Outpost Besh
Ragnath
North Pole

The small outpost was a modest affair. The military capabilities of Scholae Palatinae were still overwhelming for the system and could easily annihilate and subjugate all other polities, however in the grand scheme of affairs they were modest at best. And as such Mauro Wynter was stationed for a time at the tiny outpost, manning the command center.

Wynter had flown down himself in his Tie Defender, with no escort and had greeted the small garrison of Praetorian Guard. The fact that the Empress’ own guards had to man the post was telling. What was more telling was that the rank and file of the Imperial Scholae Army did not take the posting. It was a thankless post, and to set the tone the Proconsul took command personally.

The monotony of holding a small garrison together overlooking nothing took its course fast. The support staff was small as was befitting the old Imperial prefab post. Besh had two dozen Praetorians, two Tie Fighters on patrol, and a handful of AT-STs. The support staff counted a communications technician, a medic, and four mechanics. It was the medic that caught his eye.

Her name was Sylvia Tanos. She had porcelain skin and white waist long hair tied up in a bun. Her drab gray military jumpsuit contoured her lithe body and her healthy bust. The other Praetorians took to her looks and demeanor, and Wynter was not blind to her charm. She eyed the Proconsul every time she made her rounds. He wanted to approach her but his position and his lifetime of military ethic forced him to remain neutral. Fraternization was a firm no-go for the man.

And yet, every time he saw her his eyes widened and he gained a jolt of energy. They began speaking little by little. In time a bond grew. How she got posted there was a mystery to Wynter at first. He checked her files and the true picture came to light. She was one of the refugees from Judecca that had came over with the Clan as they relocated. She came to Judecca ages ago as a slave that was rescued from pirates and had devoted her life to giving back. She was a true idealist and one that worked hard and strove to be of use.

That meant a lot to the jaded Proconsul. Wynter had come back to the Clan as a mercenary coaxed for the pay and the opportunity to lead once again. He didn’t plan on staying at the post for long, but Sylvia kept him there longer than he ever imagined. Why did he linger? The Proconsul being away from command at the grand level at such a small post meant a lot to the rank and file but at some point he would need to go back. How would he do it? He couldn’t reassign Sylvia to return to Judecca Station with him. Well he could, but that would raise questions. However – how could he allow her to languish here? That question vexed him.

Bliss, Zorii so illuminous and willing. So beautiful and cunning. She moves with a style and ease. Her caresses so wild and loving, her hair and eyes so clear and inviting. She runs with abandon and longing. So close and yet so far.

In the way she moves, in the way she talks, in the way she endeavors to love and to live. Blissful and beguiling.

The love grows as the love shows. The love moves as it ebbs and flows. The love is the love of eons of longing and needing.

Oh Zorii Bliss, so wonderous and so unknown. She is an enigma made whole. Flesh so soft and so powerful, so meaningful and new.

Oh Bliss, oh Zorii. You break hearts in your wake as the tides on the wind. Why does she deceive me and leave me wanting her so?

Transylvanian

Mauro Wynter’s carriage arrived slowly to the entrance of the castle on a cold and rainy night. Transylvania was a terribly old and backward part of the crumbling Ottoman Empire. Or was it now part of Romania? The power politics of the great powers were a nuisance for scholars such as Mauro Wynter who was there on a mission to study the traditional folklore and the troubling cases that were being told of back in London. Wealthy minor nobles had made their way to the heart of London now that some liberties were allowed easing the flow of people and capital from the old backwaters to world capitals. And Wynter wanted to see for himself if the old folklore had any merit.

The aged count was known to be somewhat of a recluse. This was at odds with the suave and urbane Count Dracula that he had met in London last season. It was at the height of society season, before the gentry returned to their country seats. Naturally, Wynter did not come from one of the landed and ancient families of polite London society, he was a newly made man of letters that still had to make his mark and keep the patronage of his betters. What more refined way of coming back to society with stories of the primitive lands of Transylvania and Wallachia and the newly ‘freed’ Eastern Christians from the yoke of the Ottomans. What better yet than to come back with gossip on the Count that had stolen the fascination of London? What better way than to expose the man as a fraud and a charlatan.

The footman greated the carriage’s driver and stroke the main of the lead horse as he took the reins. The driver spoke to the footman in hushed tones as Wynter adjusted his riding clothes. His linens were terribly drafty and cold in the hinterland of the mountainous Carpathians. This was truly the land of the damned and ancient horrors, thought Wynter. He allowed the footman to help him down and grab his traveling bags. Before Wynter knew it his carriage was already gone. A chill rain down Wynter’s spine as he approached the castle’s doorway.

It was a monstrous castle, as old as the mountains themselves overlooking the castle. Pillars seemed to rise to the heavens made of crumbling stone. At the doorway the footman opened the terribly large and heavy door to reveal the host. It was the Count alright, but not as Wynter had remembered him. He was weathered, aged, and looked more like a corpse than a man. “Welcome to my home Mr. Wynter. I never imaged to see you so far away from Fleet Street. I must say I wasn’t expecting you but things are never what they seem here in Transylvania. Do you care to join me for a late supper?”

Wynter nodded slowly as he was escorted through a cavernous hall. Wynter sat with the Count as a small cadre of servants brought in serving bowls and many beakers and goblets. “Well then, shall we begin?”

The HK droid touched down from the repulsor lift as the door clinked open with a silent thud. The home world of Clan Vizsla was a lawless place, a hive of scum and villainy that catered to the exotic and those that wished to stay off the radar. The presence of the droid would raise no alarm bells, and that was exactly what Mauro Wynter had banked on by sending his droid back to his old Clan. He meant to send a message, and the droid, Ossus, would do it.

Ossus was not so much property of Mauro Wynter as a partner of sorts. Wynter had found the relic droid during his time with Clan Vizsla while on a mission. The heap of old parts looked little like a droid and more like rubble. However, Wynter had an eye for old technology due to his upbringing on Raxus Prime. He painstakingly rebuild the droid over a span of several months. Yet, Ossus memories and personality remained from his earlier career.

Ossue strode into the bar’s entry way and analyzed the environment. There were some guards to be sure, but every patron of the bar was heavily armed and deadly as a full fledged Mandalorian. And Ossus waited for his prey to arrive as he slunk into the shadows. The reason for the mission was one of revenge. Naturally, none of that mattered to Ossus. He owed a debt to Wynter and as such he was going in to exact retribution.

Wynter held no true grudge against his old Clan, but recent events had taken a turn. As the Proconsul of Clan Scholae Palatinae Wynter was a public figure. The fact that he had previously been a Mandalorian amongst other things made him a target for derision and scorn from his old clanmates in armor. An example had to be meted out. And Ossus waited for the next shift to arrive at the bar.

Time had little meaning to a droid, just more analog coding ticking away in his code. And yet, time did move as the next shift arrived at the bar. Patrons come and go, but it was the personnel behind the bar that mattered to Ossus. The bar was a front of course for Vizsla, Mandalorians meeting behind back keeping an eye on the economic transactions and contracts being issued from the bar. Ossus infrared scanners keyed in on the team of six Mandalorians behind the bar and methodically let his concealed blaster pistols drop from their holsters to his arm appendages. He keyed the safety off and slide forward with the silent grace and ease of a droid.

The first table of patrons went down without a fight. Headshots all around, the next table the drinkers had time to try to take cover and body shots were needed as well. Some of them might still be living just heavily injured. The next table was ready for the droid and Ossus took several wild shots that did little damage. He thumbed a detonator and tossed it center line of the bar. The blast disoriented the remainder of the patrons. The Mandalorians behind the bar were arming up for an attack. That was enough – Ossus had made his statement. He would retreat before the Mandalorians engaged and started a feud.