TO: ALL ---- FROM: CORSAIR: Se cumple el honor

[Rmorph]

Compadres. I have seen a wicked sight. I have committed a grave crime.
My Corsair soul has wandered the abyss, and I have returned a changed man.

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Let me describe the scene:

A fleet action in the system of ETA: Glorious. No less than 8 mighty capital ships of the proud Corsairs - The guards in their glory. Numerous small craft scurry at their heels like hunting dogs. I among them.

We are aligned in perfect precision with deadly intent. To kill and to maim the Outcast Horde - Wherever that degraded skulking foe may be. We seek them out. Push through the system, Out of the minefield and into the glaring alien sun.

I am a lowly fighter pilot: On interceptor duties: Harassment and reconnaissance. This is my life breath: My duty.

Secretamente los movimientos del enemigo: To search out the enemy. Proud of my role: humble in it.


Then: We come across a singleton battleship: a lonely Outcast scum. Too far from safety. Took unprepared. Unworthy of further thought.. until:

He raises a white flag. He pleads to be spared.

An outcast that yields. Such a thing. Such a curious.. human.. thing.

Yet still. We gun him down. He dies with a sigh of pity. For us.
For our act of cowardice.


___

My friends: I state it as a fact. This is an unworthy act.

Pérdida de honra? - How can we shoot down that which will not fight?

Surely. when our foe displays la cobardía ante el enemigo - cowardice in the face of the enemy: then we commit an even greater crime in gunning him down? Surely better to mock? To claim tithe? To show mercy?

And still more: What if this enemy expected compassion? What if.... Outcasts are not the monsters we have grown up believing them to be?

My mind is numb from the thought.

___

I withdrew from action. My taste for blood was soured.

With the curses of my own fleet ringing in my ears, I refused the combat.
The scorn of my kin is a heavy blow to me: But know this. To lose my own honor is the deadliest blow.

Outcasts are our kin: long estranged, their blood bittered by drugs and shame - Yet blood mingled with ours as surely as history and murder and tears and tragedy.

But what of hope?

I feel it, as we all do: We lose our humanity out here in the dark wastes.
How precious our human gifts? And how high yet among them our sense of honor?

But let the outcasts define their own fate: To throw themselves on the rocks of our wrath if they so choose!
¡me parece bien!

I AM CORSAIR!

Esto no tiene sentido. It makes no sense to live without honor. To act without honor.

This is the true Outcast. Perdido. Expulso. Destaerrado.

Do we become that which we hate?

___

I am Corsair.

I hereby declare that I will observe my own code. Honor before hatred.

That I will participate only in those actions where the military rules of engagement are clearly defined.

reglas de enfrentamiento:

1. That any ship raising a white flag may be spared upon word of honor to depart and dock for 24 hours, and shall itself refrain from further engagement for that time.
2. That I will engage only with an enemy of equal or greater size and strength unless an act of hostility or invasion has warranted my wrathful act.
3. THAT NO AGGRESSIVE ACTION SHALL BE TAKEN ON MY PART TOWARDS ANOTHER, REGARDLESS OF THEIR SIZE, CREED OR PURPOSE UNTIL THEY HAVE BEEN GIVEN FAIR OPPORTUNITY TO PARLEY:


This is the parley:

Conferencia, plática, como con un enemigo en el campo de batalla.
To confer with the enemy before commencement of battle: To lay out terms before the action.


Be it one foe or ten thousand that I may face. Terms shall be declared.


This is the all.



I am Corsair. Te doy mi palabra.
This oath I give. And thus shall honor be served.


Rmorph - System of Gamma.
Corsair.

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[Not Espi]

:: incomming transmission ::


Well, words of honor indeed. Now go in the Outcast systems alone and see,
if they treat you as you wish them to. The way of the warrior is first and foremost
an acceptance of death. You can either accept death as your fate, or go sit at a
workshop table in a dry dock. There, you will find your chance to grow old.

Soldiers die. Those are the rules. We all know it.

However, those that put themselves in the hands of the opposition with a white flag,
tend to die a bit faster. And dishonoured after giving up, just because they tasted death
on the tip of their tongue. Remember, Corsair - Fear is the mind killer. It will cripple you.
Learn to prevent this.

No, the Outcasts might not be the beasts we were told, but that does not matter
at this point. That conflict will only end when one of the sides is wiped.


- Anibal -

:: transmission over ::

[Vito]

I you are a young man, hermano. We were all like you once, you know? But the Universe has a sick and twisted way of changing one's soul into something I never thought possible. With time you will learn, kid. You will learn that the Universe is unforgiving with our people. You will learn that everyone out there will want your head and will stop from nothing to get it. Bretonians, Rheinlanders, Hessians, Mollys, Gas Miners, the Independent Miners Guild and, before anything else, the Bounty Hunters, they all want your heart to stop beating, boy.

I approve of your high moral standards the Black Sails always offer our opponents a way out, but if they fail to take it we will show no mercy and take no prisoners. However, your heart is still young and pure and in time you will see what I am talking about. Most of the gringos you will face will not be worthy of your respect and you will have to treat them as such. Do not take my word for it, just wait and see.

As for the Outcasts (and others), it is them who try to invade our lands every single day. Such acts can only be met with the full might of the Empire's fleets. No hostile ship should be allowed to get close to our bases, ships or Planet Crete. All hostile forces found in Gamma, 41 or Theta are to be to turn around or be destroyed without any remorse. Time will teach you that for some reason I fail to understand they will always choose the second option.

<div align="right]
Vittorio Fernando de Sanchez Rodriguez of the Black Sails

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The Corsair Trade Company

Information | Feedback | Communication Center | Recruitment

[... kur nubėgo?]

Location: Unknown
ID: Antonio "Vilkas" Devivar

Skrew your honor. It's just made up stuff weaklings makes as a result of fear of pain. *Spits* everyone act all high and mighty until someone places a blade in their neck. Grow up kid or die. own hand.

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Omega Pirates Guild

History of OPG | Antonio "Vilkas" Devivar

[Rmorph]

Location: Unknown
ID: Antonio "Vilkas" Devivar

Skrew your honor. It's just made up stuff weaklings makes as a result of fear of pain. *Spits* everyone act all high and mighty until someone places a blade in their neck. Grow up kid or die. own hand.

You, Mandalore.

Ignoble gutter wretch of doubtful history, and dubious heritage.
Your tribes' mindless pursuit of bloodletting is the primitive drive of an out-evolved animal.

The systems sprawl with diversity, technology and a billion people playing a billion different roles in the evolution of mankind. All stands as mockery to your simple masquerade. You pretend warriors kicking up sand as steel towers grow all around them.

We face larger enemies now than such little despots in your little tin ships. Spectacular though you are in your utter insignificance, we have little thought for you. We are Corsair: You are vermin.

The only enemies we now give thought to are the inhuman, or unreasoningly anti-human: Aliens in their brutal malignancy. Outcasts in their devolved shame.
Such foes force us to consider our own humanity. Hence my previous transmission - an attempt to reconcile the warrior code with this new age.

That you mistake the resolve of a Corsair to remain human in the face of alien hostility as simple weakness! Failing to comprehend that 1000 years of honor and tradition may yet and must be applied to the epic struggle of humanity for the sake of remaining human. Then, ragged crow, you demonstrate simply that evolution does not hold you in its plan.

I speak of the art of war. The Red code. You have no concept of the battles we fight, or the wars we engage. Our armadas cause suns to tremble and wormholes to darken. When we fight our purpose lights the cosmos. And as we fight we learn.
To evolve. To meet the void. To adapt and conquer.

Here is a lesson for you, Small wretches:
Those that cannot adapt, and equally, those that lose themselves, shall be pushed to the wilderness: Their last breath is of the void, and then they are extinct.

I tell you: Breath deep animal.
Your humanity is lost to you.


But. Perhaps you mistake your place as something more? I hear muttered laughter of the warriors you wish to be. Manda..?

Let me tell you of warriors.

We are Corsair. We are the Crimson house. We have evolved in the wicked glare of harsh suns and honed our cunning and skill to an edge so sharp you cannot comprehend it. We shape the universe around us and force all others to reconsider their existences around the shape of ours.

Our purpose is to lead and unify or annihilate those that stand in our way and stagnate: With cunning and courage we pursue a nobler cause than the mere savagery of tribal gluttons such as yourself. More: We give purpose to shabby outfits such as yours. Your very ideology springs from a desire to meet us in battle.

So. Then. Warrior.
Go feast on the carcasses of the left behind. Make war with the dead if you wish.

We plot a new destiny beyond the thoughts and flight of carrion crows. It is the destiny of a new mankind. You shall not see it.




I, Corsair.

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