OtherSpace MUSH

As the Lem’ing fleet closes in on Sanctuary and Demaria, the Theorian pack known as Akalpatra attempts to reason with the aliens…

New Pansheera Commons <Demaria>

Buildings in this small village are made of stone quarried from the surrounding mountains and roofed with thatch made from fronds of tropical trees that comprise the jungle around the rather primitive-seeming community. Although the stone provides a sense of permanence, it is not unusual to see denizens packing their belongings into carts and moving on – while others settle in to take their places. A water well complete with a pulley, rope and bucket stands near the middle of the commons. Market stalls encircle the well, providing a place for merchants to hawk their wares.

Akalpatra is currently clustered around the well, surveying the activity in the village with pert ears at alert status, haunches raised. Occasionally, one of the members will glance toward the stars.

A dim light flickers through the jungle, winding its way down the path from the higher mountain slopes, soon accompanied by the whisper of the coils of an approaching hoverbike. As it nears, a lone figure might be made out hunched over its back.

A member of the Theorian pack facing the mountain path turns to another, tail twitching spasmodically. ~A city dweller approaches.~ It sniffs the air. ~Familiar scent. No need for alarm.~

When the bike nears the village, the already dimmed headlight shuts off completely and it slows, the figure straightening. Nudging the vehicle down the path until the huts come into view around a bend, the rider halts the bike and shuts it down completely, sliding off. Scraping off a helmet and leaving it on the seat, the rider approaches the perimeter on foot, head swinging as it searches the inconsistent shadows.

One of the pack trots away from its companions, leaving them to continue observing the preparations in the village. The Theorian pack member approaches the outsider with ears full front, nose sniffing. Getting a few yards from Snowmist, the creature settles onto its haunches. ~They come.~

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Those Who Would Destroy” »

La Terre’s Sovereign Bartholomew Ritter, faced with an invading Lem’ing fleet, decides to destroy his colony world instead.
Governor’s Office

A large open room with expensive looking hard wood floors and panelling. A black desk rests in the middle of the room with a comfortable looking leather chair set behind it. In front of the desk is a much less comfortable looking wooden chair for visitors. Filing cabinets line the walls to the sides of the desk. The wall opposite the entrance is a large window with a view of the town of New Paris.

The light filtering into your office begins to dim as if a cloud has just passed before the sun.

** Warning klaxons begin to scream in the distance. **

Sereval rushes in. “Did you hear that?” He inquires.

Sereval glances around and rushes out.

Ritter leans back in his chair as he keys his comlink, “Sgt. Preston, are the charges set and the switch hooked to my computer?” The answer comes back, “Yes Sir, press enter and that’s all she wrote.” he nods grimly and sits back waiting, his finger poised over the enter key.

Eryn stands from her chair at the sound of the klaxons, “Shit!”

Ritter looks over at Eryn and smiles softly, “Try to stay calm, we play the waiting game now.”

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Reign of Ruin” »

In the end, it all comes down to this – a Zangali with a grudge and a Timonae with a streak of bad luck. But all streaks end, eventually, good or bad…

Last Call Tavern

A place like this makes a person wish every chair sat with its back to a wall.

The tavern is a dark and shadowy place, the outside glow of the nebula filtering in weakly while pale blue plasma lanterns gleam in the center of most tables (some seem to have run out of juice, but the complaints department doesn’t care and the maintenance crew doesn’t get paid enough to intrude on conversations better left in the darkness).

The room stinks of sweat, cigarette smoke, and spilled alcohol and blood.

Fifteen tables and six booths are arrayed around a central C-shaped bar counter, which has eight stools in front of it.

Knuckles sits at a corner table in the shadows.

Tixxon makes his way into the tavern, the weight of a plasma rifle slung over one shoulder. His silver gaze scans the establishment for a moment before he starts towards Knuckles table.

Knuckles huffs as he sees the softskin approaching. “Knuckles see you hair not grow back yet. Knuckles think soft furless thing amusing.”

Tixxon bites down on the comment that leaps up his throat and sits, the rifle leant against the table’s edge. “You have news of item for me?” he says simply, keeping his voice neutral.

Knuckles hrmphs. “Item?” Knuckles grumbles, patting his armor, then looking under the table, then nictating his eye membranes. “Knuckles not see item.”

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Lady Fate Looks Away” »