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PORT: MEODRIOTOPE

Feb 11, 2022 – Feb 13, 2022
Welcome to Meodriotope! (Try spelling that without double-checking. I double-dog dare you.) This is our first port. Ports are, as the name implies, a visit to "shore", which can be just about any planet in the Oos Galaxy. This time, the Peregrine is dropping in on a flower-gathering errand, but it's a good opportunity for characters to stretch their legs.

The full OOC write-up for the port is here. If you have any questions about the event, please ask here.

1. Disembarking

For some passengers, this will be the first time they've touched land in almost forty days. Is it unusual, stepping down onto solid ground and breathing cool, fresh air? Is it frightening, to look upon the sea of blue grass and pale sky and realize you have never been so far from home? Is it exciting? Awe-inspiring? Gross, because who likes the outdoors anyway?

Of course, not everyone will disembark. Inmates cannot leave the ship without a warden as escort, and wardens will be responsible for inmates in port — they don't have to be glued to each others' sides, of course, but it's harder to make trouble under a watchful eye.

2. Camp

There'd be a lot of walking without the ATVs, so the Navarch has deployed both vehicles to serve as transport and support for housing. The campsites, once set up, look very much like regular Earth camping — turns out at some point in human development, people pretty much perfected what a rapid set-up/rapid tear-down camp can be, give or take some aesthetic trappings. A sleeping bag is a sleeping bag. A camp stove is a camp stove. It's just cooler when it's made of sleek white metal with designer rounded edges and blue lighting, and all.

There are four tents set up, each sleeping 4-6 people, so even if everyone decided to camp, it won't be too crowded. They are equipped with a solar-air tube that can generate power from sunlight, so they are climate controlled and have built-in lighting. An additional tent serves as a mess tent, though you'll all be eating on little folding chairs. Plastic trunks store rations. Those who want a bit of local fare will have to work for it.

Wardens also have a locked toolbox containing a hatchet, a firestarter, and a pair of utility knives. Should be handy for setting up a campfire at night. Shame no one picked up marshmallows from the commissary; that would have been nice.

3. [Mis]adventuring

There's plenty to see out in the world of Meodriotope:

Burrowing holes — Beware your ankles: the fields are home to colonies of littari, rabbit-like creatures the size of labradors. They leave large holes that are easy to fall into, if you're not watching where you step. This time of year, they usually stay deep in their warrens, but occasionally they pop up to smell the wind and scavenge for edible plants in the thick grasses. They're largely harmless, preferring to flee when possible, but they may go for the calves with their large, blunt teeth when cornered or struck. (They also taste good with mint sauce.)

Lover's Kiss — These little plants can be difficult to find, as they thrive under the grasses' shade, but when you find one, you find a lot of them. Each vine has fifty or more bright, red blooms, pinched at the sides and bowed in the middle like a pair of juicy lips. The Navarch requests that they be harvested; they're used in medicines on a neighboring planet and the Admiralty has asked the Peregrine to pick some up while we're in the area. Be careful, though: if you pluck them too roughly, they'll explode, and the red markings take weeks to wear off skin, even with dutiful scrubbing.

The Fishwives' Village — Five hours west is a small village close to the shore, home to...well, who knows if they're wives, but they have fish heads and bodies with humanoid arms and legs, and they wear little robes. Kind of like reverse mermaids. They are quite small, barely reaching four feet tall, and they speak their own language, leaving communication to little gesticulations and gestures. They live in small stone huts, arranged in concentric circles with a small market in the middle, and barter roast seafood, handicrafts, crabgrass beer, and small tools for off-world goods. Most of their culture seems to revolve around fishing and goods made of woven grasses. The fishwives are fussy about outsiders and carry little fishing spears when they visit, just in case.

The Shoreline — Long, long, long coastlines looking out at the sea, with beaches made up of smooth stones. There are plenty of interesting sea creatures to see in the rocky tide pools, but try not to handle anything indiscriminately (many things bite and some of those things are venomous). You can walk a long way out before the water gets deep, but be careful and make sure you aren't too far out when the tide comes in.

Rock Formations — Weathered in fascinating shapes from centuries of storms and high winds, these formations curl across the southeastern plains. They make swooping sounds when the wind passes through them, like deep and echoing woodwinds. Suneoff, resembling cat-sized mudskippers, dwell in the formations' shadow, while the bat-like knassu nest in the better protected crannies.

4. A Very Wet Last Day

Looks like we didn't manage to miss the rain. The storm clouds on the horizon take their sweet time to arrive, but on the last full day before departure, wardens and inmates will wake to the sound of heavy rain on the roofs of their tents. For some, it may be a struggle to leave the warm, dry confines of the tent to venture into rain. It's the kind that comes down relentlessly, soaking you to the skin within minutes, and cold to boot.

To make matters worse, the rain has transformed the long grasses into a veritable slip-n-slide. Step too quickly and you might find yourself shooting down a sloping hill, or at the very least on your ass. Visibility drops to barely twenty feet ahead.

Packing up in this? Ugh. We have to be back on the ship by nightfall! Anyone who isn't aboard gets left behind.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The scream, more out of pure frustration than any physical pain (please, this is far from the worst head trauma he's suffered!) ends, and Rhys pushes his hands through his hair with a sharp exhale.

If there was ever a chance of him putting up a fight, it's gone with Travis taking the pistol. What's even the point? His ride is gone, and with it any chance of getting out of this place.

That said, he's not going to make any kind of concentrated effort to stop Travis either. Instead he bends down, picking up the abandoned commlink and cuffs, the latter of which he pockets.

Travis with the gun, Rhys with the cuffs. Bad all around. Travis can't use the gun, but he probably doesn't know that, or at least Waver hopes.

He has no time, no power, no residual energy in the area to keep him casting. But, there was a fire, and that was better than nothing. From inside his jacket he takes out, of all things, a cigar. Not time to cut it or light it properly - he just shoves it into the fire to set it alight. It might mean more burns in the process, but he'll deal with that later. With the cigar as his focus, he can probably get off one quick spell before Travis is back within striking range.

Travis is a moving target, but using the smoldering cigar, Waver casts the quickest, dirtiest Bounded Field he can manage. Without drawing the sigils on the ground, it won't hold for long, especially if Travis tries muscling his way through hard enough.
But it might just be enough to keep him stuck inside an invisible sphere for just a minute or two within a few foot radius.

Once cast, Waver turns to Rhys, desperate, but calling up every last ounce of authority he can muster, which is actually a pretty impressive amount.

"Rhys! The cuffs! Now!"

A fucking force field. Travis bounces off it and catches himself on a heel before pushing forward again, testing it. His first instinct is to marvel, and then, a heartbeat later, to be annoyed. Somehow the reality of this kind of thing is twice as annoying as it is in video games –– why do game designers want to make players feel impotent, anyway? Who likes having control taken from them in the middle of something cooler, and even if only for a few seconds?

"Real cute," Travis calls, voice dipping into something baiting. "He's not going to do your dirty work."

If Rhys wants to get away, Travis knows taking on Waver is about the only distraction Rhys will have left, after all. He thinks if Rhys wants to sabotage that, well, he's fucking petty on top of stupid. His call.

In the meantime, Travis shoulders the forcefield again. In most games, if you hit it hard enough, and for long enough, it'll collapse. Why shouldn't it work that way here, too? He wails on it from the inside, alternating kicking, punching, and slamming on it with the butt of the pistol. If anything, it only gets him more amped up.

Countdown's on, everyone.

For the moments it takes him to make a decision, time slows.

If this was a videogame there'd be lots of emphasis on choice right now, maybe a little bar indicating his time limit on the bottom.

Rhys holds the cuffs in a loose grip. On one hand, he holds no loyalty to Waver and is actively fighting to get out of the system he serves. If he helps Waver out now they're as good as caught, and he'll have Travis on his ass soon as they're back unless they stick him in solitary forever, an outcome unlikely enough that it's not worth betting on.

On the other hand...he doesn't really want to see a guy who he has no beef with get shot in cold blood. And more importantly he doesn't want to deal with what'll happen to him if they get caught after.

He's fucked either way to some extent, but the less in either direction the better. He looks between Travis and Waver and makes the choice he thinks is going to go best for him.

WAIT- Okayokay don't-

He throws throws the cuffs to Travis.

"Don't kill him."

Ever watch a man's life flash before his eyes? That's what happens when Rhys throws those cuffs at Travis. The color completely drains from Waver's face.

"Oh dear God."

He could go for those cuffs, but risks the Field coming down as he does and Travis being able to get his hands on him immediately. Or he could continue blowing through his meager manna and reinforce the Field, though there probably isn't time.

Waver gives a quick look around. No sign of any Wardens on the way. They could be hours away. They might not even have seen the flare.

This... This was probably it, wasn't it. What an embarrassing way to go. Of course he couldn't help but think how disappointed Iskandar would be in him.

Instead of the field or the cuffs, Waver begins to cast again, eyes leveled at Travis with renewed determination. The flare worked as intended, but instead of casting it upwards, it's aimed at Travis for when that shield comes down. He hated resorting to this, truly. But this was life or death now.

When the cuffs hit the force field and land near him, Travis glances at them and thinks Rhys has got to be joking with a request like that. This is a warden. Half measures feel like disrespect.

If there’s any reason to let the guy live, it’s to make him realize how close he came to losing it all and wait for him to fight harder next time. That’d be satisfying. Juicier.

“Noted,” he tells Rhys.

Travis keeps working at the barrier, gaze fixed dead ahead on Waver. The guy’s casting, and Travis doesn’t know what magic is headed his way, but he knows it’s not gonna snare him again. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice—

When the barrier comes down, he banks left, scooping up the cuffs and, diving into a smooth shoulder roll to dodge.

The fire behind Waver roars up again, burning bright blue, and the flare that shoots towards Travis just barely misses him. Waver had aimed low, trying not to hit Travis in the chest or face. Maybe he should have.

No time to cast another one. No time to set up another shield. Countdown over, time was up.

All he could do now was dart around to the other side of the fire. Try to keep it between him and Travis, try to keep those blue flames up high.

Travis is up on his feet again in an instant, the heat of the near miss sending a rush up his spine. Fire, fire and more fire. He pockets the cuffs and keeps moving forward, around the fire. Like kids running in circles around a table ––someone's gotta give eventually, and Travis is sure it won't be him.

"Fireball lessons starting now, huh?" he calls, baiting, and he aims the gun.

"Yeah. This is what you wanted, eh?"

Waver had very few options left, but one last idea sprung to mind. As Travis aimed the gun, instead of backing off, Waver barreled toward him. The gun wouldn't fire in the hands of an inmate.

He's casting again as he does, cigar still in hand, a golden glow forming ahead of him just like when Jack had charged him. Knock Travis down and keep him pinned until -- Until what? Travis gave up? Help arrived? Waver ran out of mana? The latter was the likely outcome. Waver wasn't giving up though. He might not have much, but he'll still give it everything he's got.

"Hell yeah!"

Travis pulls the trigger. Nothing but a beep. Some sort of fucking safety? A lock? He doesn't have time to figure it out; guy's coming and he's not going to get rushed by a guy who looks like he's never bench-pressed shit.

So Travis shifts, stepping into the charge hard and bringing his elbow up to drive right into Waver's face, magic or not. Turn this guy's momentum into his own pain. If it blows up in his face, whatever. He'll push through. He's Travis fucking Touchdown––

Rhys, for his part has been keeping to the sidelines, not wanting to catch a stray fist or bullet or fireball. He braces when the gun comes out, hopes Travis will have caught on to his indication an alive, restrained warden is more valuable to them then a dead one.

But nothing happens, the trigger's pulled but the gun doesn't go off and Rhys can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed.

"Ah, crap."

He scrambles to open up Waver's commlink, maybe there's something in here that'll give him and Travis the upper hand.

And he's Waver fucking Velvet.

With a roar, he runs into Travis just as the he shield takes shape, but it's almost immediately broken. Travis's elbow slams into the shield, and while it doesn't hit Waver, the impact sends the mage sprawling. The field flickers out as fast as it forms. He could only hope it was enough to knock down Travis too.

His elbow sings out and Travis stumbles aside, just barely getting a knee out to catch himself and keep moving, pushing himself hard to recover. Wouldn't be number one twice if he took a whack like that and stopped dead, right? He's grinning as he does, even as the impact startles his senses. Magic. He's going to beat the shit out of a fucking mage. Even if he was bleeding out, that thought along would keep him going.

He's onto Waver in a second, lunging into a leg drop, but this isn't some WWE show. This is the real deal. It's meant to hurt.

[ The commlink yields nothing useful, just a bunch of e-books and information that won't help them in the immediate moment, Rhys pockets it again. ]

HEY- hey that's good enough just cuff him already!

Waver and his windpipe don't stand much of a chance against that move. He makes a strangled, ragged noise in response, making a shaky grab for the leg laying across his chest. About the only other thing he can do in response is look Travis dead in the eyes, Waver's own filled with determination, a will to live. Hoping that maybe there was a shred of humanity somewhere down inside this guy, but knowing at this point it's probably long gone.

Travis lets the guy reach. Recovery time is a bitch, and if he pushes through, Travis is sure he can just turn it into a leg wrapped around the guy's neck. He locks eyes with Waver, his gaze intense, his mouth stretched into a hard line.

"You want this to be over, stay down," he warns.

It's not a surprise that the non-exercising, half a pack a day smoker doesn't take a full grown man slamming into his chest very well. He grips on to Travis's leg in a bid for attention, for connection.

"Don't do this... to yourself. Just stop."

This isn't a threat, it's a plea. He knows they'll either just be caught by the other wardens, or worse, left with nothing on this mostly empty planet. Waver is much as worried about their safety as much as he is his own.

Don't do it to... himself?

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," Travis replies, curtly. Having a grown man clutch at him that way feels more disturbing than the simple thought that he could kill the guy –– the latter was always a possibility, as predictable as the weather, but the former makes his lip curl. Don't you have any pride? Some guy has you in this position and you wanna appeal to their soul?

Travis reaches to peel Waver's hand off and pull himself away, getting to his feet none-too-gracefully. His hand is still wrapped around the handle of the pistol.

"Get up," he orders.

After a moment or two, Waver starts unsteadily get to his feet. The only time he takes his eyes off of Travis is to shoot a glance over to Rhys, to see what he's been doing this whole damn time. Thick as thieves, as they say.

"What's the plan. Eh? What is it. Jack took off with almost everything. Plan to start life over as a fishwife? Don't do this to yourselves."

He shoots another quick glance to Rhys. He might be the more reasonable one, but it was probably harder to be less reasonable than Travis.

[ Rhys momentarily meets Wavers eyes, brows furrowed and mouth in a tight line, before he turns his attention back to Travis. ]

If you kill him, we're totally screwed. But if he's alive and not hurt- uh. More hurt, there's a chance we can broker a deal with whoever's about to come and get us.

[ There's an urgency to his tone, Travis is a loose canon and this is their last shot at getting any kind of upper hand in this situation. ]

Travis lingers where he is, finger idly rubbing at the trigger; he knows it won't go off, but just the feel of it keeps the tempo up in his mind. He wants the fight so bad it feels momentarily blinding: how can these two not get it? His heart is hammering. It alone feels great.

"I don't want a fucking deal," he says. "The only plan is when they get here, I want a fight. A real one, with someone who will make it worth my fucking while!"

He takes a hard step towards Waver, holding the gun out in demonstration. His voice rises, intense, furious:

"So you tell me how to use this thing so that I can make it interesting, and then you can sit your ass down with Rhys here and wait for me to put on a fucking show!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Why is everything about fighting with this idiot? Rhys rakes a frustrated hand back through his hair, can feel the now dried blood that had gotten into it flake between his fingers. He is going to fucking lose it soon, but he's also bargained with bigger threats.

"We can make that part of the deal if you would just cuff him already instead of wasting time!"

Waver tenses up as Travis turns to him, straightening up to his full height.

He knew his answer would doom him, but at least it would spare the other wardens when they arrived. He knew Travis was never going to listen to Rhys. It was pointless to wait.

One simple word, quiet but sharp: "No."

Travis just pulls the cuffs from his pocket with his free hand and whips them, overhand, at Rhys.

"Get your deal yourself," he says, and he turns back to Waver. "You're lucky. This pussy isn't going to do it himself, and I'm not some sicko torturer."

Rhys stumbles to catch the cuffs, looking up sharply to glare at Travis once he's properly grasped them.

"I wasn't going to torture him, I'm not an animal like you."

Said as he finally makes his way over to the two of them (and assuming this stupid fight is over) to cuff Waver himself.

PORT: MEODRIOTOPE

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