Calm Before a Bleak Dawn

The deck would creak as the cold wind of the tunnels caused the metal plating to contract, rivets and bulkheads aching against the squeeze before it would ease again as the gust past. Behind them the great yawning maw of the way back seemed like an invisible giant, the wind causing a great echo to bounce off of the edges until it became tumbled up in itself like an electrical rigging line caught in the grasps of some great creature. Glancing forward they would shine their lantern over the side, starring into the abyss below that dropped away until some 150 metres down it hit the tunnel floor, beady eyes glinting in the final vestiges of line as it picked out seems of Tetracite as well as lone prowling mutants hunger for blood.  That was one thing they were glad off, being safely up here back on ship than where the landing party had gone off too, looking over at the side of the cavern walls to where the old rusts docking station was sat quietly. Once a long time ago they imagined it had been a well worn passing, people coming and going as ships docked, unloaded, reloaded and then were off, the Bosun had told stories of great flocks of ships, all piloted by computers and thinking machines helping the people down here in their lives. They’d struggled to believe it but then given how much they didn’t know these days about the old world it might just have been, they just happy to leave the old bosun to their stories, the newer members of the craft enraptured by the old cavern dog whilst they kept a more productive eye out into the gloom, their sabre hanging from their waist with their boarding arm kept within easy reach just in case.

“Honestly Young William you’d be better off taking a perch, captain will order ya if you’re not carefully lad with all that pacing and watch’in” “Given where we are Salty I’d rather keep moving thanks” “Your choice lad”. Looking over his shoulder he’d find the ships lookout wondering over to join them, a bottle of drink in one hand with a torch of their own in the other, William thought the lookout a touch lazy but he was one of the ships originals, his ease of attitude coming from knowing his ship William supposed as he glanced away from Salty as he popped himself down on a nearby crate, taking a healthy swig whilst he was at it. “Not exactly sure what you’re expect’in to see out there, orders be orders, Captain Sash said she’d be back with the rest in no short time, got the haul armada covering our backs, not like much can sneak up on us coasting here” “I know Salty, just got a bad feeling in is” “Ah, one of those”. William despite his age had developed somewhat of a knack for spotting danger coming, it wasn’t something he’d gone looking for but all the same he’d got a nose for it, being the seventh son of a seventh son some said was the reason why, William himself putting it down to just being cautious. Still he thought smelling the strong grog from here on Salty’s breath he didn’t mind the extra eyes, this place wasn’t called Markova’s Folly without reason as he glanced around them, great seems of rock and formations stretching out far above them and head further down into the oily darkness of the depths below.

The rest of the ship’s company had disembarked close to three hours ago, leaving a skeleton crew to look after the craft and await the return of their comrades, accordingly apart from William and Salty the lookout, they had the Bosun and maybe five others on the craft meant for babysitting the engines and deck guns, William looking down to where the forward pivot mounts were tracking back and forth, the gunners checking their scopes he thought as he breathed out and put his lantern down for a moment. “Can tell your guts roiling young William, seeing squinting in the dark I’m guess’in?” “I wish, some prowlers down below but that’s about normal, it’s the quiet...something about it just being too quiet if you get what I mean Salty” “Ah, silence is the rotter that’s for sure...think’in maybe the captain’s in trouble, waiting for the sound of running feet, the clash of swords eh” “Maybe Salty”. He didn’t like admitting it but pulling sentry duty like this he was thinking of exactly those things, trying to listen out for any sign of trouble that might be coming there way, the whip crack of weapons fire or the shrill ringing of sabres drawn against who knew what hiding in the dark. He knew the ship would be safe given they had a gunhauler covering their backs some way off station, but all the same being this close to the ancient hand tunnels gave him a reason to be on edge, William looming out into the dark as he rested a hand on the hilt of his sabre as Salty took another swig from his bottle.

Leaning against the railing William would remain silent himself for a while, only the sound of the forward gunners chatting or Salty’s occasional quips really breaking the monotony of it as William peered out at the landing dock, one eye always on the dark hole behind it that was the entrance way that lead eventually after nearly a kilometre or three to the hunched mass of rusted metal ahead of them at the tip’s point. He knew he’d hear anything before he saw it but even as he thought that a flash would come from the abandoned township, followed by another before on the winds the echo’s of weapons fire would catch in the ears of the crew, Salty looking at William as William clambered up onto the railing, holding onto an overhead stanchion for a better look as the wind caught in his coat. A few seconds later a keening call would reach up from the depths, a sound every sailor of the gloom knew by heart as the weapons fire was met by the cries of mutated throats, the ships radio squawking to life as the Captain’s voice bellowed down it, the sounds of battle running right behind her. Looking to the Bosun and then one another William would gesture to the landing pad as Salty down the rest of his drink before getting up with a sigh, William raising an eyebrow as he spoke, “I ruddy hate it when your gut’s right…”

### Military Campaign Progress

Ever since humanity took it’s first steps into the unknown there have been those that wondered too far or looked too deep, individuals that saw opportunity where others saw demise only to learn to late just why they should have heeded the very warnings shown to them all along. In the days of sword and blade these signs would often come to the sound of thunder above or the wicked cries of animals none had seen before, those few that had failing to return as their lack of caution caught up with them all too quickly in supposedly quiet glens or on the side of apparently stable mountains. In the end the result was the same until someone else learnt from their mistakes. In the modern era even post collapse as humanity attempts to rebuild itself these same lessons are being learnt all over again, those that ply the dark spaces of the capital ruins seeking out treasure and adventure learning what it means to heed the shrill cry of mutated throats, the creaking of aged metal and the invisible wrath that comes with radiation. None so more than those of the Raven Privateers, their very livelihood’s determined by the careful continued excavation of tetracite from beneath the former colony, seeking out old secrets lost by forebearers and turning back the clock on the shadows that inhabit so much of the forgotten tunnels that they call home. Here and there however those very same shadows show why they were left to lie in the first place as another crew goes missing treading the very same tunnels that swallowed up the first crews to explore them years if not decades before hand.

For the most part the Raven Privateers put these sorts of risks down to hazards of the job, their carefree but ever curious nature pushing them to  seek out adventure wherever it may occur in the vast underground caverns they call home. Even within the settled and packed port towns a budding privateer can find old tales and maps doing the rounds, wizened old tunnel dogs retelling stories from days of their youth, of rumours and legends that draw the attention of all with an ear for such things. Accordingly nearly every tavern is packed with listeners filling their heads with ideas of wonder, some organising into actual crews with plans to seek out the source of these tales whilst others spend their time just trying to figure out if the tales were ever true to begin with. Most however miss the point of the tales themselves, most seeing them as beacons to the spirit of the privateers, never backing away from a challenge or the chance to stand as a new part of a legend, the actual meaning behind the tale not being one of glory or brilliant adventure but as a warning, to leave sleeping dogs where they lie and that some secrets swallowed by the past should stay exactly that, lost to the very shadows that swept them up all those centuries ago to begin with.

The first few days of the new season would come to the sound of crews still taking on new bodies and supplies as the Black Coat’s hunk in stationary orbit around Drogba’s house, the  Old Adamant paired alongside them conducting sweeps over the wreckage that now littered the cavern bottom around the port town. Survey teams from both forces would find their time split between helping to assess the damage done to Drogba’s house’s defences and the  picking over the few enemy vessels that remained intact enough to actual inspect, most of them returning in utter disbelief at the state of the very craft they had spent hours picking over until the presence of prowlers became too much to risk. Inside of the town as reconstruction efforts continued the first think to go was the smoke that had almost continuously billowed from one of the ruined defence batteries, the fires inside finally extinguished after a multi-day effort between near exhausted ship crews and port militia, the inhabitants of the port itself helping to provide meals and respite in return for such a task. Here and there people would notice though amongst all the effort the presence of a few of the so called ‘metal men’, arbiters guarding crates brought in during the previous season being taken back to their vessel, clearly to resupply them most would guess as the people of the town and the armada crews stayed well clear of them, a few of the younger wanting to get a look at the figures before their mothers or fathers clipped them round the ear. It would be easy to tell amongst the port even after the first two weeks people really didn’t know what to make of these arbiters, they were near alien to the privateers in every sense and yet those tasked with restoring the port were thankful for the supplies they had brought, with the continued supply they reckoned as they reported to an assembly of flag captains and the ports rear admiral that they should be able to get Drogba’s house back to full functionality inside of this season. This good news sends a ripple through everyone present and beyond the walls of the ships cabin itself, the buoyant mood of both armada's and the port militia lifted at the information, Drogba’s reputation for weathering anything coming through once more most would say as they grinned and drank the night away in the various taverns and hanging bars.

This would all change come the end of the third week, having seen the arbiter vessel disappear off and return most privateers had become accustomed to the idea of it flitting back and forth on its little supply run, the ‘dart’ as they called it foreboding but reassuring at the same time in an odd sense. When it failed to return most put it down to a delay, or something grabbing the arbiters attention, probably pot shotting crawlers some crews said after a day, come the end of the fifth and still no sight of the vessel or anymore of its critically needed cargo the port and assembled armada’s would know something was wrong. A quick message would be sent back up to the admiralty only for the report to come back making every privateer wince as it was read out over dozens of ships and in the small market square of the Drogba’s itself. The surface squadron had been in action again and the information they had brought back was not good, according to what had been told the Admiral of the old Adamant and their flag officer had been captured with the surface squadron unable to reach them, the corsairs in some kind of dealings with a group calling itself the Collective. This would leave every face hearing it genuinely stunned as the idea of some surface bound band helping their enemies pushed the astonishment into furious anger, bottles, tricorns and insults flying left right and centerWhat they were exactly no one would know but after the incident other lookouts would start to call in movement in the tunnels, other shafts leading off from the one’s they had cleared and marked sounding with what could have been bootsteps, running or claws possibly all rolled into one. The captain in charge of the forward crews would immediately sound the recall, pulling every crew in and making for the ships, it was at a walk a two hour journey, but they weren’t intending on walking, get their bosun to call in a cutter to the walls of the former port town itself. Making for the stair ways to reach the old docking cradles every single one of the black coats in the town would see a horde of what looked like people, but scrambling on all fours in shredded remains of clothing, their skin covered in Blue tendrils with emaciation affecting all of them, eyes wild like a mutants with some sporting mutated growths from their arms, faces and backs. Forming a fighting retreat the crews would just about make it to the rescue craft as the cutter’s captain cut in hard and roared at the black coats on the walls to jump, pulling away at the last possible second as whatever the creatures were came storming out onto the docking jetty’s, the shrill keening coming from them almost ear splitting as the rest of the armada got a good look at them in far better light. They had once been privateers, the remains of crew flags and markings just visible with each and every one affected by the same mystery that had started to grip members of the black coats that had gone into Markova’s folly.  Now they were afflicted, every faction of the ruins having a different name for them, Privateers knowing them as leches, people who thanks to exposure to far too much tetracite had begun to mutate and devolve, leaving these blood crazed pack like beings that only thought about one thing, fresh blood and meat. The sad part as the information spread throughout the armada was there condition was the answer to just why Markova’s Folly was called as such, the port town had been built on an undiscovered vein of pure tetracite, the port’s electrical grid that had still be running when the black coats arrived agitating the material to the point the entire place had become irradiated to just beneath the detectable levels, those people who spent more than a few hours in those conditions developing nose bleeds and severe headaches, those that spent a day beginning to see things and those with repeated exposure set on an irreversible path to becoming that which had coming seething out of the dark towards them.

Accordingly with the revelation to hand those crew members displaying symptoms of radiation poisoning were shipped back to HomeDown immediately, the fastest cutters outfitted with additional medical beds as ships offered up the services of their doctors to do what they could to stabilise the affected. The black coats knew they’d been lucky only a few had been affected but the affect on their moral would be unpleasant to say the least as the armada pulled back away, radioing back an update as to the condition on the former port town to the admiralty so no one else had to repeat the mistake they had almost made as they fell back to Drogba’s house and Markova’s Folly to fade back into the legends from where it had come, particularly amongst the truculent Old Adamant, in one case a ship's galley being turned into utter scene by the anger of the ground pounders. No one blamed the surface squadron amongst all this as more news followed, anger giving way to stark realisation as people continued to listen, both of the nodes fought so hard for and held to supply the privateers and their armada’s were gone, claimed by others after defeating the surface squadron in combat.

This information over the following days and couple of weeks would put a serious edge in the air with everyone, the entire of the armada’s suddenly faced with the idea of someone intentionally supplying their war with the corsairs, rumours and hear say beginning to whip around the various taverns and ships holds like wildfire accordingly. What would really stir it up however was the additional sting in the tail, the loss of the nodes was bad, the loss of the additional critical supplies that helped repair Drogba’s house and Tink’s town was worse but the loss of all food supply coming in, that was what tipped the cart for a number of people as the potential for starvation brought back bad memories from nearly a year ago, the desperation, the tension, the uncertainty. A lot of people would fear the return of what had almost been, that ripple spreading out through every port town and ships even as Captain’s, bosun’s and the rear Admiral’s sort to calm the building tension as it coursed through every part of privateer society within a couple of weeks. Rationing if the situation wasn’t corrected would have to be reintroduced, the maintenance of the armada’s taking priority given the current war footing they were on, but even that could be a problem. Armada’s were notoriously hungry beasts in every sense of the term, accordingly as the first month led into the second more than one group began to wonder how long before the Old Adamant and the Black Coat’s might start to come apart at the seems.

Those thinking about such things wouldn’t have long to wait as it turned out, with one admiral missing alongside her flag officer the old Adamant would find itself stuck in some sense chasing it’s own rear guns, now officer amongst the force having seniority leaving them for the time being moored at Drogba’s house, the black coats conversely would have no such issue, the admiral arriving back with more than their far share of stories and tales to tell. Orders would of course flit round with the black coats though still recuperating being ordered back into action, signals flashing between neon masts as deck crew hurried to stow supplies, check weapons and test fire engines, the steady revibrating pulse of grav plating filling the cavern air like a warm ripple. Where they were going exactly as it turned out wouldn’t be that far, the Black coat’s being dispatched to an old settlement long abandoned within the privateer’s home territory, a port town known simply as Markova’s Folly. It would take only a week or so’s time to reach the old entrance tunnel’s that lead to the once port, a great blister just poking out from the depths of a crevasse split into the side of the cavern as it widened and twisted downwards in a natural spiral. According to what information was available the port had been established in a similar vein to Drogba’s house, a combination of fortified port and early warning should anything come up out of the deeps. The irony of that statement not being lost on anyone given the place had been abandoned now for decades, utterly failing in its task for some reason crew would say over galley tables during the dusk cycles, though no one was sure as to why. Coming into view of the silent settlement it seemed perfectly placed, the armoured shutters and bulges on the outer sides placed well for enfilading fire, heavy covers clearly meant for deck guns and batteries given a wide arc of fire, if anything it made the confusion worse as to why this place had been left to root as the first tentative crews went a shore to check the landing platforms and cradles were still usable. As it turned out they wouldn’t have to wait long for an answer to their questions

Shortly into the middle of the second month a small number of crews sent to scout the tunnels leading upto Markova’s folly would end up back on their ships with odd symptoms, the occasional random nose bleed, or piercing headache. Of course these would be put down to too much drink, a accidental headbutt of the deck of hard cover, and the offending individual would be shipped back off to duty by the ships doctor. These cases however would keep happening as the black coats took more and more of a presence shore side checking out every approach to the town as ordered by their admiral, until every ship had at least three separate cases all with the same symptoms. This wouldn’t go unnoticed as the more venerable members of the armada’s medical experts starting inevitably comparing notes when they crossed paths or sent checks over to friends amongst other craft. The exact cause for these admittedly small but noticeable issues would never be found until it was too late as the black coats pushed through the final tunnels and declared them clear with the old entrance way into Markova’s folly right before them, the original name of Markova’s Rest still sprayed on the sign board welcoming people aboard.

The first night in the port a shiphand on lookout would suddenly start screaming, their ship mates thinking it was an attack as they tried to get away from whatever they were faced with. Only nothing would be there as the alarm went up and weapons were drawn, the lookout still screaming scolded by their bosun to drop the act. Only they weren’t acting, fighting like a madman to get away from something only they could see, their nose bleeding profusely after the first few minutes until their skin would start to go pale, blue tendrils creeping in around their eyes before they would start frothing at the month, lashing out at their friends and fellow crew to get free. After a few minutes of this they would disappear off running into the tunnels, their screaming echoing through every tunnel in every direction all the way back to the armada itself, only for the scream to be answered in kind by a far more shrill and ear piercing screech from the very dark itself.

What they were exactly no one would know but after the incident other lookouts would start to call in movement in the tunnels, other shafts leading off from the one’s they had cleared and marked sounding with what could have been bootsteps, running or claws possibly all rolled into one. The captain in charge of the forward crews would immediately sound the recall, pulling every crew in and making for the ships, it was at a walk a two hour journey, but they weren’t intending on walking, get their bosun to call in a cutter to the walls of the former port town itself. Making for the stair ways to reach the old docking cradles every single one of the black coats in the town would see a horde of what looked like people, but scrambling on all fours in shredded remains of clothing, their skin covered in Blue tendrils with emaciation affecting all of them, eyes wild like a mutants with some sporting mutated growths from their arms, faces and backs. Forming a fighting retreat the crews would just about make it to the rescue craft as the cutter’s captain cut in hard and roared at the black coats on the walls to jump, pulling away at the last possible second as whatever the creatures were came storming out onto the docking jetty’s, the shrill keening coming from them almost ear splitting as the rest of the armada got a good look at them in far better light. They had once been privateers, the remains of crew flags and markings just visible with each and every one affected by the same mystery that had started to grip members of the black coats that had gone into Markova’s folly.  Now they were afflicted, every faction of the ruins having a different name for them, Privateers knowing them as leches, people who thanks to exposure to far too much tetracite had begun to mutate and devolve, leaving these blood crazed pack like beings that only thought about one thing, fresh blood and meat. The sad part as the information spread throughout the armada was there condition was the answer to just why Markova’s Folly was called as such, the port town had been built on an undiscovered vein of pure tetracite, the port’s electrical grid that had still be running when the black coats arrived agitating the material to the point the entire place had become irradiated to just beneath the detectable levels, those people who spent more than a few hours in those conditions developing nose bleeds and severe headaches, those that spent a day beginning to see things and those with repeated exposure set on an irreversible path to becoming that which had coming seething out of the dark towards them.

Accordingly with the revelation to hand those crew members displaying symptoms of radiation poisoning were shipped back to HomeDown immediately, the fastest cutters outfitted with additional medical beds as ships offered up the services of their doctors to do what they could to stabilise the affected. The black coats knew they’d been lucky only a few had been affected but the affect on their moral would be unpleasant to say the least as the armada pulled back away, radioing back an update as to the condition on the former port town to the admiralty so no one else had to repeat the mistake they had almost made as they fell back to Drogba’s house and Markova’s Folly to fade back into the legends from where it had come

#### Summary:

Following the previous seasons actions the Old Adamant has remained stationed at Drogba’s house with the Black coats being dispatched the scout out Markova’s folly. Unfortunately upon doing so the armada has found out just why the port town was abandoned to begin with, a number of the various ships crews being struck down with severe radiation poisoning as well as discovering a little known enemy that normally only existed in drunk Sailors tales in the quiet taverns, Leches normally being treated as nothing more than a ghost story only for them to be proved to be far too real. Accordingly the Old Adamant has remained at full strength but with no orders currently they have settled into a defensive posture whilst the Black coats thanks in part to their discovery and its affects have taken some losses before they understood what was happening (150 casualties in total, reducing Black Coat strength to 2035/3000). Additionally with the loss of the nodes no new supplies have been received meaning as such at the current rate of expenditure the Old Adamant and Blackcoats will begin to degrade at a rate of 10% of their maximum strength a season in two seasons time if supply is not restored  (Note: Standing strength of Old Adamant is 3000/3000, Black Coat strength is 2035/3000, current strength of Corsair fleet is unknown at this time)

### Wayleighed by the tide

As with all highs there comes a low and for the privateers this particular low comes with the ferocity of an abyssal quake, aftershocks causing ripples throughout every single port town in the privateer domain as well as those shore towns established on the surface above. With the success of the previous seasons most wouldn’t have been surprised to hear of the surface squadron riding the wave that came with such actions to yet greater heights, what the great masses are met with drums the breath from many a mouth as astonishment catches more than a few out as the news it read in market places, aboard the decks of ships or from the gantries of docking cradles to waiting crews. Most had just started to get used to the increase in food about the place, the nightmares of the near food riots seasons before still fresh for many, so hear the total loss of what had been so hard fought for in the agri-dome comes like a sucker punch for more than a few. There is no initial panic thankfully but even as the first few nights after the announcements pass it becomes easier and easier to tell people are worried, where dock crewman and port towners would have happily chewed through an extra helping or laughed about a spillage all of a sudden people are watching what they eat or precisely how much they eat, anything hard lasting stowed away in bags. It takes only a few but those with an eye on the armada’s start to talk in the low eves of taverns and private homes, what will become of the fleets they ask, everyone aware of quite how much effort had gone into re-founding the old adamant. This is when the second punch lands, amongst the more military minded as well as the recruitment drives for crews and sword arms the news hits home first like a raging storm suddenly robbed of all wind.

The news that the admiral for the old adamant and her flag officer being taken prisoners causes an almost indignant roar to kindle in the hearts of those who had spent months helping to restore the old fleet, everyone having seen the rear admiral about, moving to and fro ensuring the old adamant had what it needed, not to mention the tales of her setting out alone to rescue survivors off of her own back. The privateers could be a boastful bunch but that was because they understood the value of stories and to have one like that stolen from them by an enemy, that sets their boisterous blood to boiling point in more than a few places. Come one morning the admiral for home down would find the admiralty steps flooded with agitated privateers of every stripe, more than a few being old adamant crew on R&R hammering on the admiralty’s front door with the butt of their boarding irons. Managing to wave them down the admiral would spend the next few hours with the crowds defacto leaders, just about to keep it from all boiling over into an actual riot as they discussed what had caused the mass of some three hundred privateers to come together like this. In the end they would manage to get the crowd to disperse but not after having their ear almost bled dry by the sheer anger in the voices of those present, their agitation mainly focussed on two separate points. The first of these of course being the fact that ranking privateers had managed to be taken prisoner by their enemy, the news they were being held by a surface band working in cohesion with the corsairs seen as a direct insult from the corsairs to the privateers, the insinuation being that could take who they liked with no reprisal, this the crowd roared demanded a response in kind. The second would be more worrying however, with the surface squadron’s battles and efforts the by and large ordinary members of the privateers couldn’t understand why the admiralty wouldn’t send a force to back them up, it would help them secure what they needed surely they thought as well as keeping others from raiding them to boot with such a force present on the surface. Managing to hold them from taking an action right now the admiral for home down would none the less send a message to the surface squadron immediately, only to fully aware of what could possibly happen if a force of 300 privateers suddenly turned up armed and ready to take the agri-dome by storm…

#### Summary:

1) With the loss of both nodes both armada’s are no without supply meaning if something is not done they will begin to degrade at a rate of 10% of maximum strength per season in two seasons time. On top of this with out the flow of critical supplies being brought down the repair work on Drogba’s house has slowed to an almost halt whilst any repair work on Tink’s town is currently a non-starter. For either of these to restart supplies from a node must be secured accordingly

2) The capture of the rear admiral and flag officer of the old Adamant as caused an almost violent response amongst the ordinary members of the privateer port towns. A band of Old adamant ‘marines’ led by one Lieutenant Raker has stirred up what they are calling an appropriate response, demanding the admiralty and by extension the surface squadron take action in returning the insult paid to them by not only freeing the capture privateers but also taking one or more prisoners from the Corsairs and their allies in the Collective. If the surface squadron is successful in doing so lieutenant Raker and his marines intend to pay the agri-dome a visit and apparently show their gratitude to the surface squadron for taking action where others would not

3) A force of some 300 privateers have made clear their intention if something is not done to assist the surface squadron in their efforts that they intend to storm the agri-dome and ensure a constant supply of food and material to the port towns. Though well intentioned the admiralty is all to well aware of the likely consequences of such an action given the Arbiter’s proclamation only two years ago about the neutrality of the area, keen to avoid what could be potentially a literal massacre they’ve sent a missive to the surface squadron in order to try and head off the good hearted, but seriously ill advised action

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