06-02-2017, 09:02 AM
//Open to people who owned a THP ship as of 5/2/2016.
The Serenity continues on its course.
"Man, I told you, bringing ourselves here was a bad idea." The mists of the Kissare Nebula conceal anything dimmer than a surprisingly proximate star, or the rocks interspersed therein. Ryan Melford, the alleged captain of this five-man crew snaps his head around to glare at the offending crew member. "Cobb, keep it down, would you? I think they can hear your complaining all the way in Liberty." A snort. "As though any of our communications equipment can get that far." A flash of purple obscures the vision of all present. Screams of "Get out! Get out!", "How is this...", "This ain't good.", and ***'found yours' ~'ours' "firespit"*** fill the crew compartment. "I want guns on that thing now. What is it?" The Nomad void-construct circles its prey, its weapon-appendages bristling to purify all invaders to its domain. ***'ours' laughter ~'yours' (ours) now*** "I can hear ours in my head. It's wonderful..." The look of outright panic on Ryan's face is palpable, as that's the recognizable sound of Nomadic possession, or at least, the constant Nomad thought-chattering that has filtered in over the last month has rendered her unable to operate equipment, as she's sitting in her seat, a look of ecstasy on her face, gazing out at that peaceful beloved vessel out there circling those poor blunted humans she's lived but not truly lived among. Slay them and eternal favor would be hers, maybe even one-ness in a sharing of mind beyond human comprehension. She rises to her feet and draws her Detroit Garner, bent on removing these trespassers to a sacred domain.
*BLAM!*
A body falls to the deck motionless, put eternally out of action by a single round fired. The Nomad silently circles them, even as the Serenity continues on its course.
Eleven months of ever-shortening supplies, isolation, and constant pursuit by a lone Nomad void predator does some very interesting things to the human psyche. For example, considering that the only example of conversation Ryan's been getting has been him occasionally screaming obscenities at the damned smug Nomad that's been sending him visions, shooting and mauling it once when it thought it could take him, and his apparent resistance to Nomad suggestions, and when an Ion Storm hits leaving him staring at a Jump Hole to somewhere, he takes it.
He finds himself greeting an old friend and tries to speak. He hasn't spoken for six months, a week after the last person he had known to be a friend died, slain in mind by the Nomad, and in body by Ryan's hand. A few coughs, an exaggerated stretch, then he finds a word to describe his happiness at meeting someone he likes.
"Warmth."
"Man, I told you, bringing ourselves here was a bad idea." The mists of the Kissare Nebula conceal anything dimmer than a surprisingly proximate star, or the rocks interspersed therein. Ryan Melford, the alleged captain of this five-man crew snaps his head around to glare at the offending crew member. "Cobb, keep it down, would you? I think they can hear your complaining all the way in Liberty." A snort. "As though any of our communications equipment can get that far." A flash of purple obscures the vision of all present. Screams of "Get out! Get out!", "How is this...", "This ain't good.", and ***'found yours' ~'ours' "firespit"*** fill the crew compartment. "I want guns on that thing now. What is it?" The Nomad void-construct circles its prey, its weapon-appendages bristling to purify all invaders to its domain. ***'ours' laughter ~'yours' (ours) now*** "I can hear ours in my head. It's wonderful..." The look of outright panic on Ryan's face is palpable, as that's the recognizable sound of Nomadic possession, or at least, the constant Nomad thought-chattering that has filtered in over the last month has rendered her unable to operate equipment, as she's sitting in her seat, a look of ecstasy on her face, gazing out at that peaceful beloved vessel out there circling those poor blunted humans she's lived but not truly lived among. Slay them and eternal favor would be hers, maybe even one-ness in a sharing of mind beyond human comprehension. She rises to her feet and draws her Detroit Garner, bent on removing these trespassers to a sacred domain.
*BLAM!*
A body falls to the deck motionless, put eternally out of action by a single round fired. The Nomad silently circles them, even as the Serenity continues on its course.
Eleven months of ever-shortening supplies, isolation, and constant pursuit by a lone Nomad void predator does some very interesting things to the human psyche. For example, considering that the only example of conversation Ryan's been getting has been him occasionally screaming obscenities at the damned smug Nomad that's been sending him visions, shooting and mauling it once when it thought it could take him, and his apparent resistance to Nomad suggestions, and when an Ion Storm hits leaving him staring at a Jump Hole to somewhere, he takes it.
He finds himself greeting an old friend and tries to speak. He hasn't spoken for six months, a week after the last person he had known to be a friend died, slain in mind by the Nomad, and in body by Ryan's hand. A few coughs, an exaggerated stretch, then he finds a word to describe his happiness at meeting someone he likes.
"Warmth."