Captain Mazoga of Brokil gritted her teeth. Her tusks nearly pierced her upper lip if not for the fact that her practice had long strengthened her skin beyond the level they could be breached by careless application of force. Then again, Sylvanites' upper lips grew so that there was a slight dent above the tusks, to avoid the very thing that was happening now—as long as one didn't grind teeth anyway.
Everything went wrong, it was the long and short of it. Voidship Rascal's sister ship, VS Cyclops' lost power. She saw the display of the ship's rear thrusters die down. On the bridge, Captain Prikga of Lum managed to trip the meltdown switch. Not that it changed much. Not when the conqueror was right here. Not when the golden glowing figure was likely just a portion of their strength.
The Hallowed Echoes were privateers, and the two sister ships drew the short straw by attacking a Dragonian ship carrying a powerhouse.
She snuck a glance at the rest of the bridge officers. All but Ensign Glasha were pressed down on the deck, defeated by the apparition's aura. The Ensign was dead, having tried to trip the meltdown switch. That the woman could stop the Voidship's emergency measures meant that the powerhouse was strong enough to project its consciousness to both ships simultaneously. Either that or they could communicate the implications in less than a second.
So. A powerhouse—one too likely to be stronger than what was normally seen in these battlefields. Mazoga wondered if the apparition would kill her and the rest of the crew now. She had no idea of the conqueror's morals or honour, and she would rather die in battle than be executed.
She cleared her throat and spoke in the universally recognised trade tongue, Wojan. "We surrender, conqueror. There is no need for further bloodshed."
The apparition nodded but didn't say anything, not that Mazoga expected them to. She wasn't even sure if the apparition accurately portrayed the conqueror. For all she knew, they would be a fat old man with powerful magicks. But then again, that skill with the sword could not be faked. She was no swordswoman but a warrior. She was a Martial Disciple, a branch of Anima strengthening that focused entirely on the inner body and physique, forgoing spells, outside energy manipulation, and outward-facing Truths. In some ways, it was simpler and easier to progress, but in others, the limitations were severe. For the Hallowed Echoes, only those who can use Astral Fist were allowed to venture into the Void Ocean, otherwise, the technological differences between the Sylvanites and other civilisations would have them bowled over.
Supposedly, Dragonians from Dragon Fall City, they who replaced hallowed flesh and blood with unfeeling machines, were comparatively weak. But only if the Echoes catch them by surprise, or match them in numbers. Guns and other such technologies grew their advantage with numbers after all.
So what in the Empty Circle was this? Who created the apparition and why were they with the machine locusts?
Answers wouldn't be forthcoming unless the creator of the apparition actually came over to the Rascal, and she wondered if they were brave enough to risk their lives that way. The apparition didn't look like it was paying attention, but one of her ensigns moved slightly towards the emergency measure and even that little movement had been noticed. The apparition shot a beam of scintillating golden light that seared a hole into the deck just in front of the ensign's hands. The frightened woman pulled back and shivered in fear.
Stronger and more wary than Mazoga expected.
"Will you send someone to negotiate terms?" Mazoga asked and the apparition nodded.
It was perhaps half an hour later before something happened. The apparition didn't disable the viewscreens and they were still focused on the target ship. One of the hatches opened and something flew out. But that was wrong. Those were personnel hatches that were used during docking, not for Void motion.
What came out was surrounded by a golden halo and it was nearly impossible for details to be made out, no matter how much Mazoga squinted. The golden figure headed to the Cyclops first, then it was followed by a shuttle that came from one of the Cross's wings. The golden figure circled around the Cyclops, then the docking hatch opened and the shuttle latched on. The golden figure hung around for a couple of minutes, then moved away and headed towards the Rascal.
Mazoga's heart thundered like a drum pounded during the High Ritual Days. Here it was, the reckoning.
Sylvanites were a proud people and having been captured in battle, there were two paths forward. Against an unworthy foe, or one with questionable honour, captured Sylvanites would play along until they had a reasonable chance of escape.
Should one prove honourable and, in turn, win an oathsworn duel, then the captive Sylvanites swore servitude for a period of time. A year and a day was the norm, though should the gap between duelists prove wider, then longer periods were allowed.
Sylvanites never quite left the tribal style of civilisation. Small family groups made the core of society, and champions led. Honour, ritual, and tradition ruled daily life, and if not for the pressures of the outside world, Sylvanite society would not have changed for millennia. No reason to if it wasn't needed. And when it was, they adapted their ways to fit the new mould.
The apparition pointed at Mazoga and the other Sylvanites, then gestured towards the hatch. Unable to speak, it wrote a couple of words made out of twisted golden flames. Main Hold.
Mazoga nodded and moved, along with the survivors through the hallways. While the apparition stayed on the bridge, she could feel the weight of its awareness on her. Or no, not from the apparition, not beyond a couple of dozen paces. Something else was observing her, and she guessed it was from the origin.
The main cargo hold was only about a quarter full, loaded with unrefined ores and chunks of asteroid that had valuable trace minerals that the Rascal didn't have the tools to extract. Privateers they were, but that didn't mean they would forgo mining targets of opportunity.
The origin had already entered by the time Mazoga arrived, and unfortunately, the male Sylvanite leader, Warmaster Gujo of Brokil was already there, staring down from his nearly one hundred and twenty-inch high frame down at the origin, and unpleasantly close. Gujo was a fine specimen of Sylvanite brute. Square jaw, nearly two pace wide shoulders, a V-shaped torso, and muscles that popped out of his skin, but were flexible enough that he could still reach every part of his back with his fingers. Well, except for the spot on his spine between his shoulder blades.
Since he hadn't been part of the assault force, he wasn't wearing powered armour and was clad in a form-fitting, black bodysuit with silver insignias of rank. It complemented his grey skin and followed every curve of his features leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
The origin was clad in powered armour, with the shape obscuring whether they were masculine or feminine. Mazoga guessed the latter because they had a rather slender build and were tall for a humanoid. Sylvanites were incredibly large for baseline humanoids, one of the largest within the Tower records.
Mazoga shivered at the aggression in the air. Gujo's body was clenching and relaxing almost rhythmically, and a low growl escaped his throat.
The origin looked up at the huge Sylvanite but showed an utter lack of fear or even tension. What Mazoga could read was only curiosity and a little bit of intrigue.
"You spoke in Wojan before," the origin said, her voice high and feminine. She turned to Mazoga, utterly disregarding Gujo. An affront any way they looked at it unless the woman was more powerful than any of them. The fact that she was likely an Ancient, meant that it was likely true even if they were on the same level of Anima strength.
But there were also many kinds of Ancients. Those who barely qualified for the name and were just a notch above the norm, to those who were absolute monsters, Exalted above all, Paragons of Might. Which one is this woman, Mazoga wondered, and if she wanted her tribe to become more than brutes, privateers, and tools, she might as well work to attach themselves to the truly strong. The blood shed from the weak, or unlucky members of the tribe was a small price to pay.
She stepped forward and signalled Guja to back off with a subtle sign involving her eyebrows, her lips, and tusks. "I have, conqueror."
"Why do you call me that?"
"You are strong. It is what you are."
"I see, and the fact that you waylay travellers?"
"A job. The Hallowed Echoes are privateers. I hold letters of marque from the Hartdel Defiant, and two other nations holding territory in the Void Ocean."
"An act of war?"
"There has never been peace in this empty place," Mazoga said simply.
"So what now? You surrendered. What terms do you offer?"
Mazoga folded her arms underneath her ample bosom. "Conqueror, you have two paths ahead. One, you take us prisoner. We will cooperate but under the terms of the letter, we are to be ransomed back to our patrons. Nothing but honour stops you from flaunting it, however."
The woman nodded, then said, "Ah, I have been rude. I am Yuriko Mishala Davar."
"Captain Mazoga of Brokil. This brute over here is Warmaster Guja of Brokil. We are the two leaders of the tribe here, male and female."
"Married?"
"Your customs, but no, we are not."
"I see. You said two paths?"
"The second is that you accept an honour duel. Myself against you, then Guja against you. If either of us wins, we go free. If you win, we are oathsworn to serve you for a period of time no less than a year and a day."
"What manner of servitude?" Yuriko asked.
"As you deem fit, though only to the limit of our lives. We will not betray other tribes, though you may compel us to fight."
"I see. There is little use for that." Yuriko tilted her head. "Very well, what are the terms of your honour duel?"
"No outer techniques, no energy projections and reality manipulations. If you hold a Truth, only apply it to your melee attacks. Unarmoured."
"I see. You are confident in your physical prowess?"
"I am not against one of your calibre, but it is as traditions demand."
I respect that. Very well, let us begin."
The Sylvanites made space, settling in a large circle that was barely fifteen paces wide, as much as could be used in the hold. Yuriko shrugged and her armour fell of her body, leaving her clad in a body suit that was as form-fitting and revealing as Guja's. Mazoga didn't expect to be struck by the woman's physical beauty, especially considering Yuriko was scrawny compared to a Sylvanite. Both genders preferred a lot of meat on the bones, all the better to smack against. Somehow, she had the impression that clapping that bottom would create as perfect a sound as anything could be.
Mazoga shed her uniform, leaving her in the same state. She flexed her muscles, causing them to pop impressively, earning whistles from the rowdy males who'd shifted gears from confrontational to entertainment.
Yuriko's aura was still expanded, even if it wasn't visible. But the woman followed as honour demanded, and retracted it into her body. Mazoga felt the subtle pressure ease for a moment, then return tenfold once she beheld Yuriko's reinforced body.
"Begin!" Guja yelled, and Mazoga lunged and crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, her fist slammed against Yuriko's palm, and the shockwave threw the Sylvanites behind the conqueror off their feet.
Mazoga grinned widely and licked her lips in anticipation and desire. Then unleashed another blow, one casually caught by the conqueror's hand. It only made her more excited.