to vanish almost as soon as the tables do, and you find yourself at last able to talk with her. Just what do you say to a young woman that is more than a little attractive? Your mind swings to something you heard a few guardsmen talking about and try to apply it here.

>May I have this dance?

You honestly can't think of anything clever or suave to say, so instead you offer the lady your hand, an awkward smile on your face. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

"You may, Master Elric." She returns your smile with far greater ease, older than you by… You don't know how many years, but surely less than ten.

The two of you take to the floor, and to your surprise, you are able to dance with the lady without stepping on her feet or messing up the movements too much. It is honestly a great deal of fun for a while, and you and her dance to a number of songs, just enjoying the moment.

And then Olin returns, and not in a good mood.

"Lady Serina, I believe that is enough of leading the boy on." His voice is chiding, as if he was speaking to a child rather than the grown and pretty woman in front of you.

"You may have my father's trust, Master Ginenet, but I have the final word. Beside, the boy is having his moment of fun, and I'm not eager to see it end." You watch this exchange confused, mostly because you could never imagine another lord speaking to your sister in such a way, not without consequences, but that would be inside your own home. Here, it would be only natural for Master Olin to safeguard his lady's reputation, but you've not crossed any lines.

You hope.

"If you are to be my wife, then you will obey me. Let the little boy go and find another pretty thing." His tone is bordering on anger, and you don't know what to do about it.

"When your father warned you could be jealous, I didn't think it meant you'd be so insecure to think that this young boy would sweep me off my feet and see the agreement broken with a flick of his wrist and a twirl on the floor."

Oh.

You may lack in diplomatic senses, but you can tell a scene is about to take place, and you are stuck right in the middle of it.

>You need an adult. Christoph by preference before this gets too heated. Attempt a graceful exit without causing offence.

>Olin rolls a natural 20, critically failing his Etiquette check, and causing a major scene.

Well, this wasn't covered in your classes on etiquette. You try to speak up, and raise your hands palms out to try and placate the rapidly reddening man.

"I can clearly see that I have caused some offense, Master Olin, and I apologize. I was merely trying to entertain Lady Serina, and with your return, and mood, I will be on my way. Good day to you both."

You try to speak as formally, and inoffensively as you can, but despite your best efforts, the man's temper gets the better of him, and he grabs you by the shoulder before you can pass him, his voice rising.

"Oh, you wait there boy, I will have words with you in a moment. Wouldn't want you to disappear like your grandfather." Vitriol covers every syllable, and you can only imagine that the Heir has gotten to deep into his cups for such boorish behavior. "Now you listen here, Serina, your father gave you to me to protect on this trip, and I refuse to let you make a mockery of me without paying for it. We are leaving, so call your maids and get ready."

"No." Is the simple reply of the lady, quieter in comparison but not by much, as she stares down the man as he grows redder still. "I believe that I can prevail on our host to give me an escort home, or send a message to my father about your behavior."

"If I have to ask you again, I am going to drag you out of here." He all but growls through grit teeth.

"And I said no, Master Olin of House Ginenet, and as the Daughter of the Lord Gladwell, I order you to leave me be. Beg our host for his forgiveness and depart for home, before you do something you'll regret."

Without a doubt, you think Olin was halfway between digging himself deeper with his words or doing something far worse judging by the twitch you see in his hand.

Thankfully, Sir Christoph is not so distant as to be useless in this situation. He strides up towards the three of you from the growing circle of curious onlookers. He bows as he reaches you, putting on a show for the crowd.

"Master Gawain, a messenger from your father is outside and requires your immediate attention. I trust that the good Sir and Lady will permit this, it is after all House business." He gives them a glib smile, even as his eyes linger on Olin, a hand near his belt.

It took a moment for the knight and the heir to break off from their staring contest, the man waving a hand in dismissal. "Take the boy." He finally says, releasing his hold on your shoulder.

"Thank you, Master Ginenet." Christoph says as he places his own hand on your back, and guides you away from the scene, just as one of the Yeoman approaches, saying something about Lord Ruxhall and the young Lady.

It's only as you step into the open air that you let out the breath you were holding, almost doubling over. That was, something, and you appreciate Christoph's presence as he pats your back. A glance at his waist, and you spy the small dagger he keeps hidden there, usually for peeling apples, but sharp enough. If you think about it, a knight of House Gawain harming the Heir to House Ginenet is only a little better than The Heir of one harming the Other.

Bloody hell.

You think you should avoid parties for the near future, if your very first prompted that sort of show.

---

The return was much faster than the trip to Mapon, with Christopher sending one of the guardsman along first to ready replacement horses on the way there before you left, and you return home just in time for the leaves to fall.

Your Mother is far from pleased with your performance but is willing to admit it is not your fault entirely. After all, it had not been announced that Master Olin was betrothed to Lady Selina, in so far as your mother knew, and your father was equally as clueless, though he mostly lamented that House Ginenet was unlikely to do business with you for the next little while, despite sharing a border.

"Gregor won't hold us personally accountable for that cluster-" He cut himself off, before giving you a pat on the head. "But he has to be seen as annoyed with us. It will pass, just takes time." He had said.

Still, with your attendance and invitation to future events in question for the next while, you returned to your regularly scheduled tutoring and training, spending some time when you got back with your sister as she starts to walk around, getting into some of the same trouble you did when you were her age.

You had found your niche early it seems, still succeeding in your lessons, but where you thrived was under the vigilant gaze of Sir Christoph.

When you began you were little better than a page, an assistant who was mostly running about to deliver papers to your father, clean the training grounds, or help to move training gear around before an exercise. Not exactly exhausting work, but it gave you a goal to strive for as you watched the older man easily hoist twice what you were carrying and move it into position or finish his section of the field far faster than you did your own.

You became familiar, and eventually friends, with the man's eldest son, Alistair, as the two of you spent many hours in the yard, drilling under his father's gaze.

Spoiler: Alistair, one of your best friends down the road.

Where his father comes across as stone-hearted, Alistair is merely intense, clearly hoping to match his father's expectation of men twice his age.

He works hard, fights hard, and pays the price for his exuberance in time spent with a sling or an ice pack pressed to his bruises. You've never seen Sir Christoph raise a hand to his son that wasn't part of training, but you had seen him stop the boy from hurting himself by trying to keep going when he should stop.

Still, growing boys need to be worked or they get bored, and Christoph is nothing if not a good task master. Strength was built by moving sandbags and targets for the range-day, endurance was built by running the course with the other lads, toughness by getting in the ring with the youngest recruits, padded sticks and armor to turn stunning blows into bruising ones.

When you turned Fourteen, Alistair a year older at Fifteen, Christoph gifted you both an airgun and a box of ammunition to use with it, and a warning to start practicing. He gave you three blessed days to work on it, and when next you entered his field, you were made to join the recruits at the line during accuracy drills.

The drill is simple, fire at the distant target, with one of his assistants marking your score as you fired. Points would be given for accuracy and speed, deducted for inaccuracy and poor pacing. The Knight would change things up on occasion, leading to the unit heading outside to practice in less controlled conditions, but that was typically to really test the men with ranges set at the extremes, to the point where you or Alistair would need binoculars to score their shots.

Interspaced with your other duties, those were days full of running, sore legs, and blurry eyes, but with time you climbed the board, and started to place in the upper quarter. Sir Christoph started to challenge you during those tests, ordering you to stop and reload at random intervals, a test to see if you could keep your cool under pressure, before saying to drop to one knee, to stand up, to place your weapon on the table and spin three times before resuming the drill.

With repetition comes excellence, and you quickly became a crack shot, and when he had you move onto a real rifle, it became all the more impressive.

Some days, you were sure you had rendered Christopher speechless, only for the knight to find something about your performance to critique. It was to be expected, but still.

Honestly, the range drills could be good fun despite the punishment for failing to live up to his standards, something that was becoming rarer and rarer, and he let you take the paper target set at the end of the range as a trophy for your efforts, much to your glee and the exasperation of your parents as they covered your walls.

That was not to say you did not train for the melee like the rest, just that you didn't focus on it as hard as you could have. Alistair became your usual partner for the circle, owing to your similar sizes, though Christoph was quick to kill your egos by throwing you against veterans that had been putting up with him for years.

It was an effective reminder that you were learning, and far from the best.

It was shortly after that when Christoph started treating you like an unofficial squire, a young man learning the tricks and means of war from an experienced soldier like the good knight.

It was a far from unheard-of arrangement on Freierhalt, but it was rare for the heir of a major house to squire at all, considering that for most, it would be in a BattleMech they'd make war from inside of—most knights not having their own to use as an example—leading many to believe it was a waste of time. You can't say you planned for the knight to teach you about his tank or the tactics that would best suit it in the field, but you welcomed the instruction all the same.

But your day could not be training all the time, and your father insisted you learn a trade, along with your other studies, to familiarize you with what your people go through.

The last true MechTech of the holding was a man named Charles Burrel, and he had been honing his craft when your grandfather disappeared, having been one of the main MechTech's that worked on the machine.

Most of the others had left over the years after the Black Knight was lost, but not Charles.

Spoiler: Master Charles Burrel, Expert MechTech

It was a prestigious thing to give up, being a MechTech, a position that had more openings than hands to fill them these days, and dangerous too, but Charles survived being the new guy and learned at the side of many an experienced tech, until he was himself called a master. Charles found other work, other things that needed fixing, and put his mind to it to keep his hands busy, whether it was the rare automobile, or the slightly more common bike, He could fix it, though he preferred the complicated over the simple.

He worked in the town just down the road from the castle, and it was there that you found your trade. When he had learned who you were, and what you wanted to learn, he was surprised, but he agreed to teach you.

Charles had little time for people that didn't respect their machines, and you were quick to learn that, what with how he yelled at a customer that kept chewing up components in their engine by not taking care of the thing.

"I get that you want to fix this up yourself, but I hate having to repeat myself, Tom. It may weigh two-hundred kilos and be made of milled aluminum, but all it takes is a little bit of water, you turn this thing over and you'll bend the pistons, break them if you're unlucky, and you'll be back in here complaining to me that it doesn't work." He was looking under the hood of a truck of some kind and walking the owner through why driving through high waters was a piss poor idea at the best of times.

"Fine, leave it here, and I'll get it cleaned out and buttoned up, so you don't encounter this again, but I swear to god, Tommy…"

There was something calming about working with metal and oil, the work of a Tech of any kind apparently half mechanic, half blacksmith, and a quarter scrounger. Parts were rare on the planet, and so whatever a Tech couldn't find and purchase, he had to make himself, or acquire somehow.

It made for a good skill to learn, in your eyes, and it seemed prudent for a Lord to learn how to fix his equipment, like a squire learning how to clean armor, hammer out dents, and take care of weapons.

Which led you to meeting Charle's son, Fred.

Spoiler: Fred Burrel, Apprentice MechTech and Mechanic.

The two of you should have got along like oil and water, Fred being a down-to-earth young man while you were blue-blooded nobility, but the moment one of you started talking shop, that difference disappeared.

It made for an odd friendship, but you were glad to have one more.

---

There was an almost meditative sense that settled over you as you helped strip an engine, diagnose a problem, and engage a solution that was best suited for the individual that had brought the damaged component in.

The contentment that filled you as you rounded the truck and heard the engine turn over all the smoother than how it had arrived. The low rumble as cylinders rode up and down smoothly, the sound of power as you revved it up and the slowing thunder as you let off the gas, giving Master Burrel a thumbs up, one he returned as he fiddled with something on his end of a line.

Automobiles are rare of Freierhalt, but not nearly to the same degree as fusion engines, and you have little doubt that your father's lands are where most of them are located, owing to the fact that he's willing to import them for the better off farmers, especially considering it can help with their harvests or simply expand the market their goods could reach.

It bought him a great deal of good will with his folk, and with so much space available on a Tramp, it made for decent return on the tonnage needed for a few dozen or so every other year.

It was one such vehicle that was now halfway in one of your family's storehouses, not far from the keep at all.

It was hooked up to one of the few bits of inventory left over from your grandfather's day, an old 6cm laser, Medium-class by most of the Inner Sphere's reckoning.

It had taken your word, Master Burrel's past good service, and a promise from the engineer to take a look at one of the loading crane's when he got the chance, but you got permission to use the building and made your way into the storehouse. An afternoon spent checking the thing over, making sure that none of the capacitors had blown in the past, or that the lenses had rotted in poor storage conditions, had resulted in the presentation the MechTech had arranged for you.

He wanted you to understand just why the Battlemech were considered the be-all-end-all of War on Freierhalt, and considering his expertise was in the unique position to demonstrate.

It had taken all three of you, along with a nice draft-horse the stable was kind enough to loan you, to move a section of armor plating until it was firmly set against the wall of the storehouse, ready for use. Both you and Fred had wailed on it with a sledgehammer until your hands were sore, only doing a superficial amount of damage to the dusty old paintjob that decorated the titanium alloy like lacquer.

When the two of you had tired yourselves out, Charles had ordered you to go borrow a truck from the storehouses parking lot, leaving you to your own discretion as he ran his fingers across the half ton of diamond laced steel, ceramic, and polymer with a sense of reverence you'd not seen him show anything else, save for the memory of your grandfather and his current lord.

With your side done, you just watched as the old MechTech put the finishing touches on his end of the junction, carefully fitting the linkage to the laser's power systems.

"When I was an apprentice, the old hands used to mention that you needed a Power-Amplifier to make this work, owing to the sheer amount of energy you need to make an ICE engine fire any energy weapon at full power." You weren't sure what the old engineer had fitted to the coupling between engine and laser, and from his words it wasn't a power amplifier, but it seemed to be working if his pleased hums and haws were any indication. "I don't have one, so the point is moot. On the other hand, this little baby should hold just enough charge to make the point if we give it a few minutes, even if it won't be perfect."

While the three of you waited, the MechTech walked you through the various systems, lenses and the ports around the laser where a tech like himself would have linked it into the heat-sinking system of the BattleMech. In theory, how the laser would work when properly mounted and linked into a BattleMech would see it maintain an internal capacitor of power drawn from the Fusion Engine, allowing a charge to sit ready for use until the weapon was fired, generating the heat from such an act and firing the beam of charged particles that would cause armor to heat, melt, ultimately ablate the distorted layers to prevent further damage to the underlying plate and fragile structure below.

But it was one thing to listen to a tech give you the technical details about how something like that works, and another to see it happen in real time, or so Master Burrel had said.

"Alright now, everybody got their eyes on?" It was hardly the first time he had reminded the two of you to mind your safety equipment, but with such a jury rigged set up, it was simply prudent, and the welding goggles would protect your eyes from the intense brightness of a laser so close. When the two of you gave the man a thumbs up, he moved his hands to the side of his head, and the muffs covering his ears. "Ears On?" Another affirmative from you two, and He gave a stiff nod in return, hunkering down behind a steel crate as he turned towards your target.

"Alright Boys, watch closely. You're about to watch just over a quarter ton of that slab turn into slag and vapor. In 3. 2. 1. Firing!"

The moment he said the word, Master Burrel hit the button, and you watched as an emerald beam of oscillating energy cut a clean cylinder of laser-based damage through the air, almost instantly impacting the test slab of armor. For a moment, only a few heart beats, nothing happened aside from the impact zone starting to glow almost red hot, and then you were given a firsthand opportunity to see just how the standard armor plating of the Inner Sphere worked in action.

As the laser superheated the material and caused the first layers to deform, snaps, crackles and pops filled the storehouse as a wave of heat rushed from the emitter to turn the room into a sauna. Where the paint burns away almost instantly, purely for show, the material under it is made up of harder stuff, but even the crystalline lattice that makes up the outermost chunks starts to peel and shrink like the plastic-protectives on a new vidscreen under a torch, before it reaches its critical point.

Designed to ablate under force and heat, the carefully engineered connection point between those layers give way as it warps, sending hunks of burned out half-melted material to the floor in an attempt to save the remainder, the lost material taking the hit for a few extra milliseconds until they fall out of the way.

Titanium-laced alloys could be reduced to splattered slag on the concrete, still spitting as they cooled, and revealing a scorched layer of unlacquered material ready for another hit, and it keeps going. You watch as more material sloughs off like snow off a bank, sending more molten metal to the floor in a shower of sparks as the laser burns on into the material.

The firing timer on a medium laser is set to less than two seconds of full power, and sure enough just after that the laser dies out with an audible beeping, the jury-rigged amplifier-capacitor burned out and smoking, while the test plate is less than half its original size. A meter-square section of armor was reduced to only a few square feet of steaming material half the thickness it started the day with.

Master Burrel emerged from behind the crate where he'd hid with a satisfied smile on his face, even with the heat making his sweat slicked hair stick where it fell.

"Damn hot, isn't it? A single Medium laser isn't all that impressive if you consider that your average 50-tonner carries 9 tons of armor spread over its frame, but your grandfather's Black Knight mounted four of the things, meaning just over a ton of armor sloughed off every time he fired, let alone the ton that followed every time he fired those Large lasers right under the 'Mech's ribcage.

Two tons of armor would be gone in only a few seconds, and you don't need to burn through much to do some real damage to a 'Mech. Autocannons will do through force what the lasers do through heat, and a PPC will do both at ranges too far out for most to respond, other than to run for cover."

Just seeing over six hundred pounds of hard-to-manufacture armor disappear under a few seconds of pure heat, and energy, and scientific advancement lost to Freierhalt, it puts into perspective what the BattleMech truly symbolizes for the people here.

At first, it sounded like something out of a cheesy tri-vid movie, where an impassioned soldier goes on a killing spree of bad men and those that have wronged them, only picking up the most superficial of injuries on the way, because of training or technique or dumb chance, but to the people of Freierhalt?

Those titans of metal and mynomer that were clad in this armor might as well have been invulnerable to whatever meager arms they could muster until just under a century ago, and that made it little wonder why the pirate bands had raided the planet with little concern that they'd truly be stopped or harmed.

So far out from the Inner Sphere, down to personal arms and jury-rigged anti-armor against such a force, it would have been easy sport for the damned pirates to take what they wanted from this world.

The thought makes a smirk perk up on your face as you consider what they must of thought when a full company of veteran-piloted BattleMechs suddenly showed up behind their mongrel lines. Not other pirate BattleMechs, made up of scrap and whatever components they could steal to repair their rides over the years, but rather well-maintained mercenary 'Mechs, that had just spent months making jump after jump with nothing to do but fix their metal.

What a sight that must have been.

 

[Molder]

And here we are. Akun is so bad right now lord is being forced to archive his stuff here.

 

[Lone Courier 6]

It's a fantastic ride this quest, I'd warn anybody coming in that the anons are fucking vicious to new people from forums, but read the FAQ and don't go asking for powerups that would break the setting completely over our knee and you should be fine.

 

[Lord Of Flames]

With your secondary education complete, your schedule opened up for a brief window, before working with Master Burrel and Fred in their shop rapidly consumed your time, leaving you with only a brief window of leisure between shifts at the shop and training with the soldiery under Sir Christoph's gaze. It was in one of these scattered moments that you hatched a plan of utmost cunning.

The amount of time you'd spent with your sister had dwindled over the years, mostly as a result of your hobbies and vocation, but you still dropped in her from time to time, sometimes watching her with a smile from the door as she works through her tutor's lessons, other times taking her on a small adventure, earning the ire of your mother for a day in return for hearing your sister's laughter as you race with her through the woods on horseback.

So it is that as summer comes to your family's holding in 3029, you head down familiar hallways, the walls painted in vibrant colors, lamps lighting the least exposed sections in artificial light, your family's affluence shown in a lack of flame-licking guides. The cost to maintain the castle generators a small price to pay compared to having to regularly buy fresh wax, kerosene, and cleaners to knock off the soot that forms in the most unventilated sections from lesser lamps and torches.

The paintings that had captivated you as a child were faded with time, but lovingly upkept, your grandfather's 'Mech at the point of a charge of the houses, with the multi-colored mechs breaking up the green back drop of a forest with their yellows and blues, a titanic mass with a brass top like a turtle marking the King Crab of House Sanmon, while mirrored Red fired beams of blue and brackets of trailing smoke, as an Awesome and Catapult attack at range. In the foreground, shaded over and blurry, mechs are damaged and destroyed by the onslaught of your ancestors.

Just the reminder of what you'd lost, even if it was before you were born, spurred a sprout of envy in your soul. You'd met peers your own age that had already taken their first steps in the use of their family machine, that great and mighty power at their fingertips, but denied to your own. It was an old argument between you and your father, but you could no sooner get him to bend than turn water into wine with a snap of your fingers.

There was something in his eyes when he refused, an old pride that he refused to let die. You wondered if he simply refused to lower himself to buying a new machine, or if he hoped that one day you'd accidently bang into a forgotten wall in the keep, and knock it down to reveal the ancient machine, damaged and bruised, but intact and restored to you and yours.

As the years grow long, it seems a foolish hope, but you are only the heir, and your Lord Father's will may as well be law for how it is obeyed.

Ornate baskets and rugs decorate some sections of the halls, yet more shocks of color and interest among cold greys and painted whites, but you step past them all, until you reach the study room door, the voice of the tutor just beyond.

You open the door quietly, and inside you see your sister sitting at a fine wooden desk, stacks of paper, books, and box of writing utensils in ready reach as she listened to her teacher finish their lecture on, old Terran history if you're not mistaken. You don't think you were quite there by the time that you were fourteen, but you'll admit, you were not so focused a student as your sister was, seeming to absorb the smallest details like sponge.

The Tutor was an older woman, a highly respected educator before a scandal involving some second cousin of hers and a noble that sponsored the institution had caused her school to offer her a generous severance and retirement package, lest they get caught in some feud that had nothing to do with either party. Your father's agents had found her while searching for people willing to come so far out, and in return for proper accommodations and compensation, she left behind the Inner Sphere for a little world further up the Orion Spur.

"-And that is how Admiral Mckenna was able to cow the surviving states of Terra into submission in the wake of the Civil War that had engulfed the planet and created the Terran Hegemony as we knew it until shortly before the first succession war. Any questions?"

Young as she was, Natasha had an analytical mind, and as long as you'd known her, she always had a question at the forefront of her mind. Were she born anywhere else, you imagine she would have become a teacher, a researcher, anything that would keep her in the halls of some University just so she could devour its library over the course of her life.

"If Admiral Mckenna had the means to enforce his will anywhere in the Hegemony, and with his warships the only examples in the Inner Sphere at the time, why didn't he just assume power by right of conquest instead of risking it with an election?"

Mrs. Young nodded her head as she considered the question, giving her answer its due thought before explaining. "The exact answer to that is varied depending on the historian cited, but in general, it was assumed the Mckenna wanted to give the people a chance to voice their thoughts against the old regime, and by giving the common man a sense that he had a voice in the new government, even if small, helped to reduce unrest in the wake of his displays of power.

I would also remind you that right of conquest had not been recognized for hundreds of years by the time that Director General Mckenna assumed power.

Still, though we've not covered it yet, it might help your image of the man to know that he did not die in office, but rather resigned after a disastrous military campaign." A glance at her watch causes another nod, as she consults her charge's schedule in her head. "Now, we've a half hour left before your time with the dancing instructor, so we will go over the events that followed- Oh, Master Elric. How many we help you?"

>Lie.

"I'm afraid there's been a change in my sister's schedule, Mrs. Young. I'm sorry about the short notice, but I just came from a talk with my father, and he asked that I find my sister and send her to see him before I headed to the training grounds." You answer her question.

"Lord Gawain wanted to see her?" The tutor's brow furrows as she looks at you, but you've long mastered the look of earnestness that saw the kitchen staff believe that you hadn't taken that extra cookie, or Sir Christoph that you had not, in fact, thrown dust into the eyes of Alistair to trip him up for once in the sparring circle. That only worked the one time, and your jaw had smarted for a day after Alistair got his revenge. "Very well, Master Elric. If you would be so kind, see her to her next meeting if she and your father should finish before your next task. Natasha, make sure to take 'History of the Hegemony, vol 1' with you and make sure to read up on the first few years of Mckenna's rule before we see each other again. Pleasant day, Master Elric, lady Natasha."

Spoiler: Natasha Gawain, Elric's Sister.

Your sister gave you a glance as she put away her pencils and organized her papers, slipping them into her bag once they were correctly bundled, and gave her teacher a polite curtsey, passing you into the wall, while you gave Mrs. Young a thankful dip of your head, turning to follow.

You were only a dozen steps or so down the hall, just out of eachshot of the classroom when your sister voiced the obvious. "Father doesn't actually want to see me, does he?"

"I'm sure he'd be pleased to see you, not every day that his little girl drops in to his office after all, but not specifically." You reply, nodding to yourself as you led her not towards your father's study in the center of the keep, but towards one of the outer courtyards, where the family stable was kept.

"So, another adventure brother. Will I end up with my arms up to my elbows covered in grease, one of my spring dresses ruined again, or will I listen to you laugh as I miss a target barely a dozen paces away with one of the armory's revolvers?" Her words are scathing, but her tone is polite, and a glance at her face shows the teasing lilt of her mouth's corners.

"I will have you know that dress was Fred's fault, he told me he had emptied the Oil pan before I brought you in," And in hindsight, that was probably a prank intended for yourself. "And I apologized profusely for laughing. I should have corrected you, but you were so sure of yourself…" You feel composure start to crack, and by the time you finish you're all but laughing again in memory of that day.

Three reloads, a dozen paces, and only two shots in that target, one just off the bull, one at the very edge of the 2 o'clock black. If you hadn't drilled safety into her mind, you imagine that she would have clocked you with that revolver when she declared that the sights must be off or some other excuse, only for you to take it and put that shot almost dead center.

"Oh, laugh it up, Elric. We're almost to the stable, and if you plan to race, I'll have Starlight leave you in the dust again, just like I did Easter weekend." Your sister raises her nose at you as she speaks, every bit the haughty lady that she had been educated to be, but even she can't keep up the act before a snicker leaves her, your own soon joining her.

"I wasn't thinking of a race, just an afternoon in the pleasant air, a ride along the forests and fields."

It's all too soon that you reach the stable, and with the help of a free stablehand have both your mares saddled and ready to ride. Your own was a nice pinto, that you had been talked out of naming Cow when you were a young boy, her black spots covering much of her white coat like the other animal, while your sister's was a dark black, little speckles of white in their coat earning them a similarly creative name, though your parents had called in acceptable compared to your own.

Lifting her into her saddle by the middle, your sister sat side saddle owing to the skirt she wore, and you were quickly mounted on your own, kicking off to a swift trot out of the keep.

You were tempted to say that it wasn't a race, as you lead the charge, the gallop of hooves under you and the bite of the wind on your smiling cheeks, but you were a proud soul, and right now your sister was stuck trying to get around you as you led her through the path.

Long cut by loggers that were heading into the hills, it was a perfect route to the lone tree on the hill, an old growth apple tree that had survived two hundred years of human habitation.

"I'm starting to think you've misled me, Elric!" You turned at your sister's shout, and let out a small groan as she overtook you in the moment of distraction. "Yah! Try and overtake me, El!"

For all your sister was poor with a gun, and you didn't trust her with anything larger than her steak knife, she was a natural equestrian, taking to horseback with the same ease you took to shooting. But raw talent does not always overcome years of hard earned skill, and so you give your mare a squeeze and a click of your tongue, leaning in close to her mane as she thundered down the path after your wayward sister.

Over pounded dirt you rode, jumping over log and weaving around cut stump, your grunts of effort and her lilting laughter lifting into the air as you ride on, a few of the loggers working in the shade of the trees lifting their hands in greeting as you go racing past.

Ten minutes gone, your sister's mare is fast but lacks the same stamina that your Pinto has built, and so you finally catch up to her, just in time to reach the edge of the forest you'd been riding through, and the tall clearing that broke up the wall of wood, your goal clear and tall.

That old growth apple tree, fresh orbs of yellow and red hanging in the canopy, had seen time tick on by, and survived centuries unknown. Its bark was pitted and worn, but strong and healthy. You'd run your fingers across it many times, finding hearts and letters carved all over its trunk, some fresher than others, but all equally deep and their cutters in love.

You waved to your sister as you pass her, your own mare moving at a steady trot. "Come on, Nat, just a little further."

With the horses tied off to a low hanging branch, you leave them to graze themselves with a pat on the neck, your sister takes a seat neat the base of the tree, a nice little collection of roots making a good spot to sit.

For your part, you pluck down a couple of apples, tossing one to your sister as you break out your pocket knife to take chunks off it. Sweet sugar pops in your mouth as you enjoy your apple, a tinge of sour chasing it down, and leaving you wanting more.

"So, how's your schooling going these days? Annoyed a tutor again by reading half the curriculum they'd set out?"

"No, I have managed to restrain myself, and only ask questions that are pertinent to the lesson at hand." Her answer is prim and proper, and it only takes a few seconds of you looking at her to crack. "I swear, I've not managed to chase another one off. I think he thought the job was going to be easy, and that he could just read off a lecture from one of his old classes for some easy money and free accommodations. He shouldn't have made it just one book if he wanted to keep me invested."

"Not like Mrs. Young has, giving you enough paper to stop an Autocannon shell and expecting a third of that back in essays, huh?"

"I will have you know that Mrs. Young is a brilliant teacher." So defensive about her tutor? Teasing material for later. "And she only asks for a page and a half if I can clearly show that I understand the lesson. What about your own studies? I understand that one of the storehouses required a fair bit of clean up with a… jackhammer, was it?"

You dip your head, embarrassed about that. "It had escaped our attention that the slag off the armor would cool so quickly," or eat into the concrete as it did.

After the sledgehammer, and the heat from moving the laser, your hands had smarted for a good while after you and Fred had taken turns breaking up the debris with that hopping and striking contraption. "But If I had the chance, I would show you exactly what I saw in the moments that caused it. Imagine a meter-square sheet of metal, over half a foot thick, and that between rooster calls it shrank by more than half. It was terrifying and glorious at the same time."

Your sister has never been one for military matters, and so she only nods her head, likely struggling to picture that as you would have just a few weeks ago. "I think I would have liked to see that. You retell the stories that Father told you, and some of the staff have told me about this duel over land, or this fight about a valley, or a very stupid battle over an acre of forest, but it lacks perspective."

You smile, leaning into the tree, as you lounge in the breeze at the base of the tree. "Well, Master Burrel's work aside, have you picked up any new hobbies? I know you were trying to convince Father to let you use the ranch for horse breeding."

A munching nod is her reply, your sister enjoying her apple, before she swallows. "He says that as well as it might work, I should give it some more thought and throw together an investment scheme and probable profits. He wants numbers." You can commiserate with that, but your father had at least told you that he was investing in alternate solutions to military matters. "But you know, I have been seeing Alistair around more often."

Oh? "Seeing him around where? He lives in the keep with his father if I'm not mistaken." Probing question deployed.

Your sister shrugs, and at her prompting you grab her another apple. Between munches, she explains. "He's been visiting the library more, and I caught him speaking with some of the stable hands. I think he might be trying to help me, gathering information about how to manage and finance a homestead that focuses on it. I only mentioned it in passing to him, but if he's so rigorous in his investigation, I can only welcome the help."

"Hm. Alistair is a good friend, and he hadn't mentioned it to me. I know Father was thinking of expanding some of the Sheriffs, perhaps he's hoping for a spot and making a good impression on Father will help him?" If he wanted the spot, you knew it was his if he'd but ask. Your father was a good friend to Sir Christoph and Alistair was one of the hardest workers you knew. On the other hand, if he was looking for a chance to… "I'll ask him when I get back to the keep, after I take my lashings from Father for this."

"He won't lash you." Your sister says, confident. "He'll likely dock your allowance for a while, restrict you from extracurricular yard time, and spend a while walking you through why my education is more important that your wanting to spend time with me, but I expect it will be light enough. Father enjoys your bursts of rebellion, it gives him a distraction from the managing of budgets, feuds, and worrying about another pirate attack."

"If you're so sure." You reply, enjoying the sun on your face, the apply in your hands, and the light conversation with your sister.

You'd get back to the keep soon enough, but for now you'd stay.

---

"God be good, Elric. It would be one thing if you just grabbed your sister between lessons for a trip into the woods, but invoking my name to do it?" As predicted, your father was not pleased with your actions, your sister allowed to leave and finish out her day, while you were detained within his office. "I know I've been pushing you, Elric, but really?"

"It seemed expedient at the time," was your simple answer, and when it came to your father, you preferred the truth against lying to his face. "And I've seen so little of Nat despite living in the same keep in the last several months. I wake up early and have breakfast with the staff before I head off into town for my shift at Master Burrel's, she wakes up and has breakfast with you and mother. I come home at the end of my shift for a late lunch, and she's in the middle of her lessons. By the time she's free, I'm putting shots downrange under Sir Christoph's watch, or crossing blades with Alistair in the circle. I see her in passing at dinner, when I'm more wrung out than talkative, and the next day sees much the same pattern."

Your father paces around his desk, a firm block of mahogany he'd had imported from the western provinces. He comes to a stop in front of you, the two of you easily able to look each other in the eye with your almost identical heights. You had joked in the past that you'd be taller than your father, considering you had a few years left to grow, but by the look in his eye, that'd get you a smack rather than a laugh.

His grim look softens as he looks at you, before he nods, letting out a sigh as he sits in one of the chairs on your side.

"I know, and I have no one to blame but myself." At his gesture you join him, taking the seat just across. "You've been working hard, El, and I'm proud of your work. Charles tells me that you're a sure hand with machines, Christoph tells me he's never trained a better shot, and even the Help say you're always ready to give them a hand, whether to move something, or clear a table." You nod as he speaks, until he cracks a grin at you. "Though, the head chef does request I bar you from the kitchens again. He doesn't know how you managed to set oatmeal on fire, but he's not eager to find out."

You both break out laughing at that, but it ends quickly. There is gravity to your father's next words.

"I can't let your little adventure go unpunished, however. You've done the crime, and I know you'll do the time." He stands up and leads you over to a map of the continent, the singular large landmass on the surface of Freierhalt. "I'm half tempted to give you a mission and send you on the next convoy to the Inner Sphere, let you see the universe beyond Freierhalt. but somehow I half expect you'd leave them, roll the dice, and come home a hardened merc with a 'Mech and a will to change the galaxy." You hear the joke, but your father's tone isn't quite jovial. "Or be left for dead in a Lyran alley for trying to protect someone."

He takes a breath, before he taps on the map, east of the keep. "Instead, I'm going to make a bit of a show of it. Visitors are coming tomorrow, discussing business. You won't be here. Take another man, Alistair perhaps, and ride for the eastern border. Some of the Sheriffs have been reporting excess hunting, poaching, that sort of thing. I want you to head over there, conduct a search, and either tell the hunters they need to stop, or tell Gladwell's people to get back on their side of the border before I have to send a detachment to guard it.

Ride there, and if I don't see you for a few days, I'll consider the matter settled, Fair?" He offers his hand, as he had at the end of every transaction you'd seen him argue.

You nod your head, taking the hand. "When do you want me to head out?"

"Tomorrow morning. Spend the night in your own bed, and then get some equipment from the armory, rations, and get on your way. Good night, Elric."

You take the dismissal for what it is and give your father a deeper bow before you leave the room.

Dinner was soon, and if you had dehydrated soup, hardtack, and jerky to look forward to, you'd better eat your fill tonight.

~~~

Come the morning, you enjoy a hearty breakfast, then seek out your old friend, Alistair.

A tall young man, he's got the same intense eyes as his father, and a tightness to his jaw that comes from trying to match him in the yard. He's a good man, brave, strong, and apparently eager to help young women with their projects.

You'd give him shit for that on the ride to the border.

You had briefly considered Fred in his stead, but with the shop growing only busier as the summer kicks in and more vehicles experience small failures that require a tech's attention, it would be better to leave him and his father be.

You find Alistair exactly where you expect to, in the yard, a blunted tourney sword in his hand, and judging by the chalk marks on the dummy and the wet paint on the edge of his sword, he's working on his precision today. You almost feel bad enlisting him without notice, but your father had told you to take a man, and named Alistair by name.

Still, you are not without pity, and let him go through his routine at least once, watching as he leaves clean red lines across his chalk marks as he swings, save for a blow that would have broken someone's neck if it didn't open it like a waterfall, where his edge alignment fails him, and he ends up with a broad swath of red where he wanted a firm line.

"Alistair." You say from behind him, before he reapplies his paint, and he turns to look at you, brow raised.

"Elric. You don't train in the mornings." Factual, and you're not surprised he noticed it. "Do you need something of me?"

"I do. I've been ordered to ride for the Eastern Border to deal with a poaching situation and to help the Sheriffs there. My father told me to pick a man, and that's you." He considers your words for a moment, and then nods, as serious at rest as his father was marching between rows of drill-practicing soldiers.

"Very well, I will get my kit from my room. Any specifics?" Always mission oriented. You hoped you'd break him from that in a few years, lest he go too far down the public perception of his father.

"I'll be grabbing my rifle, standard rations for a week trip. Grab what you think you need, use my father's name if you have to, but I expect we'll be gone as soon as you get back and we can get the horses ready."

"I'll see you at the stables then, Master Elric." He dips his head in request, and you return it, the dismissal seeing him hurry away, an oiled rag cleaning off his tourney blade before he sets it on a rack, heading for his room.

For your part, you head into the armory, and grab a familiar bolt-action rifle from where it sits, the action smooth as you pop it and pull it back, the chamber clean and the action smooth.

When the Air-gun had gotten too small, this had been put into your hands, and whenever you took to the range, was never far from your reach. You grabbed a few other things, including a small buckler and a single edged long-knife, just in case, and filled out the ledger that the trooper manning the desk handed you.

Your father had insisted that well kept books were at the forefront of modern living, and you had to agree. It was a lot easier to find something if you knew who to go harass ask about it.

With the rifle slung over the back of your long coat, and your knife and buckler tied to your belt. You felt properly equipped and made for the stables to ready the horses.

It would be a long ride, but you'd be there well before sunset if you rode well.

---

When you arrive at the border, the first thing you do is go looking for one of your Father's sheriffs, trusted men-at-arms that enforce his will in the distant reaches of the territory.

You find the first of them at their depot, clearly broadcasting who they are with the common five-pointed star and painted word on the pale sign. You might be concerned about the man carrying a repeater so casually, but you've been told that Sheriffs become interesting people if they've been at it long enough.

"'Lo there! I see you're coming from the Keep way." His accent is odd, but no stranger than those you've heard from around the continent. "I'm Sheriff Rutlige, sworn to lord Gawain. How can I help you, sirs?"

You dip your head to the man, out of respect for his long service, and introduce yourself. "I am Elric of House Gawain, and this is Alistair, my bodyman. My father sent me to see about some poaching that's been going on. Could you explain anything more about that?"

The mustached man nods slowly, letting the repeater droop a little straighter towards the forest floor. "Yes, sir. Me and my fellow sheriffs have been finding a spot of damaged skins around the place, too clean to have been done by an animal and left behind too, and enough organs and bones to make a mighty number of stews if you know how. There's no doubt about it, someone's poaching the Lord Gawain's forests, and I don't like it one bit."

"Well, my father appreciates your zeal. Could you lead us to the freshest one of these kills you've found, just to make sure that everything is as you say." You don't want to offend the man, and between clean cuts and leaving the organs behind, you don't doubt something is afoot here, so even if it just takes you a few days, you'll see it corrected.

"Mhm hm, right this way, Master Elric." The lawman mounts his own horse, an old grey gelding, and the three of you start for the forest.

You follow the sheriff into the woods, having to dismount about halfway to the site due to how thick the brush gets above head height, and you spend a fair bit of the journey cursing your height as your hair snags on little branches and brambles a time or two, but eventually you do reach the small clearing.

Almost instantly you see what the Sheriff meant, where the heads of three deer, antlers still attached, have been left to rot, a small pit having been dug and the organs, heart, liver, and guts, had been dumped into.

"After the meat, and not much else as far as I can tell." Comes the commentary from the sheriff, and you dutifully log it away, looking over the marks around the spot. Crimson mud near the edge gives away where they bled the animals rather recently, but it's begun to dry, and there are still a few short lengths of rope hanging from the overhead branch.

You wonder if a hunter wouldn't have just bagged the entire buck and brought it home to do all this work, rather than have to do it in the dim light and mud of this small clearing.

Your father disliked poachers, but he was maybe more than fair with hunters that claimed they had gotten a little lost and hunted where they shouldn't. The meat, a blow upside the head, and the warning were the price of that in most cases.

Hell, the reason why your father didn't allow hunting this close to the border was because of how severe Gladwell and Ginenet were with poachers. Hands were lost across the border, and that was a messy business.

"Elric, come here." Alistair's quiet voice was laconic, and you were quick to join your friend as he pushed aside the broad leaves of an ankle high plant. There, imprinted in the mud, was a boot print, and judging by its depth, under heavy load. "Reminds me of the marches in the rain, back home, when we had to wear full kit and our rucksacks."

You nod, seeing the same signs. "And if I'm not mistaken, it's pointing away from here, towards the Gladwell border." You mull it over for a moment, your gaze shifting back towards the haphazard butcher block made of a rotting stump. "This man was leaving, likely with the meat, but three bucks worth is a lot of weight. Look further afield for a moment."

It doesn't take long to find more tracks, and Alistair finds another set, parallel and also heading away. "More than two, three I think."

"Three men, crude butchery. Heavy step." You recount the details the two of you had found, and you didn't like the picture it painted. You imagine you can see more bootprints into the distance and can only see them heading further east into unfamiliar lands. "Sheriff, the border is cut away properly, correct?"

"Yes, Sir. Every Spring we go in and cull any saplings in that twenty-foot span. We try to clear any fallen logs or anything, and we make sure it's real clear where the border between Laoricia and Mulstadia is."

You don't like this, and something in your head says it's more than just poaching.

The three of you return to your horses, and start to circle around the forest, until you reach a line back along your imagined path for the poachers. You and Alistair search again, the Sheriff staying horsebound with his repeater watching your backs, and soon enough you find the trail again.

It heads deeper into the woods, and as you follow it, periodically dismounting to reacquire the trail, you're forced to come to a complete stop when you hit the River Gibson, only a short way off from where it joins up with the River Selinus.

You have to make the call, the river is in your lands, you know that, but if you follow these tracks, you don't know whether it'll be a band of robbers, deserters, or the beginnings of something worse.

You choose to…

>Throw the die.

>+Send the Sheriff back to muster the Militia and contact your father, just in case.

"Sheriff Rutlige, I want you to ride back to your depot and send a man to the local towns and another to my father. Rally the Militia just in case and tell my father that we've found signs that this is more than just poachers." Your voice is steady, your command heard.

"I'll see it done, Master Elric. You be careful now, son, and you make sure he gets back in one piece." He turns to leave with a jangle of his spurs. "Ride hard, boys."

You give him a small wave, before you and Alistair pick your feet, and your horses cross the river.

The tracks continue further inland than you expected, or perhaps the river had simply washed away those closer to it, and you continue your hunt.

You head further north, the tracks veering that way very suddenly, and you are well aware that you are nearing the border into the Ginenet lands. Perhaps you have a chance if you are found by claiming to hunt poachers that have strayed from your own lands, but if they remember that old slight you'd never intended, they might take more than a little offense.

Either way, your duo moves along the tracks, taking care not to move too fast and lose the trail.

Soon enough you find a tall hill, trees studding the top of it, that should overlook a fair bit of the nearby area. You leave your horses at the bottom of it, the mounts well trained enough to not wander far even as you leave them untied.

You and Alistair creep to the top of the hill, keeping to the shadows of the trees just in case, and go silent as you reach the top, and spy the source of the foot prints below.

Spoiler: A foreign military, on your lands?

A Military camp and judging from the quality of the tents and horses, either wealthy deserters, or house-backed troops. There must be a hundred here, and you can just make out the smell of fresh meat cooking over fires, where soldiers turn over hocks or stir pots full of soup or something.

If you're not wrong, you haven't hit the border quite yet, even if it feels like you traveled farther because of the sudden change in direction, so these bastards are on your land.

You share a glance with Alistair, and he returns your look, face tight. Quietly the two of you back down the hill, and you lean in close to whisper.

"I need you to ride for the Sheriff and our fathers. Tell them what we've found, and make sure they are ready. An invasion has already begun, and we didn't even know. I'll stay for a little while longer, see what I can see, but I need you to go, now."

"Elric." He says just your name, plainly trying to dissuade you, but at your stare, he relents. "I will see you again."

Your friend takes off, and you are soon left alone at the top of the hill, with an enemy army at your fore.

Is this how you felt, Grandfather?

You think about that for a moment, before you pull a spyglass from your bag, keeping your rifle close and ready, and start to examine the camp in more detail.

~

The sentries on the camp are blissfully unaware as you look through your glass, careful to keep back from the sun as it slowly shifts the light to keep it from glinting too strongly off your spyglass.

You spy a number of mounted riders, lighter armored compared to the footmen, so they must be scouts, but you can't quite make out any sigils or banners of who these soldiers belong to.

~

You look through your glass for another pass, and this time, you see a man in better armor, a knight if you had to guess, and the coat he wears features a most interesting banner. A white lizard on a field of red, his own sigil you imagine, but quartered on it is one you recognize fairly well.

That white bird on yellow belongs to House Ginenet, and with that knowledge safely in hand, you have a name, a number, and a direction. You collapse your scope, tucking it back into your bag, and start down the hill, and notice that one of the sentries is moving towards his horse, glancing back at your hill as he goes.

You've been spotted but not yet found.

> You've got a small chunk of the armor you tested, you can leave it behind and make him think it was just a trick of the light off the metal.

You find a good angle for the chuck of armor, putting it just where the sun had passed over it to sell the effect and make for your horse. You decide that speed is the better part of stealth, and despite that you are just getting in your saddle as you hear the sentry reach the top of the hill.

The man is loud as he dismounts, the metal plates of his armor banging against each other as he reaches where you were a minute earlier, and for a moment you hope that's the end of his search.

You'd almost made it back to the treeline, safe from searching eyes, when the man stumbles over the last branch, and goes from annoyed that he came over here for a shiny rock, to suddenly very, very alert.

"We got a spy!" He shouts, and you hear the ruckus as a few of his fellows hear his call, going for their own horses even from the opposite side of the hill.

> Ride hard boy!

With a kick to your Pinto's flanks, you are off like lightning, even as you hear the sentries start to form up behind you.

It's a near thing, but you do manage to stay ahead of them, knowing the terrain better than they do thanks to your long search for their damned bootsteps, and start heading back towards the sheriff's depot.

Your memory fails you as to where the nearest town is, but you think it was further south along the border, serving as a spot where trade between Gladwell and your family's people could be done.

~

As you continue your spirited gallop through the woods, you hear cries of alarm and direction behind you, and then you hear a horse scream as it falls for a rotten log, its hoof slamming straight through the top and the ragged surface sticking in its skin like a damned punji trap as it falls.

That's one of your pursuers down, and you know the last one is probably going to break off to help his fellow, so that leaves you with two.

~

You wrap around a tree, using it to break line of sight, and give a kick to make your horse run that touch faster, your Pinto running for both your lives, even as you hear the thunder of more hooves behind you.

You turn an eye behind just in time to flatten yourself to your horses back, as a revolver cracks into the trees ahead of you, sending your ears ringing and your flight flighting.

Damned sentries, you just need to keep going.

---

You lead those sentries on a merry chase, bobbing and weaving through the forest, sure you're heading south but not quite how, and even as you thunder across a river you just keep on running.

You're damn near out of breath yourself as you hear the sound of their hooves die away behind you, their shouts lost as you open the distance between you. You keep up the pace for a few more minutes, before your horse starts to slow of her own volition, exhausted by your wild ride. You lean down, pressing your forehead against her neck, and give her a pat on the side of it, whispering your thanks, even as you start to look around.

It takes you a moment, even looking at the forest around you as you are, but between broken trees and vine-sheets that conceal much, you spy a structure lost to time. An old warehouse, clearly overgrown now.

You don't recognize the sigil that's on it off the top of your head, but you can't think of any family around here, or ever on Freierhalt that used a shark or fish. Either way, its a good place to hide out of sight until you catch your breath and can make your way back to the depot, and your father. Slipping from your saddle you move to investigate.

The bigger door itself is tall, very tall, and barely hanging on the hinges with a good dent right about the people's door, but its been almost wedged shut in return. You head on over to the personnel door, and all it takes is a good pull of your arm to see you holding the rusted-out handle of the door, while a firm push on the door itself sees it drift open.

You creep on inside, where nothing but pitch black remains except where the suns beam cut through torn holes in the roof. In that contrarian light, you can just make out boxes of somekind, and all it takes is a stubbed toe and a muffled curse to realize they're made of metal. The pain makes you remember your bag, and in a moment you pull a lantern from it, and all it takes is a twist of the power selector to see a gentle blue light emit from it, giving you a decent means of seeing whats in-

What.

Sitting like a noble king on his throne, you see a titan of Metal and Myomer collapsed unto a mountain of the steel boxes.

That's a 'Mech.

And as you get closer, you start to realize that it's not just any 'Mech.

You recognize that lion emblem, half burned away on its white chest. You know that gun, even blasted clean apart like a shot had ripped down its barrel in a perfect sniper-scope fashion.

Spoiler: It was damaged, it was maimed, but you knew this machine.

You know that white and blue sigil, almost burned from the shield over its shoulder.

And you see a figure, wearing a bulky vest and a full helmet, laying on their belly at its feet, a circle of rusty red long dried around them.

000

As the Black Knight stumbled through the woods, the pain was starting to get to him, even as a chill ran across his skin despite the heat that should have him sweating up a storm under his cooling vest. The only source of heat he felt was steadily dripping down his leg, and he didn't care for how it had started to pool just under the plate covering his stomach. He tried to ignore that iron-rich smell of blood cooking around him, but the smoke from the burned out comm-array was doing him no favors as his breathing grew heavier despite the filters in his helmet working as hard as they could.

The ambush had been unexpected, and purely an attack of convenience. Arthur had been a fool, taking only the family 'Mech without an escort of his knights because of how far the rally point was for the southern hemisphere, and he'd paid for it.

A half dozen tanks had felt his wrath, and he'd crippled that fucking Warhammer, It would take months for their techs to put it back together, but all it took was a jolt running up the leg of the Black Knight to send a phantom twitch through his body and shift the shard of blue tinted canopy that had peppered him in its dying breath- machinegun rounds sending razor sharp ferroglass ripping into his thighs and stomach- to make him reconsider the trade.

Worse still, a pyrrhic victory was no victory at all, and the bastards that had attacked him would be sure to sweep away the Black Knight if they got the chance. He broke through another thick canopy, and in a moment's clarity, spotted a building large enough to house his 'Mech when it was standing. A fish or something on the front of it, but Arthur had to blink away spots that were forming in his vision, phantom burned hand pulling back from the stick to press hard against his vest.

He'd get inside, find a spot to place it down and get out of this coffin. Focus was getting harder as he ripped open the metal door, his metal fingers leaving an indent the size of a man as he pulled it aside, slamming it back closed hard enough to jolt the door off its rails. He tried to walk forward, but his neuroactivity was starting to spike and he felt the Knight obey him all too readily, its own hand falling to its abdomen in a sympathetic expression, turning his walk into a limping stumble, the careful curation of thought and movement lost in the haze of blood loss and pain.

He saved himself from the jolt of impact by smashing a half dozen crates, metal by how they deformed under his left arm as he braced himself, before lurching upright to swing around on the balls of his feet, like his old fencing teacher had taught him, the move unbalancing the Knight but his skill holding just long enough to let him brace against his chair as the back hit metal, a shriek of distorting and tearing steel echoing off the walls of the warehouse and back through the holes in his cockpit.

His vision was starting to blur, he realized as he reached forward, trying to keep the torso of the Knight steady as he went through the shutdown procedures as fast as he could, and the tips of his fingers had gone numb at some point.

He'd get down, and he'd get himself patched up, and then he'd get home.

This was the mantra that he repeated as he opened the hatch, kicking down the rope ladder, and using the ping of the bars off of his neurohelmet to keep his focus in the now.

000

For a long moment, all you can do is stare, eyes darting between the body of your grandfather, and the damaged and wrecked 'Mech that felt as if it was looking down at you, regal and dismissive in equal measure, despite the fact it was all but collapsed on to a pile of steel crates, the exposed contents of which were equal parts old dirt and dust, and exposed metal covered in rust.

What do you do when you find your father's greatest wish? What do you do when you learn the final fate of your grandfather, the location of your family 'Mech?

Whatever the right answer to that was, you found your feet moving on their own, taking you closer to that armored corpse, the need to know how overriding your sense of shock.

He was little more than a skeleton under the synthetic cloth and armored plates of his equipment, but you note the sun kissed medkit, half open and with several items missing from it, either used in the distant past or stolen by the forest's creatures. The slot for a cauterization torch and the suture gun were both empty, while the remnants of the packaging for compression bandages lie scattered in the dirt covering the floor.

When you rolled your grandfather unto his back, you suppressed the gag and merely recoiled back as his forearms were left behind gloves and all. The flesh holding everything together had long rotted away, taking with it much of the clothes he had worn under his armored cooling vest, itself hinged open on one side. The armored plates of it had clearly seen better days, the faded green covered in scratches, burns, and patches, while around his gut, several deep punctures that led away with dark flows signal bad wounds.

With a hand covering your mouth, you grab the plate and pull it aside and find almost exactly what you expected. His skeleton had already started to fossilize, leaving bone under the tattered remains of clothing, leaving it hard to tell what exactly had killed your grandfather, save for the shards of blue glass that dotted the floor around him, and a chunk long as your thumb that was stuck in right under his ribs.

You spared a glance at the cooling tubes that ran under the armored plates, and were relieved to find them all intact. Master Burrel had warned you of what happened if you mingled blood and coolant, and you were sure it wasn't a pretty sight, exaggerated or not.

You may not have known this man half as well as you should have, but he didn't deserve to die like that.

With grit teeth and pursed lips, you reached down around the seal of his neurohelmet and, with surprising ease, found a small latch that connected it to the vests' spinal support. You carefully pulled it away, leaving behind the dirt worn skull that you helped to softly rest against the ground. It made a morbid sight, staring into the very face of death, and you find yourself with head bowed and making the sign of the cross almost automatically.

Helmet in hand, you started to stand, your intention to investigate the machine your father could never let go, when you noticed something you had missed in your initial look over of his body.

Carefully pulling aside the glove that covered it, you picked up a small device, little more than a screen and a few buttons on the side. You press each button in sequence, watching as first nothing happens despite the affirmative clicks, until you press one much further than the others, the small screen coming to life, and a voice filling the empty warehouse like a ghost's echo.

"I'm recording this-" A wet cough sounds from the minicorder but clears away quickly. "-eh, as I flee from an ambush, I-I got quite a few of their tanks, and I disabled the enemy 'Mech, but- hah, that hurts. I may be done for." You hear plinking, like liquid hitting metal, along with wet swallows in the background of the recording.

"The first PPC shot fried my comms, so I couldn't call for help even if I wanted to. That damn Warhammer, but I got him back, blew out his SRM bins, but his last shots were with his Machine Guns. Started blowing holes in my Ferroglass, and now I've got a shard of the stuff stuck where a kidney is supposed to be." His breathing is getting heavier, but the man is pushing through even as you listen in horror. "I hope that George finds this, but God if I know how. You'll already be lord if I don't somehow make it back, so I won't tell you to do a good job, 'cause I know you'll do it, son."

You listen in entranced silence for several minutes, your Grandfather's muttering curses for the enemy that attacked him breaking up as you hear trees crack, and then the sound of metal giving way.

"I've found a warehouse, sh-shark on the door." His words come in short bursts, his breath shallow. "I'm going to try and put the Knight down gently, but I need out of this cockpit, the smoke is making it hard to breathe even with my helmet's filters. I'll grab my medkit, try to patch myself up in the fresh air.

If you find this, George, look under my chair, there's a pad there. The white bar, give it a drink, and you'll know what to do next." A heavy swallow, and a hiss of air, are followed by what may be your grandfather's last words. "This is Arthur, Lord Gawain, signing off."

You sit there for a moment longer, the recording device dead in your hands, your thoughts racing over the exact words of your grandfather.

A Warhammer.

 

[Lord Of Flames]

Despite their commonality in the Inner Sphere, a Warhammer was rarely spotted in pirate bands, owing mostly to the popularity of the 'Mech, and how many Mercs and Militia commanders would love to find themselves with one of Starcorp's most successful products.

That was not to say that the Pirates that often-raided Freirehalt did not field heavier mechs, but the raid that your grandfather fell in lacked another key part of his testimony. From the reports and the boasts of the other houses that fought off the raiders, there was no armor fielded by the pirate band during that attack, meaning that it couldn't have been them that brought low the Black Knight.

But with the image of their silver eagle on yellow fresh on your mind, and the invasion taking place in your own lands at this moment, it wasn't difficult for your thoughts to stray to foes far closer to home.

House Ginenet had been an upcoming house in the day of your grandfather, newly minted with a Warhammer that they'd claimed as salvage from a scout force before the main raider group had been thrown back into the black by the Nobles of the planet. They had been given honors and a land grant by their overlord House Gladwell, but with only their own skill and few sworn knights, it would have taken decades for them to reach greater heights, as well as the connections to truly thrive.

So then, why had Lord Gladwell tentatively betrothed his only daughter into the still new house all those years ago, if not as a reward for deeds unknown?

You didn't like the thought, but the more you twisted it in your mind, the more it made sense.

A newly minted vassal house cripples one of your nearby rivals, a thing due worthy reward, and a sure fire way to start a slow decline that may allow a less-bloody annexation of either land or vassalhood in a few years, especially when the loss of a heavy machine would also damage House Knightway's ability to resist such an action.

Only, your father proved a better lord in the aftermath than either may have expected.

You rouse yourself from your trance, and leaving behind your grandfather's body, start up towards the family 'Mech. The climb up the broken and smashed boxes strikes you as the opposite of your grandfather, many of these holds and panels likely the same he had thundered down from the cockpit rope ladder, that thin set of paired lines hidden in the dark until you finally strafe it with your lantern.

A glance from below had told you that this 'Mech was damaged, but the climb up only drove that home, as man-sized sections of armor were hanging on by a thread in places, the shape of the armor doing more to hold it on than the bonds of material, with the climb taking you far from the heat-scorched and razor sharp remnants of the PPC and its capacitor. You couldn't resist the urge to let your hand trail across the silver sword that still shone faintly on the blue plate set like a jousting shield over the left side shoulder, before pulling it back to finish your ascent.

There is a sense of scale to the machine that was almost impossible to visualize, the dozens of rungs below swaying in the stifled air of the warehouse as you carefully moved from bar to bar, pushing off of unmarked armor and joints to give you a little clearer path upwards, until you reach the arching collar of the Knight, your feet finally finding the embarkation steps painted over in the same color as the armor.

From there you can cautiously move around the panels, careful not to slip and fall the eight or nine meters that were sure to break bones, or worse still with the torn boxes down there. You finally reach the hatch hidden just behind the laser assembly, the door is still open from when the last pilot had evacuated.

The cockpit is a mess, but aside from the burned-out wreckage on the opposite side of the head, almost entirely intact. The ferroglass had been smashed, enough left standing to provide some protection, but more than one hole that let the light of your lamp beam on through.

You ignored the stain on the metal flooring that headed for the door, looking over the damaged section for a moment, but only long enough to acknowledge that you knew almost nothing about how to repair that. You hope to God that Master Charles survives so he could bring this priceless artifact returned to its proper condition.

'Smashed' would be another word you'd use to describe the cockpit, but at a glance and with a little knowledge, you're pretty sure that anything important to the control of the 'Mech is perfectly intact, if stained.

But you also know that your grandfather's placement of the 'Mech was anything but smooth, so you start to search in the area around his chair, under the dashboard and its dozens of switches and gauges, towards the back where smoke from burned out plastics and metals has turned into an acrid layer of grease on some of the metal.

The open exhausted, finally, you try the simple places, and you reached under the lone chair in the cockpit, patting around while being careful for any more shards of ferroglass that would open your gloves like a razor if you snagged them wrong.

At first nothing, then a rounded corner, then a blunted edge.

Adjusting your grip on what could only be the datapad, you tightened it slightly so you could pull it free, only to yank your hand back suddenly, a bead of blood leaking through the thumb of your glove and sending the pad skittering across the floor. You glanced at your hand, the sudden spike of pain already fading, and then at the datapad, where you watched a red stain spread over a white bar of felt set over the screen, before with a low blue light, the screen flashes on.

You see it flash with a series of words, numbers, and numerical codes you don't recognize, before it ends, leaving just a list of commands, or directories if you had to guess. With due concern, you carefully grab the datapad, glancing over the list, before you decide to start with the first item.

As it happens, your grandfather wasn't wrong when he said you'd know what to do, as the pad reveals itself to be the user manual for the Black Knight BL-6-KNT series BattleMech for use by the SLDF 25th Jaeger Battalion BattleMech Unit, assigned to one Captain Robert Gawain. It detailed the standard operating procedures of the 'Mech, with a warning that deviations due to attrition from stock or recommended components may result in reduced effectiveness, a variety of trivia and recommendations for the use of the BattleMech, and finally, a very simple checklist for standard power-up and system check operations.

Evidently, the engineers did not think highly of the Pilots that would control their machines.

The following entries went into greater detail about the armor composite, the effective heat-sinking ratio for weapon grouping, a firm warning to avoid firing the PPC at point-blank due to a tendency for a 'Particle Feedback Loop' to heavily damage not only the PPC, but the section of the BattleMech where it was located, and a reminder to have the comm unit and the sensor package of the Beagle Active Probe serviced together due to their linked nature.

You're not sure what that was exactly, but you imagine it was important a few hundred years ago.

It was a comprehensive package, but your eyes kept drifting towards the list of a dozen actions that would reignite the heart of this BattleMech, as well as bring its other systems online.

You decide that caution is the better part of valor, and an important part of preparing for valor. It is a squire's sworn duty to see the equipment of his knight is kept in good repair, so that he may be ready to use it in a moment's notice.

And your sense of duty tells you that even if the right is your father's, this machine needs a pilot, now, to stave off disaster.

So it is that you start to cross reference the datapad's worksheet and what the battery powered readouts are telling you, flipping them on for a moment to check and then flicking them back off. You don't know how much power the reservoir in this machine has left, but unless you can get the fusion engine working, you'll need every volt.

It doesn't take you long, feeding just drops of energy into the system to get the information, and when you conclude, you have the following.

The torsos took a beating, but the damage is spread out, a testament to your grandfather's skill and his opponent's lack of. There is some internal damage, stressed components, ruptured hydraulic lines, pinched myomer. The worst damage is easily to the right arm, where you don't need the readouts to tell that the PPC is destroyed.

Thankfully, the laser mounted under the Capacitor was left intact, but you imagine its point of aim has been jolted, but without the 'Mech online it's impossible to tell.

You are a moment away from sitting in the chair, when you suddenly hear a muffled shout through the broken glass of the cockpit, and looking down at the ground you can see shadows dancing at the door you came through and jarred back shut.

"There's the bastard's horse. He must be inside! We'll wait for the others, Two of us will stay out here just in case, but the other four will go in and gut the spy before he can get back to his lord."

Through the cracks in the ferroglass canopy you can see more shadows move, but the barrier the door posed wouldn't last long, and would be as much a deterrent as a beagle against a hungry bear.

BattleMechs run hot, you knew that from the demonstration with Charles, but the Black Knight by its specs should run cool enough to fire any single weapon comfortably, even without a cooling vest to keep you from baking like a chicken in an oven. You cursed yourself for not grabbing it, before you told yourself it was a promise to come back for him, rather than leave his bones in this damned ruined shack.

With only minutes before their assault was sure to come, you stripped off your long jacket, throwing it over the pilot seat, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.

Flip this switch, check over those gauges, thumb the heatsink purge and give it a quick press to stir them to life, flip on the battery power for the targeting system and comm array on, torso weapon capacitors open, skip the PPC and ready the laser on the right arm, prime the left.

Your head is spinning as you dart around panels for the right switches in the right order, and you hear a low thrum fill the cockpit as you hit the switch for the head-mounted medium laser, the heat shooting up to a hot summer day inside the metal box that surrounded you.

The startup sequence has you start the activation of the engine before you connect to the machine, but without a proper link it will automatically disengage after just a few minutes.

But it should be enough time to finish the procedure.

You spare a glance at the neurohelmet you'd taken off the body below, and with desperation rip out the lining from inside, turned a muddy black and smelling like a great deal of terrible things as you throw it back through the hatch, sealing it shut as the cloth and foam fall. You pull the helmet over your head, nose still stifled by the lingering odor, and look through the tinted glass as you grab the connector from the back of the pilot seat, plugging it into the port at the back.

A few more buttons, a few more switches, and as you hit the final button, you hear the butting of a shoulder against the door just under the spool of the fusion engine, and you know you are out of time.

In the small screen set in the middle of the cockpit, a question flashes, asking for the code phrase for final neural handshake. This wasn't in the user manual, and you rack your memory as you hear the banging get louder, trying to think of what it wants.

Perhaps a code, or a phrase in the book that you missed, or something closer to home?

"25th Jaegers." You try, wondering if the engineers thought so little they'd just put the unit name as the password to be changed later, and when nothing happens, you move on.

"Black Knight." No, not its name.

"1,2,3,4." You feel stupid even trying.

The clock ticks slower as you try password after password, the shutdown for the engine growing ever closer as the banging on the door has started to yield fresh holes for light to come through. Did they grab axes?

Running out of ideas, you try a phrase your father said once, after you asked him about some of the old equipment in the armory. His eyes had grown distant for a moment, remembering something, and he'd said…

"Old Iron Never Rusts." You say the old, twisted proverb, hoping you've gotten it right at last. The screen blinks one last time and then dims.

For a moment, you think you've failed.

But then you hear the voice that every MechWarrior has heard, in one language or another.

"Reactor Online, Sensors Online, Weapons Online, all systems nominal."

And then you still as feedback runs through the neurohelmet, your skin feeling cold as a shiver runs up your spine, phantom pains running through you where the armor has been heavily damaged, while power thrums in your chest, the fusion engine pulsing under you like the beat of a heart.

You feel mighty.

You brace yourself in the chair, feeling too small for its oversized frame, and a glance down at the center readout is flashing an alarm about your lack of cooling vest and not being connected into the flush circuit.

You give a shake of your head as you try and reconcile the information, eye's screwed tight, and like a ringing in your ears, it starts to vanish. When next you open them, your senses feel expanded, but not so savagely crushed under new previously unexperienced data.

Master Burrel had said that the first time you connect to a 'Mech was the roughest, your senses overwhelmed with the feedback of data and visual feeds that the sensor system tries to inform you all at once. He would be one of the few left in the holding that knew, having been there when your father had first tried piloting the Knight, but while the jolt was there, you don't feel nauseated, and you think hard of lifting your right arm, your muscles flexing under your sleeves as you keep it in place.

Sure enough, you see the right arm of the Black Knight rise from where its rested for twenty years, slowly turning it over as the door at the wall's base finally collapses in on itself.

You watch as four of the Ginenet outriders storm into the room, axes and guns in hand, and they quickly start to fan out, looking for you, before one of them turns and notices the body on the floor. How they miss the thrum and the sound of cooling fans echoing in the warehouse, you'll chalk up to anger and adrenaline, but that one scout is bothering you.

He makes a gesture to his coat to the others, one of his buddies shaking their heads in disgust, and you feel anger rise in you as he gets closer to your grandfather's remains.

No, they have taken enough.

You slowly brace the hands of the black knight against the steel crates they've rested against, and start to rise, trying to give a forward lean to the torso and head as you make your attempt to stand.

For a moment, you think it's going to work.

And then the pile of crates your left hand is on starts to crush and deform, causing you to lose your balance and sending you forward much faster than you intended. Your panicked movement sees your right hand, and the shattered barrel of the PPC slam into the ground next to your Grandfather's body, thankfully not directly on top, leaving his skeleton jarred, but intact.

The same cannot be said of the outrider that had wandered too close to the 'Mech, a stack of crates falling almost on top of him with a crunch that tells you something is broken.

"Oh Fuck!" You hear from below, where the other outriders have started to back up in fear, some of them literally scrambling back on their hands and asses to get away after you've shocked them. In your mind's eye, you find that the 'Mech has settled into a pose not unlike a sprinter preparing for a race, your feet braced back while your hands keep you looming over the bastards.

You tilt the head of the Black Knight up, just enough to get them a good glint of the broken blue ferroglass, and the ready-to-fire lens of your head-mounted laser.

That makes them freeze, and you slowly start to rise, flashing the floodlights that sit where your collar bones would be in warning, sending the three running for their lives.

With difficulty you hadn't expected, you start to rise properly, slowly dragging your feet under you and feeling like a toddler all over again as you stand shakily, before the gyroscope starts to function properly, and you feel a tension set in your legs to keep them mostly upright.

You hope that was the hard-part, because now you have to walk.

~

What the outriders see, and what you see, are two very different things.

They see a titan of crimson metal with an undaunted Lion on the chestplate burst through the warehouse door, an angry revenant that will kill them for violating the resting place of its master, like something out of a fairy tale or a horror story that mercs tell each other around campfires.

You go forward way too fast, and use the door to try and catch yourself, your fingers trying desperately to stay on the sticks even as you try to splay fingers to keep from ramming your fists into the soft dirt. It works, and you even stay standing after a moment, quickly rising back up to the tallest thing in a league, and seeing your targets gobs wide open and fear in their eyes.

These men would have killed you if they caught you. They would have killed you if you hadn't found this warehouse. They would have killed you if you hadn't found this Mech.

So, with that in mind, You'll return the favor.

The targeting system of the Black Knight is simple enough, a downward V is squashed to make up your torso firing arcs, little circles filling the hollow letter to show where each is intended to hit, while your arms are two separate circles, marked on the proper side with a triangle to make sure you know which trigger to pull, a third in the same style for the head.

You line up two of the lasers, Your head glaring down at the party of three desperately trying to mount their horses, and your right arm's medium pointed at the stunned pair of riders that had waited outside.

And then you fire.

In a moment, you can feel the difference between what Charles had shown you, and what a proper laser powered by something like a miniature star does to a target. In a moment, Man, Horse, armor, everything in a meter-wide swath of space is reduced to ashes, the grass at the edge of the strike zone bristling in the heat before it catches fire. On the opposite side, the other riders realize the peril and turn their horses quickly, working them into a lather to try and escape you, but you are faster on the draw.

A pull of the trigger has a burst of emerald light spring from under your right forearm, off target by a yard up and left, but you drag the beam of light back onto your target, leaving a long line of burnt ash and forestation as you cleave the horsemen in two, before their bodies are consumed by the burst of power and heat.

That makes six men dead by your hand today, but you feel nothing, aside from a sense of accomplishment, joy even. This was how you were meant to fight.

Still, your gaze turns back to the warehouse.

~

You make your decision, turning back through the savaged door you'd broken open, and come to a halt some distance away from the body of your grandfather. It's more difficult than you expect to make the Black Knight kneel, but you manage it, bracing a hand spread wide to stabilize it, and kill your link to the machine.

It feels like you've dipped your skin in ice for a moment, a numb sensation that quickly fades as you get to your feet. You grab your long coat off the pilot's chair, pulling it over one shoulder, and head below.

You descend the rope ladder with a weariness, and come to one knee beside your grandfather once more, this time your head bowed in prayer.

You can almost imagine the life you'd have had with this man, from the stories you've heard, the genuine love his people seemed to have for him, even the rare glimpse of the young man your father had been before disaster had taken his father from him.

It would have been a life of laughs and love, of hearing stories while you were bounced on his knee, of joy rides on his lap as he took you around in the Black Knight.

You look at the pile of bones and fond hopes and wishes, and you feel your triumphant joy turn bitter in your mouth.

"I know what I must do, and I am sorry Grandfather. I will bring you home, but right now, Home needs me, and it needs the Knight." You are whispering your plea to a dead man, but it doesn't matter, it needs to be said. "I wish I didn't have to… desecrate you like this, but the Warhammer that killed you, might well be burning our home right now."

You shake your head, the image painful. "So, I ask your forgiveness, as the grandson you never knew. God keep you, Arthur Gawain, and know that I will bring your bones to the family yard myself when I have finished my task."

There is no response, but you feel something shift in the air, and as you carefully pull bone and cloth from the cooling vest, you place them on to your long coat, laid out for this very purpose. It is no burial shawl, but when you finish, you run out to your horse, finding it having moved just around the corner from where you left it, your supplies untouched by the scouts, and pull free a thick blanket intended for wilderness camping.

Your unease vanishes as you lay it over Arthur's remains, his bones protected from the elements, ready for you to come back for them.

You spare a glance around the warehouse one last time, looking at the damaged boxes, and the several dozen that remain intact, their seals whole. You would be back, for your grandfather, and whatever this place held in its prime.

The vest is heavy and broad, intended for a strong man to wear it. You may not be that yet, but you will change with time, and the straps that tighten it are enough to make it fit almost properly. Your ascent to the cockpit is different than before, thanks to you not having to kick off the 'Mech every few feet, and soon you're back in the cockpit, the hatch sealing tight behind you, and back in the pilot seat.

It's a moment's additional work to attach the hoses that lead from the chair directly to the vest, the larger tubes around the shoulders the main reservoir for the network that crosses your chest, and as you stir the 'Mech back to life, the connection reforming, you feel a shot of cold wrap around your ribs, pressed down by the heavy armor overtop.

Now, you were ready.

> Raise hell as you move west, attack their columns, shatter their tanks, and make your challenge clear.

Your hunt for the enemy troops was not going as well as you would have hoped. You found a great deal of infantry, rearguard forces that vanished quickly in the face of a BattleMech, either through force or fear, but none of the enemy combat vehicles.

It was driving you mad, until you started to hear the repetitious crack of a repeater in the distance, soon joined by automatic fire. The sensor system on a BattleMech is impressive, and with a constant supply of data, the computer is able to isolate a source vector for it, or at least a general idea.

It is not the only sound you pick up as you close the distance, your earlier stumbling giving way to a walking pace that is stilted but effective, not quite as fluid as a sporty teenager perhaps but better than a toddler drunkenly wobbling from table to table.

You slow your pace slightly as you near, picking up a sound that your computer helpfully identifies as missile fire, sounding like a hoard of angry bees being launched out of an automatic rifle to your ears, but the repeater continues to fire, soon joined by other personal arms as whoever is giving the Ginenet invaders a right fight.

You circle around to where you believe the missile fire is coming from, and start to approach it through a small break in the woods just big enough to fit your 'Mech, and find yourself in perfect position.

You have outflanked the Combat Vehicles, consisting of two Long-Ranged-Missle carriers, and a trio of Scorpion tanks. The Infantry support is largely meaningless, considering that you don't identify a single short-ranged-missile launcher or similiar weapon among them.

They had not come loaded for BattleMech, and now you'd show them the consequences of that.

---

What you didn't expect was to blindly miss the first LRM carrier, your momentum carrying you into a punting kick of the opposite carrier, sending the LRM flying into the middle of its tank group.

Which, incidentally, is where it starts to cook off its ammo, as the cheap Quikscell ammunition bins prove more hazardous than your lasers could have.

Infantry dive for cover as their own fire support seems to start landing among them, while the Scorpions are confused for a moment, before you enlighten them to the cause of their grief, via copious lasers into their rear armor.

The first tank stops dead, something in its engine just dying, while the second tank experiences a far more final death, your medium lasers burning deep into the hold of it and setting off volatile ammo, sending the turret sky high.

The Infantry, once the shower of LRMs has stopped, take one moment to look at you, before deciding that life is the better part of service, and running away.

The crew of the other LRM carrier opens a hatch to see what's going on, notices your giant boot beside it, and the gunner just closes the hatch.

The pair of Scorpions are stopped dead in their tracks, only one intentionally -the other through your lasers- and you can only imagine that their commanders are dithering over which dead-man gets to poke his head out to see what the hell is going on outside.

You wish they'd hurry up, you have places to be.

"I am feeling merciful. Abandon your vehicles, throw down your arms, and get in an orderly line, before I finish what I began." Your voice comes out as a distorted growl through the speakers, recognizably words but all the more sinister for the damage to the head.

It takes all of five seconds for them to make up their minds, as the Commanders of both Scorpions, one looking like he's just been inside a sauna for far too long, emerge waving white flags, while the LRM Carrier merely dismounts its crew, walking with their hands up as they pass under your smoking arm-laser.

You get them organized with a few barked commands, your authority unquestionable considering you are in a battlemech, and they are very much not.

It doesn't take long for your family's militia to return, still mounted on horseback, with a familiar sheriff leading them.

"I don't suppose it's Lord Arthur under there, is it?" The man's question is rhetorical, but it adds to the mystery of how long he's served if he recognizes this machine as his. "Would Master Elric happen to be piloting that mighty fine machine?"

You make the Knight nod its head. "I am, Sheriff Rutlige. I suggest you have some of your militia secure these vehicles. Their crews have surrendered and will need to be moved to the nearest town or lodge, lest they become prey to wild animals, the elements, or me." You lay on the growl for the prisoners, some of them paling further on your threat, and they all but help the Sheriff's deputies to get them sorted out.

"Well, I don't mind the additional weight, but you've got a long run ahead of you, son. I just got a message from the keep, and they say the enemy's got a BattleMech of their own in the field, and we don't got near enough to keep it back."

Well then.

The knowledge that the enemy had deployed a Battlemech, whether it was the Warhammer or not, did not fill you with confidence.

"Was it your scouts or lucky survivors that reported its presence?" You opted to ask instead, an eye straying to the display of your weapon's capacitors. All green, save for the blacked out PPC.

The Sheriff nodded his head towards a few of the riders he'd brought with him, now circling the bound tank crews. "Woodsmen finishing out their day, Master Elric. They managed to slip away unnoticed and get a pair of horses under them before they were spotted, but the Battlemech was accompanied by a few tanks, and they were heavy by their description of size and arms."

The follow up was obvious. "And the Battlemech itself?"

"Tall, though not as much as the Black Knight, and it lacked hands on either arm." And suddenly your fears are confirmed.

"Ginenet's Warhammer, then." You voiced, your mind trailing over what you knew of such a machine, which wasn't much.

A heavy 'Mech, set solidly in the middle range for its tonnage, with a pair of PPCs divided between the arms. Some kind of missile launcher on the shoulder, and machine guns for bloody fools caught in the open. You'd always heard they were only moderately armored, owing to the sheer number of weapons they mounted, and the spare heatsinks they needed to even approach managing both cannons at the same time.

With the heavy damage to your own armor, it took you a moment to cycle through the computer readouts, taking a worrying glance at the number of internal components that were flashing a citrus yellow, and the few that were shining a much deeper orange, before you found what you were looking for.

Going by the readout, over 3 tons of armor had been sheared off your 'Mech, the shroud over the basic doll a dull yellow virtually everywhere, leaving the playing field far more level than you liked to think.

Against a fresh Warhammer, its PPCs could strip off a ton and a half for every moment you spent under its irons, and by the time you got close enough to make it matter, you'd almost certainly have more than enough holes in your armor for its up-close weapons to exploit.

A problem for later, you think, your gaze wondering back to the captive tankers.

"Do you have the men to man these Vehicles, Sheriff?"

"I know a few far boys that can work a manual truck, Young Master." Nodding as he spoke, Rutlige called out a few names, a few of his riders coming forward for orders, where he quickly told them to gather specific men, and whatever volunteers they could find to make up the rest of the crews.

Two tanks were few, especially with one as light as a scorpion, and prone to issues as a Quikscell carrier, but you were pressed for options and you needed to blunt this invasion, find and kill the Warhammer, and keep too much damage from being done to the holding.

It was only an hour or two after noon, but you still had so much left to do.

> Head for Home, likely the destination of the enemy Warhammer, and force the issue now. If you manage to crack that nut, the rest should fall quickly.

It was becoming clearer to you that what Ginenet really needed to win this short war was your father's surrender, the inscrutable House Gawain capitulating would provide no end of prestige, and with such a vast wealth of territory controlled by your family, it would almost double the reach of Mulstadia and House Gladwell's power with it.

The family keep was fitted with stout walls, and protected by a large garrison kept in fighting shape by Sir Christoph's drills, and your father's investments, whatever they may be.

A traditional siege could last months, during which your forces would no doubt make them bleed for every inch of ground they took outside the walls, and countless amounts for every footstep if they ever managed to get over them.

Even modern tanks would only serve to annoy the walls for the most part, a dedicated assault needed to bring down a section and open up a large enough breach for their men, an assault that would be attacked at every step.

But with a BattleMech? Stone walls are mighty, but when they can simply be kicked down, they become less impressive, let alone be blasted apart at the extreme range of any weapon poised to defend them.

The ability to sortie would be useless against such a ranged foe, pumping lightning bolts into the gates and garages as they opened.

That left a simple arithmetic.

You were the only equal you had to the damned Warhammer. You had no chance to catch it, but that didn't mean you should leave it to stomp around your home and behave like a poor house guest.

"Marshal your riders and whatever crews you can assemble, Sheriff. Harass the enemy as much as you can and make them wish they had never crossed from their gods-forsaken homeland." You begin to order, the growling voice echoing from damaged speakers driving his men to obey a touch faster. You raise your right arm, the spiky remnants of the PPC running parallel to your pointing finger, leveled at the distant high hill, disguised as it was by the trees that rose to your mechs collarbone.

"I will bring the fight to the Warhammer and cut the head from this snake." You declare, confidence giving your voice a lighter touch. You angle the head of your 'Mech back down at your father's loyal man, dipping the chin-plate. "Fight well, Sheriff, and see that these bastards learn what happens when they press House Gawain."

Rutlige gives you a stiff nod, pressing a fist over his heart. "Fight well, Young Master, and show them that the Knight may be hurt, but that it's got plenty of bite left."

You straighten up before moving, starting off with a quick walk that turned into a stilted jog as you passed the burned out wrecks of the Scorpions, the Black Knight heading west for home.

---

Alistair's warning had come at a perfect time, your family's nearest knights rallying just before the enemy attack, leaving them ready to meet them with steel and shot.

The enemy attack is mostly infantry at first, bringing with them improvised siege engines and the rare tank, but they are matched step for step by your family's soldiers, meeting them at range with crisp, accurate rifle fire, and up close with well trained discipline.

Still, it is merely a stalemate, as House Ginenet's forces are slowly pushing your own back to the walls of the Keep, damage starting to mark the walls.

But a reprieve is bought by years of preparation, your father's investments showing as stony plinths set out in the clearings opened up to reveal car-sized turrets, machine guns cutting out into the enemy formations and sending them to the ground in bloody chunks or scared shivering.

~

Atop the walls of the keep, Alistair ducked as he saw the glint of a sniper scope, the shot cutting through the air where his head had been a moment before. He quickly leaned back up, his own long-gun fitting into the slot in the wall as he pointed it back to where he'd seen the light, eye searching for the bastard to give it a second try.

Beside him, his ears rang with the crack of rifles, a dozen other men on this section of wall, firing at targets as they poked their heads out, or just to keep them honest by punching a fist sized chunk out of whatever tree or stump they were using for cover.

He pulled the trigger as he brought his sights over that distant rock, just a blink after the scope had caught the light again, and gave a grunted curse as he dipped down to work the action, his bullet turned into a shower of lead and copper as it hit just below where he was aiming.

Where was Elric when you needed him?

He had hurried back as fast as he could ride at the Heir's instruction, his race through the gate causing a minor stir, even as he shouted that he needed to get to Lord Gawain.

He'd found the man silently fuming in his study, upset about something and with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and stopped with his hands on the man's desk, taking just a moment to catch his breath before he'd explained what they'd found out on the eastern border, and the men that were clearly assembling for war.

No notice had been given, no offer for capitulation sent, this was to be bloody was the quiet realization. Without declared cause, the rules of war between the houses were called into question and going by the sound of mortars firing into the courtyard and buildings behind him, the enemy weren't terribly worried about them either.

He grit his teeth as he dipped his head back down, a shower of rubble and rocks bouncing off of his helmet as a shell hit the tower a dozen feet away from him, anger making him pop up faster and send a man seizing his chance to get closer to the grave, limp body sent rolling back into his fellows even as bullets raked across the stone parapet that Alistair was crouched behind.

Somehow, over the hail of bullets, an echoing bang seemed to reach over the battlefield before he could even give it a thought, and he had only a moment to glance at the sky before something moved faster than he could track, the walls shaking as it impacted them, and throwing out a shower of rocks the size of melons, crude building materials giving way like the armor off a BattleMech, only to reveal fresh stone and concrete.

Was that Artillery?

Gods be good, all Alistair could do when he heard the second bang was to dig deeper into his cover, the thunderous clap of the shells hitting sending even his teeth to shaking, but he risked a glance at the sky just in time to see a silver shape dart from the distance, small black specs falling from it as it pulled away, a distant flash and rising smoke the only sign of whatever that was.

Pulling himself together, he rose from his cover, and rejoined the fight, hoping that his friend was alright and safe, or would soon arrive with an army at his back.

A close call with a spattering of lead against his stony shelf made him reconsider.

An army would be nice.

~

If the enemy had expected the current order of events to continue, they were fools, even as the turrets that had popped up behind and in front of them started to click empty, and they resumed their charge to get ladders up the walls and their tanks into position to start putting holes in the gate.

Your father is a man who was taught war at the knee of his own father, a Mechwarrior that fought in dozens of raids over his life, each time seeing what the pirates could bring to bear and thinking how he could defend against it.

Massed infantry? Machine gun turrets and prepared defenses, better training, superior armament.

Tanks? Outflank them, bomb them, do everything in your power to not give them a straight fight.

BattleMechs? Be bigger than they were, and if that failed, deny them as many advantages as possible as you wore them down.

In this case, your defenders waited until the enemy had cleared the forest, crude shields banded over with heavy metal slowing their advance but also giving them some protection from their bullets, to switch to better tools.

Namely, homemade grenades filled with a thinned down version of Inferno Gel.

The enemy advance was halted in its tracks as a moat of Fire rose in front of them, catching the eager souls in its jaws and sending them rolling back down the hill with terrible burns and screams of pain.

~

The first sign that something was wrong was when the enemy infantry stopped their advance, falling back to the better cover of the forest and away from the stifling heat of the defender's fiery moat.

The second was as the scent of ozone started to fill the air, the older men feeling a twinge in their knees as their brains instantly associated the smell with a thunderstorm.

And then more than one man was blinded for a moment as a bolt of plasma, arcing with lightning across its surface slammed into the wall, sending a shower of stones matched only by the brief barrage of the enemy artillery, suddenly shot from deep in the woods, followed by another, and then another.

There was no stopping its barrage, and even a brief strafing run from your family's sky-knight did little to dissuade it, only drawing its fire for a moment as it sent twinned bolts skyward to ward off the pesky fighter.

More grenades were thrown, trying to keep the infantry back, even as more lightning slammed into the wall, shaking it with a deathly force, the men slowly drawing away from that section, taking up new positions as they faced the weakened section.

The minutes ran by with a desperate silence, hoping for something that would turn the tide, but even the knight's tanks had started to withdraw, recognizing that if they stayed, they would merely be picked off by the distant BattleMech. If they reorganized, lead a proper charge with enough numbers, they'd have a chance, but alone and isolated they were sitting ducks.

And then the wall started to crack, started to rumble.

It was with a sickening sound that the wall blew open, a narrow crack working its way open as blue-white projectiles slammed into it bright enough for the defenders to see through the widening breach, until it finally gave way with a shower of rocks and mortar, the defenders letting it bounce off their armor and helmets as they prepared for a desperate fight to hold the courtyard.



You race up the tamped down roadway that leads up to your family keep, the very same that you had raced with your sister down just the other day. Men are dead on the side of the road, soldier and civilian alike by the lack of metal on many of them, their lives ended with callous disregard, likely by the very bastard who's footsteps you now follow, the wide two-toed feet of the Warhammer leaving a distinctive trail for you to follow.

There are burned out wrecks out here as well, almost entirely trucks, save for the rare motorbike that you see lying in a crisp pile, rubber turned to tar beneath it.

You were never a cruel child, never picking the wings off of butterflies or catching small animals to watch them panic in too small jars, and despite being inside the cockpit of a battlemech, you felt a similar connection with the people you carefully treaded around. These were your people, to protect and serve, just as they were to give you honest council and the taxes you'd use to protect and improve their lives. Surely even Ginenet was able to see that massacring civilians was just going to make any attempt to control this place harder.

There was a time for an iron fist, and a velvet glove, but this?

This was madness, cruelty in its simplest form.

It's a thought that lingers as you knock trees out of the way, continuing down the path even as you start to see distant smoke rise in the direction you're heading, your pace only growing faster as you push the aged components of the Black Knight as hard as your skill will allow, your stilted jog becoming a run in good measure.

Tree branches broke under your charge, deep footfalls leaving imprints like a giant boot as you kicked up dirt and mud as you moved with a fevered pace. You had to get to the keep before it was too late.

You come to a skidding stop only a few miles from the keep, the smoke growing thicker yet in the air as you started to see signs of enemy movement, but what truly caught your eye was the watcher at the crossroads.

The stone statue was an old construction, commissioned by your great-grandfather if you weren't mistaken, in a pique of chivalric idolization.

It stood the better part of ten meters tall, bringing its helm almost level with the lasers set where ribs should be on your Battlemech. Its sword was equally ridiculous, easily large enough it fit in the hand of your Black Knight, and with enough length to actually hit something with it.

You spare it a glance, and then the sky above where the keep was, where the glow of a fire started to creep into the sky.

With a thought, you raise the hand of the Black Knight, covering the hilt as if it was an arming sword, and with a wrench pull it free from the statue, the stony fingers that had been laid over it falling to the ground in a shower of dust.

You hoist the blade up right, the tip breaking off and blunting as the rod holding it in place snaps, leaving you holding what the arm sensors are telling you is another six tons of rocks and steel, within the tolerances that the manual had stated for carrying. Hopefully it would work out for the near future, even if you could already hear Master Burrel yelling at you for tearing myomers that had no business being stressed like this.

With fresh weapon in hand, you continue your march, and only a few minutes later, you breach the tree line and finally have a good look at your home for the first time.

Hundreds of men were streaming forward from the forests in front of you, and you could see their fellows littering the field as the torches glinted off their mud and blood covered armor, while the walls are awash with scorches and missing patches, a large breach carved into a section of the curtain wall, where you can just make out a tall blocky figure through the smoke.

You couldn't count the number of torches you see approaching the walls, which had men still fighting from the burning pitch sent down at the damned attackers. You could see horsemen directing the infantry, and damaged tanks that were still moving creeping forward with careful lurches, mindful of the mud that had been churned up.

In the distance, you can see a stretch of land, trampled not by men or horses, but by massive footsteps, all too similar to the ones you'd followed in the forest.

The Warhammer is here, and it is inside your home.

 

[Lord Of Flames]

George Gawain gave a stifled groan as he leaned against the stone pillar, once part of an exterior facing hallway, now the last barrier between him and the outside world. His home was old by human standards, built over sixty years ago, when George hadn't even been born yet, back when his own Grandfather was still Lord of their family, his father the untested heir. Now his own son was somewhere in the wilderness of their holding, thankfully far from home when this attack happened.

It had been meant as a light punishment, but now he considered that it may have just saved his son's life.

The reverbing crackle of a PPC firing made him press his back into the stone, and listen as more men yelled out in terror and pain as a section atop the outer wall collapsed. It defied logic that they had managed to bring their machine here so quickly, but he could almost see the ploy as it stood.

Why had House Ginenet chosen to attack? Well, that was obvious, but how had they gathered the forces they'd need to break this fortress? They had a battlemech true, but it was reinforced with the finest materials George could find on this world, and a few he couldn't, had new turrets that popped up from within the walls to protect what was his, and a lance of heavy combat vehicles belonging to his knights.

He knew that some of those knights were still fighting, but against an unrivaled Mech in the Warhammer, it was a matter of time before they were forced to run, surrender, or just be destroyed.

The attack had begun less than a day after he had turned away that Blackguard Gregor Ginenet, and his shameful request.

---

A Day Ago.

They had known each other for years, being neighbors, but when Gregor had requested a meeting as soon as he arrived, it had peaked his interest. That the man had almost instantly set into buttering him up, building off the base of good business and the good relations they'd build off the years, set George on edge.

They had gone over a few contracts that were either in dispute or just needed clarification, sharing a drink as they worked out the fine details, details where Ginenet was entirely too willing to give up minor concessions for no apparent reason, when the man decided to get down to the real reason he was here.

He ran around the exact issue for a while, talking about the good service that house Gladwell had rewarded, the boons to being under their aegis, painting a rather idyllic picture. It wasn't until George told him to get to the point that he finally stopped prancing, and looked him in the eye.

"You are the lynch pin that keeps Laoricia from collapsing, George. You know that Meric is a good warrior, but he's not got the vision to use and advance you or your family as they should be, or to reward you for your able service.

Twenty years since you lost your machine, and has he made any attempt to help you acquire one, or gifted you the salvage to rebuild one yourself?"

He had dropped his tone to a conspirator's whisper, trying to lure George into making a commitment. "House Gladwell has secured the neutrality of House Ruxhall, and if this scheme of theirs works out, then they'll buy the acceptance of the war from the others with territory. Mark my words, George, Knightway has few friends, and his days are numbered. See reason, join the winning side."

It was a blatant violation of the Code of Conduct that every house had agreed, forcibly or not, to abide by.

His words and whispered plans bode ill for Laoricia, and with their neighbors bought off, House Knightway was in danger of being marginalized, but not destroyed. With 2 BattleMechs against 3 it would be hard fought, even if House Gawain stayed true to their oaths of friendship, harder still for their old friends if they did as Lord Ginenet asked.

Knightway's Hammerhand would be outranged by Ginenet's Warhammer, Abombert's Hunchback would stand little chance against Gladwell's Victor, while the various tanks and infantry would never be safe from the harassment of Cobster's locust. Even with the martial support of the Knightly houses sworn to the Lord Gawain, it would be very difficult to win, arrayed as they'd be against the Enemy Houses' own.

But in a little less than a century of existence, House Gawain has never once broken faith and stated as such.

"I refuse to break an oath stretching back two decades, Gregor. Maric has been not but fair to me and my people. He's offered me scrap to build something to fill the shoes left absent, but I refused his kind offer.

That machine, my machine, is somewhere on this planet, and I refuse to replace what I can instead find." He had swallowed the last of his drink, the glass clinking heavily onto his desk.

"Begone from my keep, Lord Ginenet, and take my words back to your master. I am a lord just your equal, and if you seek to take my land, destroy my family, and reap my people, then bring an army, for I shall not go quietly."

His fellow lord had risen from his seat and bowed his head only slightly, his lips pursed tight, but a fresh anger set in his eyes. "Very well, Lord Gawain. I will bear him your message, and you will reap whatever hell follows."

---

The Present.

His musings were interrupted as the Warhammer's warhorn blew, deafening anyone close enough to it, but just sending George's ears ringing. "Come out, Gawain. This battle is over, and I will have your surrender, even if I have to bring this place down brick by brick, on top of you as need be." It wasn't Gregor's voice that boomed from the cockpit of their family Mech, but that of his eldest son, Olin, who was easily ten years older than Elric.

"I refuse to surrender to a man so blatantly breaking every rule of conduct and chivalry our families have ever written or agreed to!" George shouted from behind his quaking pillar, his eyes scanning for anything he could use. It was a fool's hope, but he intended to make good his promise.

"The rules of conduct in war only apply to Mechs, as we both have seen over the years, Gawain." He could hear that sneering smile on the bastard's face. "And without your machine, you and your family are as valid a target as you make yourself."

"Well, then, Heir Ginenet, if you are so sure of your victory then humor an old man soon to die by your words. Why?"

He risked a glance around the stony brick and saw the Warhammer stomp into the courtyard just beyond the curtain wall, on the other side of the debris from George. The 'Mech had a smattering of damage, a few sections of armor blown loose to reveal fresher layers beneath them, but nothing internal. The defenses had done as little as could be expected against a 'Mech that outranged them by a third.

"You want me to gloat, Gawain? To tell you that we've been planning this for decades, that it was us that broke your family's pride in the past, that we were the ones who have taken and hidden your 'Mech, until we could bring you to our side?" The smarmy cunt was mocking him, but George kept his mouth shut. "I don't see you surviving the day, you have that much right at least. As to your family machine…"

The crack of a PPC tore through the wall a dozen feet down from where George was hiding, and he could feel the electric wave that rolled off the impact site as a ton of stone collapsed and added a new hole to the family keep. The falling patter of stone barely covered the sound of something breaking in the distance, something metal.

"My father told me a story, just before we arrived. A story about how he, Gregor Ginenet, was heading to the muster, when he found the Lord Gawain's 'Mech disabled in a field, surrounded by pirates. He told me how he destroyed them, saving your machine at great cost to himself, and had it dragged back as salvage. We intended to return- Ah, I can't even spout that line with a straight face.

My Father found yours, pirates dead at his feet, and had an opportunity land in his lap." Olin couldn't have sounded smugger if he was bragging to his newest whore. "He told me the fight was hard, that your Father was the best MechWarrior he had ever seen, but all it took was one lucky shot to the cockpit, and it was over."

Another PPC shot thundered into the section of wall closer to George than the last, sending more shocks over him in an uncomfortable wave along with the shrapnel of exploding stones. There was the sound of heavy metal feet crunching over stony blocks, and George was sure that the Warhammer was getting closer.

"He had to slag the pirate machines, just to make sure that no one discovered the treachery, and he headed home, just in time to hear that the pirates had been fought off, his alibi that he was too far to get there in time. Now, surrender Gawain, I know where you are, and I know just how close to get these cannons to do terrible things to a living person before they die."

George considered his options, and briefly his mind turned to his wife and daughter. They were in the most distant part of the keep, the most heavily defended room with the finest soldiers of his guard. It would mean little if Olin's Warhammer decided to simple level the place. With a groan of pain, George staggered up right, sharking loose the debris that had pelted him, and stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Well, come on then Ginenet, Here I am. I refuse to offer, and you wouldn't accept, so do as you will. I know that I'll have the time to prepare a spot in hell just for you." George's words were brave, but he felt anything but in that moment.

Olin said nothing, adjusting his torso slightly, and fired a burst from the machine guns under his 'Mech's shoulders. They skipped across the ground like the strafing rounds of an aerospace fighter, and George all but flew back as one massive round slammed into his stomach. He hit the back wall, showered with dust as the other rounds punched through painted plaster and wallpaper, and clutched his hands tight around the wound in his gut.

This was it.

All the time he'd spent bartering, trading, helping others and hoping to get this planet off the ground was wasted by a single bastard's greed and his vassal's stupidity. George refused to scream in pain as he felt his blood seep through his fingers, if only to deny the bastard the satisfaction he clearly wanted.

Instead, George just opened his eyes, hoping to glare at the damned 'Mech until he couldn't anymore.

Which is when he watched his father's 'Mech come up behind it, scorched paintjob and all, and slam a massive sword into the rear armor.

---

You slam your stony sword into the back of the Warhammer, sending it tumbling forward before the pilot inside regains its balance, but their speed is just enough to make them take a step to the side, your lasers strafing not soft rear armor or internals, but the stone wall of the courtyard.

The enemy Warhammer reacts quickly, and turns to face you, the lasers on its torsos lighting up as they are filled with power.

The Battle is on.

~

You stumble as your shots track across the stonework, and watch as he brings his chest weapons to bare, the focus lenses for his lasers gleaming as they charge beneath, before they spit out beams of crimson and emerald light just as you feel something click.

You sidestep the shots, the bracket of SRM fire punching into a crumbling wall behind you as you bring the sword around for another swing. You feel in tune with the Black Knight as you bring both hands together, taking a firm hold on the hilt of the stone sword, and send it crashing into the shoulder of the Warhammer.

With synthetic muscle, a will to do it, and the expensive vanity project of your great-grandfather, you feel the armor you're hitting peel, split, shatter.

And then you force it deeper still, driving the blade through the shoulder joint of the right arm, and sending the arm straight to the ground. The PPC gives off a choked arc of electricity as the connection dies, and you drive the sword straight through it, cleaving into the torso.

When you pull back, the armor on that side is so badly dented, if anything, moving would make the damage worse.

And now it's your turn to fire, you capacitors chiming ready.

~

You watch your heat gauge fall, the glowing edges of where you'd hit the Warhammer's torsos fading in the summer air, before the 'Mech simple topples backwards, landing heavily on its back. You simply step forward, planting your boot on the chest of the Warhammer, the tip of your sword drawing up until the blunted edge, still plenty sharp, is level with the glass of the cockpit.

You can't see through it, the ferroglass left perfectly intact, but this BattleMech is going nowhere, and you can only imagine that he'd jump on the chance to surrender if you offered it.

So you don't.

"Bandits are those that wage war and reap the spoils of honest people for no reason or cause but their own selfish wants. Oath Breakers are cursed for breaking freely given oaths, their honor tarnished. The Traitor is reviled for putting himself before the people he is supposed to protect. Do you know what these three things have in common?" You ask the open air, the rhetorical question hanging as you drag the sharp edge of your stony sword over the glass of his cockpit.

"You happen to be all three, and all three get no quarter."

You drive the stony blade down, hearing the scream of metal and the shatter of ferroglass as you dig it in deep, utterly destroying the cockpit and head assembly of the Warhammer.

You let the sword slip from your fingers, leaving it standing dug half way into the head of the BattleMech, reach down, and turn back towards the breach, ignoring the men wearing your family colors as you do.

When you reach the breach, you look over the enemy troops, many of whom are fleeing after you destroyed another of their tanks during your dash for the castle, and give the ones not yet running good cause, by brandishing the broken arm of the Warhammer in the air.

You open the speakers and roar. "RUN! RUN FROM MY LANDS YOU WHORESONS!" Your voice deepened and laced with static from what you hear through the cracks. "GO BACK TO YOUR MASTER AND TELL HIM THAT GAWAIN STANDS TRIUMPHANT!"

When you see those brave few turn pale and run, you turn back, heading into the courtyard once more, and come to one knee as quickly as you can. Dismounting from the Black Knight is just as quick as it was in the warehouse, and your grandfather's medical kit rattles in your hand as you try to climb down as fast as you can.

You'd spotted the figure early in the fight, slumped against the stony wall of the broken open hall, but its only as you get closer that you realized just who it was, and your hands move faster still as you kneel at his side, clearing bits of rock and stone from around his bloody hands, a compression bandage quickly wrapped around his gut.

"Father, is that you?" Your gut turns as you hear your father's voice, usually so commanding, now sound so weak and fragile. "I tried hard, father. I tried…"

"Someone, I need help!" You shout, looking at the rubble and doorways leading out of the courtyard. "I need a doctor! Come out, damn it!" It takes a moment, a moment you hate, but soon you see the infantry emerge from their hiding places, and when you see a familiar shock of black hair appear from under a helmet, you send Alistair running for the castle infirmary.

You would not lose your father just as you reclaim the family honor, something he'd worked so hard for.

You refused.

Call it a son's love, or a green boy's dread, but either way, your patience with your friend does not last, and you order another man to help you, the man's long coat tied taut around your father's gut, blue-grey fabric turning a pudgy red as the two of you carry him to the clinic, the only place you imagine your father could actually get the care to save his life.

Half-way there you are met by Alistair, tired and exhausted for the second time today as he lowers one of the doctors, a short woman that you knew was a common topic of discussion among the men of the yard.

More than one man had been accused by his fellows of getting hurt on purpose to see her more often, but as far as you knew she was happily married, and better with a knife than most men-at-arms.

That skill had come with her experience as a surgeon and general practitioner, skilled in healing the most common and the deadliest combat wounds in equal measure, saw her rush to your father's side, a glance at your hasty bandages and a sniff of the wound giving you a burst of hope as she starts to bark orders. The woman's glare at you is severe, but she maintains her composure, and her matter-of-fact manner.

"You are a fool for moving him, my lord, especially when he's lost as much blood as he has. But lucky for him, his bowels are not perforated. I can't speak to the other trauma, but I don't believe sepsis will be his end. Now get your men to take him to the clinic and a clean room as fast as you can, I need to operate to repair the damaged veins and arteries before we lose him to blood loss."

"Yes, Doctor. You heard her, get our lord to the clinic, and obey her as you would myself or my father!" You bark the order, and years of training see the men hurry to the task, the doctor jogging to keep up with them as they go off into the distance.

You and Alistair remain in that bright corridor, your concern warring with your duty as your eyes drift to the trail of crimson teardrops that litter the polished stone floor.

"He'll make it, Elric." Your man says, a comforting hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "Your father has always been a bull of a man, with a cunning mind. He's strong, and too damned willful to die, just trust in the good doctor's hands."

You know he can't see your face in the neurohelmet, but you imagine he can still see your appreciation of the gesture. "And what of Sir Christoph? I didn't see any wreckage I'd be able to call his tank with any confidence."

"My father rallied his household and last I hear was running a delaying action to the north, but that was some hours ago." You give him a nod, confident that the old warhorse, one who had fought at your father's behest in many a skirmish, would yet survive this one.

---

"Bring the Turret to point 2-4-0, and fire Lasers 1 and 3 on my mark." A moment's delay. "Mark."

Sir Christoph's voice was level as he gave the order, the crew following his command without hesitation or question, and were rewarded with a grim nod as a wave of heat and sound washed over the back of the tank.

That was the last of the Anti-Tank guns, little more than hammer-hardened barrels meant to lob a shell 3 inches thick into the heavy armor of his Pike, the concussive force more than enough to shave off a half ton of armor if they hit square, unless the bastards got creative, using specialized rounds that were almost impossible to manufacture in great number on Frierehalt.

In over two decades of fighting on this world, born here as he was, Christoph had seen the result of people getting creative in warfare.

Anti-tank cannons that fired shells not intended to penetrate armor, but instead to shower an area in shrapnel and shot, or saturate an area or a tank with flammable liquids, sending infantry running in terror as they tried to put out their burning uniforms, while the tanks would be forced to stop, either to put out the fires, or simply to try and weather out the heat to keep from damaging the internal systems.

Hell, a tank on fire was a danger to everything around it, as one of the Ginenet's had learned the hard way, their AC/5-equipped tank backpedaling rapidly after the Inferno SRMs of Christoph's pike had doused the thing in long-lasting gel. The doomed fools made it another three hundred yards before their ammo stocks cooked off, sending a rain of half-fired munitions and shrapnel into the nearby brush where their friendly infantry was hiding.

That had been the lucky break that sent the enemy retreating, but they had not been the Ginenet's best, and Christoph knew it.

That was not to say that the knight and his retinue had gotten off untouched either, as a quarter of his infantry force was either dead, or maimed in the field where they had been outmaneuvered. Enemy shock-troops had burst from the woods with shotguns and handaxes at the ready.

Caught off guard entrenching, with only their uniforms and waist-deep fox holes to protect them, those trench-clearers had been deadly against his lightly armored soldiers, the spread enough to hit multiple men with a lucky shot, but once the distance was closed and the melee joined, it had been the better training of his own men that had seen them overcome the enemy numbers with pick and trench knife, taking up the enemy shotguns to fend off the second wave with far better results.

As it stood, his delaying action had turned into a full-blown skirmish, numbers on both sides unimportant in the face of the greater invasion, but with a stalwart rock to anchor the rest of the line on, it wouldn't be long before they stemmed the bleeding and started to push the Ginenet back.

That, at least, had been Christoph's thought before his radio operator, the device one of a handful in the service of House Gawain, had suddenly pressed his earphone into place, his hands snatching up his workpad as he started to scrawl, translating a combination of phrases, morse pings, and other parts of the cipher as they came in, the message's complexity belying its brevity.

"Transmission from the Keep, Sir. Message states 'Siege Broken, Lord Gawain injured. Heir Gawain returned; Hammer broken, Knight restored.' Do you know what they mean, Sir Christoph?"

Christoph felt his breath catch in his chest as he pondered the words of the message, hope flaring as he all but trips over the last two words. He remembered watching a titan of crimson and black march from its hangar, leading his own father, and himself a time or two, into war time after time, until the day it left alone for the front, and did not return.

"It means that this will be a far different war than the Ginenet believed, Simon."

---

Inside the keep, your father is under surgery, the breach in the wall now having several machine guns pointed at it as a security measure, while the Black Knight is still kneeling where you left it, impossible to move except for your own will.

With this lull in the fighting, and the siege broken, you begin the journey to the safe room, a reinforced bunker that the keep has been all but rebuilt around, the defensible structure updated and encircling the high hill that the safe room was recessed within.

Concrete a full foot thick, layered with BattleMech-grade armor-plating half way through, and then another layer of steel on the interior wall, covered up with pretty wooden paneling if your memory serves.

It would be well stocked in food and munitions, and the hallway there well defended as the last line of defense for the lord's family.

Finding your mother and sister was a priority in the face of your father's terrible injuries, and if you were to return to the field encased in the Knight, then you'd rather leave the castle in the capable hands of your mother much more than the hands of any random Man-at-arms, even if they may be Alistair.

You make your way through the winding halls of your home, knowing them like the back of your hand, your gaze flicking from the barren walls where the most delicate ornaments had been stripped from, to prevent damage in the siege, to the painted walls you still marveled at, a smile perking up under your helmet when you caught the Knight at the fore, its armories worth of weapons unleashed on some poor bastard.

You came to a halt just outside your father's study, looking at the framed face of your grandfather, one you had seen for years as a boy, and the only portrait of the man you'd ever known. You bow your head to him in respect, fingers tracing over the burnished gold of the frame.

"Soon." You say, remembering your oath to him, before you open the door and step into the familiar wooden hall your father called an office.

It takes you a moment to scour your memories, thinking back to when you were a younger boy, and your father had let you wander around his office while he worked over the last few paragraphs of a memo or contract that required his attention.

He had been surprised when he heard the clank of a door opening, and when he looked up, you were half way up the hidden door, having spied a nice royal blue book three tiers up that you wanted to look at. You had not expected to accidentally trigger the releases on said door, but evidently your childish climbing had succeeded.

Your father hadn't yelled at you, though from what you remember, he was caught between a parent's sudden shock and horrible laughter as he all but leapt over his desk to get to you, pulling you off the shelf, but leaving your desired book behind.

That had been the first time you had found that passage, and your father had decided to lead you down it, past the smooth concrete walls that made up the tunnel, with firing slits set at angles that would make it easy enough for the defenders to adjust their fire as needed while making it as difficult as possible for any breachers to return fire, and a steel door set at the end of it.

With a pull of your arm, that same royal blue book rocked forward in its cradle, and you heard the same clicks and clanks as the mechanism opened.

Now all you had to do was identify yourself to the soldiers, and tell them that the siege had been broken.

~

As you advance down the hall, you take off the neurohelmet, sweat slicked hair swept back with a gloved hand as you walk, coming to a stop just before the first set of defensive slits.

They were far from the only defenses, and you were sure that if you lingered silently then someone at the far end would pop out and start laying down a blister of fire, so instead you spoke.

"I am Elric Gawain, Heir to House Gawain. The siege is broken, and the traitor Ginenet is dead. My father was hurt but is receiving care." These are the words you project into the stony silence, before you talk on with an afterthought. "Old Iron never Rusts."

You let your words linger for a moment, letting them pass undisturbed, before you slowly start to walk forward, your hands held up and empty, the helmet clipped to your belt.

You trusted your father's men to be zealous, especially when trusted with the protection of your mother and sister, but you also expected them to trust their own eyes if you gave them time to see.

With that in mind, you did your best not to flinch as three men, equipped with shotguns and the heavier armor of the household guard, stood up just behind a set of sandbags, leveling their weapons at you.

"Halt!" They called, and you obeyed, feet snapping to a stop. "Twice you were truthful, Twice I left no scar." The sentence is a Call, an attempt to establish true allies from enemies pretending.

"And on the Third, you strayed and felt my axe to pay the price." You respond, your hands still held high. It was a passage, changed on purpose from a story of your family's namesake, where the brave and foolhardy Sir Gawain had accepted a challenge from a mysterious knight, where he would face the man's axe as if they were an executioner, a single strike for honor's sake. The man tried thrice, and between a feint, a miss, and a single close shave, the matter was settled, and Gawain's honor affirmed.

The lead man visibly settles as you respond properly, and he waves you forward quickly, the others lowering their weapons even as they keep their eyes peeled on the passage behind you. The lead man steps back, snapping up a salute as he comes to attention.

"It's good to see you, Master Elric. You said the siege above is broken?" His voice is muffled through the helm, but you remember the man's voice, ever close to your father's side.

You give the sergeant, his rank a thin strip of red running around the cuffs of his uniforms, a nod in return. "I broke it personally and killed the Ginenet BattleMech in single combat. It should be safe enough for my mother and sister to return to the castle proper, though I'd keep up the guard just in case."

"In single combat, sire? How did you manage that?"

You merely tap the nuerohelmet at your hip, a smile pulling at your lips. "I found something lost a long time ago, now open the door, and let me see my mother and sister."

"At once."

~

When the door opens, from the inside of course, the last thing you expected was your mother holding a small automatic, the length of the thing no longer than your forearm, or for your sister to come rocketing out and wrapping her arms around you, her face pressed into the hard metal of your grandfather's cooling vest.

"I was so scared when Father sent us down here, and I knew you were gone because you angered father and then I saw the guns and I realized that something was happening and-" You cut her off by wrapping your arms around her.

"Everything is going to be all right. I sent them running." You give her a squeeze, and she relents, pulling away from you long enough to let your mother hug you in turn, a far shorter affair.

"It's good to see you safe, though I don't see your father. Is he still up above?" Her questions are pertinent, and then she looks down at your vest, armor plating and all. "And where did you find that?"

"It's a long story mother, but the quick version is that I found grandfather's 'Mech, and I managed to repel the attackers with it. Father was hurt, but I need to press the attack before they reform or reach out to their allies for aid. I need you to manage the keep in my absence, while father recovers."

Your mother's kind eyes widen at your words, before they set sternly as you tell her what you need. The worried wife and fearful mother is replaced with the Lady of the Keep, and she is quick to start giving advice and orders.

"Pressing the attack is good, but I don't imagine that BattleMech was in good shape when you found it. Send for Master Burrel and his son, they may be some of the only souls left in our lands that know how to repair a BattleMech, and we'll need to get the guard reorganized, figure out what the garrison should be before you leave." You nod along as she speaks, before she abruptly halts, giving you a look. "I know you didn't inherit your father's mastery of numbers Elric, but it takes more than a passion and a commanding voice to direct a military. Let's go where I can get some information, instead of this narrow corridor."

And back up to the keep proper you went.

---

The town of Hammer-Crest is actually in much better shape than you expected, with the walls that had marked its controls end reinforced in places, and the guard towers lining them glinting with steel barrels as the soldiers within keep an eye out.

You are met at the wall by an officer of the keep Men-at-arms, sent to keep the militia in good order, and he is more than happy to admit your party, consisting of Yourself, Alistair, and a handful of men intended to reinforce the garrison here.

It's not hard to find the Burrel's shop, centrally located and as overbuilt as it was, though you wonder if they had taken up arms with the militia when no reply came at your knock on the door.

You turn to your bodyman, and shrug. "Must not be in. We should check the pubs, the taverns, the militia barracks in case they're at one of them." His nod comes quickly, but anything he intends to say is interrupted as the shop door opens, and a familiar arm covered in stray red hairs grabs you by the collar of your cooling vest and pulls you in close.

"I know this vest, Elric." His voice is quiet, eyes locked on the battered metal, with a menace to it you've never seen the man show. "You found it, didn't you." He asks, eyes snapping up to your own.

"I did, Master Burrel, and now I need your help to fix it." The man takes one look at you, and then the helmet on your hip, before his bushy mustache settles over a determined line.

"Fred, grab your kit, and my tools from the Garage! We've got a mighty war machine to fix, and a fool to pilot it!"

You don't take being called a fool twice in one day lightly, giving the man a thump on the shoulder to release you, only for the man to return the gesture with a massive paw slamming into your back. You don't stumble, but it smarts, even as the man laughs his way back into his shop, grabbing wrenches, screwdrivers, and all manner of other things to throw into a toolbox, Fred giving you a nod in greeting as he gathers boxes eight inches deep with yet more tools in them.

You knew you'd be joining them once you got the Black Knight back to the Mech-bay, long since converted into a storehouse by your father, but you couldn't help but look forward to it.

---

To your surprise, and Charles glee, the inventory that you do before you get the Black Knight ready for its armor refitting reveals a wealth of parts, pallets of spare armor, and more than a few sections of plate already cut and fitted for rapid replacement.

The only truly unfortunate thing is that Fred can use none of it, owing to the extensive damage done to the PPC, and without the chance to strip it off or out, He's been forced to all but bend the material around it, greatly slowing him down.

On your end of things, between the preshaped sections and the wealth of armor at your disposal, you are able to get armor ready in between Charles climbing down to look over the exposed internals, replacing a component there, adjusting one there, and in the case of a particularly stubborn bundle of Mynomer, hitting it with a hammer until it went back under the casing and stopped rubbing itself ragged on the bulky Endo-steel that was the Black Knight's skeleton.

It's a time-consuming process, made slightly faster because it isn't hard to teach a strong young man like the stable boy how to work the armor shaper, especially when you leave him with the numbers and shapes you need. Other castle workers that had been pressganged into the defense, or hiding in their rooms, are similarly put to work, less important tasks given to them as you put the Black Knight back to rights for the first time in twenty years.

Men move pallets away for fresh ones as soon as you clear them, and you watch as almost five tons of armor are applied over the frame of the Knight, a swift paintjob following it up, and bringing it back to its glory, save its cannon.

Crimson arms frame in the black of the side sections, the lion on the White chest brought back with a man-sized stencil found at the back of the storehouse. You personally handle the repair of your grandfather's shield, bringing the checkerboard back to life as you replace the face section, the family sword standing out a brilliant silver from the field of blue it's laid upon.

Now in proper order, you feel far more comfortable having to break a fortress like the Ginenet are sure to have, even if you are short a powerful lightning gun.

Which is why it's good timing when your scouts return with news.

You are barely out of a much-needed shower and freshly clothed when word reaches you of the scout's return.

Your cooling vest is pulled tight around your chest, and the neurohelmet sits more comfortably now that you were able to find a padded cap that fit inside it, leaving you looking rather intimidating standing beside your mother as the scout is rushed inside.

The man's uniform is as tidy as he can manage by the time he stands before you, covered in dirt as it is, but he snaps a clean salute, and stands at ease only once you return it.

"Master Elric, my Lady, I bring news from Sir Christoph. His forces have linked up with other knights who have held, and currently hold the line to the north, and are prepared to push all the way to the border should the young Master grace them with his presence. I can also report that the enemy infantry are in general retreat towards the north, but there are stragglers trying to make passing attempts at banditry."

You nod as you hear his report, the freshly repaired Black Knight in the back of your mind, but also questions.

"What of the Ginenet Knights not destroyed by our own forces?"

"Sir Christoph reports two mission kills, and the retreat of lesser vehicles. My fellow outriders report a single massive tank making its way home, but I can't confirm that, sire."

There were a handful of tanks that could be called massive on Frierehalt and fighting any of them would be a trial. Still, it didn't change the simple reality of the situation.

House Ginenet had hit you, and hit you hard, and now their forces were in retreat, trying to get back to their homes, and likely the protection of their lord, whether that was Olin or someone else back in their territory at this point.

You had an opportunity, but you would need to move quickly.

~

> +Call on House Knightway and Abombert, they should be notified even if it would take a week to get any military aid.

>Head on charge, turn the retreat into an open rout and preserve as much war material as possible for salvage and recovery.

~

With your strategy set, you give your mother a goodbye hug, your sister a promise to return, and Master Burrel a promise to not wreck the Mech he just spent so much time to repair into good order.

The Black Knight would make good time to link back up with Sir Christoph and his forces, and then, then you would take the fight to the enemy.

A brief visit to your father in the clinic lets you see him sleeping sedated after his operation, his skin still pale, but far better than how you discovered him. The doctor was confident he would live, seeing as he was now stable, but the consequences of his injuries would only show in time.

With your goodbyes said, trusted men at your side, and a BattleMech as your weapon of choice, you set out for war.

---

The enemy infantry are running fast, especially when the giant BattleMech breaks through the tree line and starts firing beams of lasers a man across and raking them across the open field. It is an intimidating sight.

From your perspective, it's frustrating, as you sweep the medium lasers into their paths only for the infantry to slide to a halt and the cavalry to rear up and avoid it, save for the unlucky fools that try to outrun your lead aim, and merely just wonder right into it, turning rider and horse to ash in a moment.

Still, your sudden appearance has sapped any morale the men had as they retreat, and now it's up to Christopher.

Your infantry, however, see your BattleMech not as a sign of terror, but one of inspiration, as they follow their valiant lord into combat, the long bayonets of their rifles making doubly sure that whoever they bring down is dead by the time they march past them.

Your men have long experience with firing at a walking pace through uneven terrain, a drill run by Christoph over and over again, until it was as natural to shoot from the side of a steep hill as a hunter's blind.

it's a bloody toll that's wrecked on the enemy, and you can only hope it keeps up while your scouts try and narrow down where that massive tank went.

~

The tank your men reported spots your scouts as they spot it, revealing it to be a Demolisher, and quickly turns its turret to bring them into its sights.

An AC/20 may lose much of its power at long range against modern war machines, but it is still more than enough to kill a man or beast outright for quite a long while.

Thankfully, your scouts are by far the more mobile of the two forces, and so the moment they see the tank start to traverse its turret, they are on the move, kicking their horse into a hard gallop that see them back into the woods with great speed.

Still, the enemy tank fires after them, two 185mm shells hurtling through the air after them. One is inaccurate, showering the scouts with wood as it hits the trees high above them, but the other is a miracle the rider will talk about to his dying day, provided it's not twenty minutes from now.

The second round, fired a split second after the first, flies lower. It is almost perfectly in line for the rider of the lead horse, though the tankers almost certainly could not tell.

The rider knows it's coming, the shell slower than the roar of its firing, and just as the first round hits the tree behind them, He hits a small rise and a gap in the forest floor where a tree or something had fallen and rotten away into nothing.

In a fit of madness, he leaps the gap and ends up almost a meter lower than he leapt, dropping out of its deadly path, the massive shell hurtling through open air where a breath before there had been a rider, and shattering another tree.

~

When the Scouts report back to you, you move with speed through the forest, making use of the BattleMechs superior mobility and size to simply force your way through the woods.

It is little surprise that the Demolisher as it had been identified could not run from you.

What is surprising is the reason, as you break into from the tree line and find the tank spinning mud under one set of tracks, a crewmember with a hook in hand trying to find a sturdy tree to help pull the tank free of its precarious position.

That does however leave it immobile, but the turret is pointing right at you.

The tank crews are on a hair trigger, and you swear you see the combustion at the far end of the barrel before you see the flash at the end closer to you.

Thankfully, you are a very quick learner, as you fall to one knee, the two massive shells ripping through the foliage as you do, and line up your chest lasers for a snappy reply.

You fire your torso lasers in linked sets, burning a hole straight through the rear armor of the Demolisher with your large lasers, even as the mediums gouge nice claw marks down the length of the right side.

When your metalized order to surrender comes through the speakers, you've retreated a dozen yards, killing the lights in your cockpit to avoid making your head an easy target as you maneuverer in the forest, coming up more readily on the virtually nonexistent rear armor.

The Demolisher fires another pair of shells into the woods, the 200mm projectiles bringing down trees older than your civilization in their panic, but you merely burn away another ton of armor from the cover of the forest.

The enemy's loyalty proves weaker than their desire to live, and despite the yelling you hear come from the tank, the crew dismounts from it, their hands held high.

You wait for a few minutes, shaking the trees for effect as you wait for the knight inside it to come to his senses, and eventually he does, overbearing armor and sigil proud on his chest, he joins the rest.

You emerge from the forest at that point, ruined spike of a PPC and a medium laser leveled at them as you wait for Sir Christoph's infantry to catch up. With this secured, you'll either be able to raise a new knight come the war's end or ransom it back to the poor blighter for some obscene number of crowns or land.

~

With the loss of the last of their relevant armor, the Ginenet forces are fully routed, the knight and his Demolisher, for all it was ineffective considering the circumstances that you came across it, was the only thing holding the Ginenet men-at-arms and conscripts to anything resembling a fighting retreat, and your presence on the battlefield drove their flagging morale straight into the ground.

The interrogation of the knight waits until almost dusk, the running game of catch and secure taking up much of the day, with only scattered resistance requiring more than a brief display of power and might. That's if you have to show up at all, with how Sir Christopher's Pike can set a swathe of forest on fire if he's feeling particularly annoyed with the enemy holdouts.

The questioning of the knight itself is equal bits informative, and useless.

For one, the knight clears up a misconception you held, clarifying that it was Olin in the Warhammer, leaving his father Gregor still lord, but he hasn't from him or had any runner carry a message since he was told by Olin to arrive with best speed at your family fortress, the heavy guns of his Demolisher a decent substitute for any number of siege weapons.

It would certainly make a far better ram than one made of scrap wood and logs. He also tells you that as far as he knows, most of the Ginenet armor and knights had traveled along with Olin from his camp, spreading out to support their army as they tried to press over the northern section of Laoricia, but that a small reserve of knights had remained as part of the garrison of the Ginenet Keep.

The useless information came in the form of denials of oath breaking, the claim that you had violated his rights as a knight by denying him parole, other such rubbish.

He'd shut up when you suggested that if you really wanted to, you could press the war to the knife, a phrase that usually meant discarding any concept of chivalry or civility in order to utterly destroy your enemy, no matter the cost to you or yours.

In a sick way, it may even be justified, considering the lengths of dishonor that Houses Gladwell, Ginenet, and you can only imagine Cobster, had gone to, to even launch this war against your house.

Anything else the man had to say was horribly out of date, considering the number of combat vehicles, knighted or no, that you had destroyed over the past day. If his words were true, then three knights remained, their tanks well designed, but between the three of them they would only put up a marginal fight against the Black Knight.

With his usefulness exhausted, and the call of your honor stronger than the foes you fought, you remanded him into custody of a local sheriff, his town scorched and damaged, but his jails almost perfectly intact. You'd return for the knight, and the Ginenet soldiers you'd captured, after you concluded this short war.

Your lands are vast and having traveled the breadth of them a time or two for parties, dinners, disputes, you knew that well, but your family keep was in the deep north of them, not far from the border into Mulstadia at all, and with the bulk of two days under you, you were soon to the Ginenet border.

Up until this point, it would be easy to defend your actions as simply defending your home, your lands, your people, but if you crossed that imaginary line, marked by a line of salted earth six yards across, then things would change.

And yet, you found as you stomped over that ruddy ground, a column of soldiers and tanks beside you, that it was one of the easiest things you had ever done.

There was no fanfare as you crossed into Mulstadia, and while Sir Christoph deploys scouting forces, it almost feels unnecessary, as your column advances along the major roads unmolested.

It's an anti-climax, but reasonable when you consider that the bulk forces attacked as the first part of an invasion, only for your forces, and the Black Knight, to throw them back into their lands. You doubt many of the soldiers no doubt deserting from the Ginenet will hold a grudge against you or your people, owing to the fact they were the aggressors, but you also know men are rarely so rational.

All it would take is a Man whose brother died to a Gawain bullet with any degree of charisma, perhaps a few drinks shared between friends and fellow angry men, and you could easily have a mob descend on any isolated parts of your troops intent on tearing them to shreds in revenge.

It doesn't take you long, and only a few skirmishes with mounted patrols that are easily dealt with by the sheer concentration of force you have, until you reach the outskirts of the capital of the province. There is a lively town down from the hill you loom behind, and you can see the preparation going into defenses, hastily constructed in the few days or so it's taken you to march here. The Ginenet's home is very much a new addition, and clearly not as fortified as your own, resembling more of a reinforced manor than a true keep.

With a blink of your eyes and the flicking of a switch, your vision goes from a zoomed in perspective in normal light, to a wash of blues, greens, and distant yellows, as your 'Mech's computer gives you a live feed of thermal signatures down below, and with a glance at the keep-manor, the odd man taking glances out of the gatetower that stands taller than much of the house.

You can't spot any tanks from where you stand, but you wouldn't put it past them to keep their crews ready, but the tanks themselves in reserves until they are needed. Still, the preparations below are new, and clearly the result of your passage being spotted, and the manor itself could easily be deserted, but just as like still holding a great many soldiers, civilians, and likely the Lord Ginenet's family.

You've had time in the intervening days since you crossed into this place to ponder your choice, acting lord as you are with your father incapacitated, and you have come to a simple decision.

You will break the Ginenet, and if possible secure a hostage for their good behavior, leaving the matter there until the Lord Gawain can recover from his wounds and make his own choices. Yours is not a politician's mind, ripe with odds, chances, and schemes, but a knight's, and you can safely say that doing this fulfills your duty to your house and lord for the time being.

> Encircle the keep, but deal with the town below first. You don't want the enemy to try and sally for your backs while you deal with the keep.

A section of the army moves to surround the manor, as much as you can when it's situated on a steep, steep hillside that overlooks the town below, while the majority of it, yourself included, move to surround the town below.

The simple truth is you don't want this to be a long siege, sitting around doing nothing for weeks until someone decides to start trouble, either in your camp or in the town itself, and besieging a keep is little better, save that their food stocks are more centralized.

It is for that reason that you convince Sir Christoph to allow you to ask for the town's surrender, the two of you knowing full well that unless they suddenly pull out a lance of Urbanmechs from under the ground around you, that there is precious little they can do to harm you within the armored hide of the Knight.

Standing almost fourteen meters tall, your BattleMech is easily taller than the walls of the town, taller than most of the towers the townsfolk and the militia have pulled together in the years preceding your arrival, let alone the last frantic days.

You wouldn't put it past them to think that if you came abreast with the wall, you'd merely start shooting over it, bringing down the homes and barracks of the people living inside the town's protection to break their resolve.

So it is that you come to a halt well before the wall proper, any guardsman atop it still having to crane their necks up to look your BattleMech in its cerulean visor.

"I am Master Elric of the House Gawain. I come here today with an army because the people who rule over you, the Ginenet, have broken with their oaths of Chivalry and Friendship between our families.

They invaded my lands, and killed my people, but hear this! I have no wish to see any more innocents die for a feud between our two families.

Surrender peacefully, throw open your gates, and I swear on my honor, and the honor of my House, that you and yours will be allowed to continue living as you always have, without the threat of rape or pillage. You have one hour to consider this offer, before I start to plan where I will put new gates in your walls."

Your voice comes out tinted with an angry growl thanks to the still damaged external-speakers of the BattleMech, and you punctuate your words with a single blast of your large lasers, the azure beam of energy bright enough to lighten the faces of the guards watching you as it strikes a large stone perhaps a dozen yards from the wall, and reduce it to charred slag and debris less than half as large as it was.

"Consider wisely." You warn, keeping your front to the enemy until you're out of the range of most weapons that would be an actual threat to you.

Sir Christoph is waiting.

"They may choose to be stubborn." He remarks, his eyes fixed on the building overlooking the main gate.

"They may choose to live," is your simply reply. "Either way, we'll know soon."

~

The sight that greets you, come the end of your given hour, is not quite one you expected.

You expected the militia to simply open the gates, to carefully lower their weapons and allow your forces into the city, your watchful BattleMech looming against the walls in case anyone tried to spring an ambush.

What you didn't expect is for the first thing through the newly opened gate to be a burning tank, sent hurtling down the slightly slanted road to go crash into a stone wall some distance away.

It is with a great deal of caution that you send a squad of well-armored grenadiers to go investigate said tank, while you grow close to the walls, the gates still wide open. They find the crew alive, virtually unharmed except for the impact into the wall that stopped their wild escape, and a quick surrender when they notice the potato-masher patterned grenades in their hands through the open hatch.

The town itself is subdued as your soldiers march through the gates, the militia dutifully complying with their orders as their weapons are stripped away, their armories made off limits with posted guards, and the civilians are warned to avoid staying out at night, lest one of your soldiers misidentify a clerk heading home from an extra-long day as a spy.

The garrison itself puts up more of a fight, but between grenades, shotguns, and a great deal of stabbing, clubbing, and close quarters fighting, they surrender under fair terms.

The town secured, it still takes the rest of the day to confirm that fact, your men carefully scouring the town for hidden caches of weapons or ambushes set by still loyal enemy troops in the alleys. Of the first they find several, likely planted in the case that your men managed to overcome the walls, but of ambushes they find only one, and that may be a case of mistaken identity, as a group of militia try to jump one of your sergeants until they realize that he's wearing your colors, not the Ginenet's, and submit to custody until someone can hear their case.

~

With the town taken, and the time spent to shore it up from any surprise uprisings, you return to the manor, and for several long minutes, simply stare at the damned thing, in full view.

You try to think up words that would make someone bend the knee and that doesn't make someone take a potshot at you and escalate matters, but the words do not come easy.

You could make the point that you've already won? You've crushed their 'Mech, you've savaged their army, over half of their knights are not coming home, alive or dead. You could appeal to their love of their people, as if that would work.

Perhaps, you could just ask for an honest conversation and make them surrender before you have to bring their home down around them?

In the end, you decide the straightforward approach is best, squaring up the shoulders of the Black Knight, before you move. There is a sense of gravity that comes over you as you near the gatehouse, kicking up gravel and beautifully maintained grass with every step, your 'Mech's boot prints large enough to raise koi in if it pleased you.

With a single massive hand, you give the tower three hard thumps, rattling the foundations themselves as you restrain yourself from doing more than knocking loose limestone bricks, the action as smooth as if you were knocking on a door. Your voice flows from the speaker, loud enough to be heard, even if it feel like you're all but whispering into the microphone.

"I have a BattleMech. You don't. Surrender, before I level this place."

You let the threat linger, your blue visor lighting the brickwork in a pale hue as you wait. You start to count in your head, the fingers of the mechs hands working themselves open and closed into tight fists. Your temper demands you act, that you break down everything those bastards love as they tried to do to your own home, but you restrain yourself.

Yours is not to tantrum and thrash in rage, but to think, to consider, and to behave according to your own code of honor before anything else. There's an old saying that only you know who you are in the dark, and you start to wonder as you look over the walls at the deserted courtyards just past the gate, if you'd like who you found there.

Your thoughts are thankfully broken as an older woman emerges from the manor proper, flanked on either side by a Ginenet guardsman, carries a bolt of white fabric, holding it shut as she looks up at your machine.

"I am the lady Marian Ginenet, wife of Lord Gregor Ginenet. I have your word that my family will not suffer your wrath if I surrender this keep?" Her voice is steady, but there is no mistaking the fear in it as she looks at your looming form.

It had taken you a moment to consider if it was worth making the promise, but in the end, you knew that having her and her family as a guest in your keep would keep Gregor from trying anything too stupid.

You dipped the chin of the Black Knight, bowing its head slightly.

"Lady Victoria, you have my word as Heir of House Gawain that you and your family will be treated with all the respect due to your station."

With that said, she looks relieved as she lets the bolt drop, revealing stark white fabric large enough to be a flag, and curtseys up towards you.

"Then as the Lady Ginenet, I hereby surrender this keep to the honorable Mechwarrior Gawain."

And for the moment, so ended the War between Ginenet and Gawain.