Script, Midgard Moot

“This is ridiculousness,” Olie Bromson screams a the eassembled nobles. His voice suggests that one of them might be working for the Imperioum or that, if one has pause to consider the loyalty, the entire plan of the loyalists will die at this talbe.

I, who am a true son of Gram, a swordbonir tried and true," he hits himself in the chest with a leatherbound fist, “do not long for the taste of Imperial Wine, the soft voices of the shaved Villani, or the tunes they play on their flutes.” His gestures are crude. “I, like my father and his father before him, born on Narsil, in Augenblau.” He nods. “A place that has birthed Sword Worlder for eight centuries…”

“Aye, Olie, we know the place. We know it.”

Olie, flabbergasted, “You know it Fredereich Huhn. Ya know it, ya say. Ya don’t know it. Tis is an Imperial city now.” He shuffles his feet in an ephemenant jig. They serve tea there and jam now. They wear uniforms and say, “A thank ya sur! Thank you ever so much for letting me kiss your arse! Ya knows Augenblau!”

“Know it well enough to know it won’t be saved by tough talk half an AU away!”

“Tough talk? I mean tough action!”

“And I don’t Olie? My son is Kapitan in Raum. I, myself, served on the Sautr Raganarock as an officer. Think I don’t know action Olie Bromson? You come from ranchers, and that’s all your people have ever been.”

“I’ll thump your skull’s what I’ll do.”

Jagr Carls, flying house colors, rise with their hands on their weapons. The threat of unearthly allows sharpened and augmented with energy fields. The room may well burst with that native rage that Waerd always called Sword Bonhead. It was the reason he wanted Auslander around for his delicate missions.

At the other end of the long table, Hugo Stellarm bangs a heavy gavel to bring the nobles back to the conversation at hand. “Aye, we all want to do something, all of us, but what’s the plan. I’m not sending my ships out to be massacred while the nobles screech at each other over who’s the most Donnerin Swordbonner in all the Sector. You want a pissin’ contest have it outside. This room’s for making plans and I don’t feel like entertaining you all for a season, so let’s move on with it. Do I hear even the smattering of an idea?”

Just then the door to the great chamber opens. A military captain enters with his personal guard. It is Thand Olecsthane already decorated for his campaign in Faldor. “I have a plan Grosser Stellarm. I have a plan indeed.”

“You all are so ready to raise your flag against your family. Aye, it’s the Swordbonir way. Well, what’s it gotten us. The Imperium at are door. Auslander at our table. Diplomacy. Bent knees. I say no true Swordbonir would draw against a true Swordbonir, not for the empire, not if Father Odin himself commanded it.”

Olie Bromson speaks up. “But they have drawn Kapitensleutnant, that is the reason we are here.”

“They haven’t drawn. They stand guard, but they haven’t drawn. I will tell you my plan so that you know my intentions. I intend to ride straight at my target, a ship near and dear to these Telvin Phi people, a ship guarded by Swordbonir. I will attack the ship. I will dare my brethren to retaliate. They will not. They will refuse. And this business will be over with then and there. I do not ask for your permission in this. I simply thought that the nobles ought to know that Imperium is about to be driven from Casperous!”

With that, Thand turns and leaves. The nobles fall into infighting over the rerpurcussions. Hordven Clos turns to you. “Now, we must talk.”

Script, Midgard Moot

At Spin Two Swords Vapraka