Fallen Clan

The lady sits impatiently on her throne. Her long robes fall down the steps gracefully. She is flanked by her veiled attendants who wait anxiously for an explanation for the delay. She looks ahead calmly. An imperial soldier enters from behind the curtains that decorate her chamber.

         “Deepest apologies for the delay, my lady. We have found the problem. We will be mobile again shortly.”

         “Carry on,” the lady replies calmly.

         The chamber lurches as if bumped by a giant. It throws the attendants to the floor and the soldier barely manages to keep his balance before running out of the chamber. The lady remains stoic. Her faces nothing more than slightly annoyed at the inconvenience, not struck with fear like that of her inferiors.

         As the attendants slowly pick themselves back up the soldier runs back into the chamber, the metallic buzz of the great steel guard door closing heard from behind the luxurious curtains.

         “Remain calm!” the soldier tries to shout bravely, “we are being attacked by an unknown foe!”

         “Obviously captain,” the lady sighs at the ineptitude, “this was not an engine malfunction. A malicious signal was broadcast into our navigation system to knock us out of superspeed. Now we are vulnerable to attack.”

         “…Pirates…” the soldier exhales, “In this quadrant of it could only be… Swarm.” Dread fills his eyes. The attendants gasp.

         Another blast rocks the chamber and the soldier focuses. Backing away from the door and readying his weapon.

         “They’ve boarded.” He quivers.

         The blast door to the chamber begins to reverberate.

         “They’ve already breached the auxiliary locks.” He squeaks. The attendants are grasping each other, shaking uncontrollably, trying not to cry in the presence of their Mistress, who looks sternly ahead, unfazed.

         Finally the door detonates, giving way to smoke and small arms fire. After a quick exchange the soldier is quickly vanquished. The firing dissipates.

         Two ruggedly outfitted men stomp through the smoke into the chamber their outfits made of mismatched armor and weapons from other raids. One wears a helmet stolen from an imperial guard the other a ragged handkerchief made from the priceless headdress of trade a guildsman. They check the room and fire a few extra shots into the body of the soldier. The attendants weep in fear but, the lady looks down on them with a superior smirk.

         “Enter now Lord Swarm,” one says.

         Through the doorway a figure looms. The attendants cautiously peer through their veils to look upon the mighty Swarm.

Finally stepping through the smoke a young girl appears.

         “Lord Swarm. Looks we have an imperial Lady.”

         Swarm is perhaps fourteen years old. Her youthful face would be sweet if not for the severe expression that scarred it, a glare baring a terrifying hate well beyond her years. She wore oversized ragtag armor and adorned herself with weapons and trophies of past victims.

         “Yes we do.” She hisses, “I don’t know what she’s smirking about. Seize her at once. Find out who she is a ransom her accordingly. Do what you want with her slaves.”

         The two brutes laugh and advance upon the throne.

         The lady is unafraid.

         With a gesture of her hand, like waving away a fly, the brutes collapse and begin convalescing.

         “Impressive.” Swarm puts her hands on her hips nonchalantly, then quickly draws out a pistol, but it turns to water in her hand.

         “I see you’ve become skilled,” says the lady, finally rising from her throne. “But a bit too uncouth for my taste.”

         The girl glares at her. “Who are you?” She spits.

         “You’ll remember in time,” the lady smiles, “but first you must come home."