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Snippet #2824863

located in Klendath, a part of The Multiverse, one of the many universes on RPG.

Klendath

The main inhabited planet of Glendathu, and the home planet of the Oberon.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Exogarden Forces Character Portrait: ICON Character Portrait: Khor Militia
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Footnotes

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As the trucks of men unloaded onto the settlement’s concrete pathway, a young man watches alongside his several compatriots, looking on as the men, very distinctly more organized than the militiamen that were currently based in the station. He says a quick goodbye to his friends as they stare in quiet observation at the assemblage of soldiers, standing before their shouting leader, quickly setting down across the camp, running across a variety of people gathered either watching the newcomers, and a small crowd of individuals gathered around a weathered box television, the screen dusty and weathered with dust and sand.
The young man steadily sprints along a weathered path until he comes across a camp, and runs into one tent, slowing down as he opens a flap.
“Grandfather, Grandfather!” he says, rather loudly, interrupting an ancient, shirtless man with a beard down to the middle of his chest, seemingly in the middle of a prayer. “What now, boy?” his grandfather intones, squinting in the light of the sun. I was in prayer, boy. Is nothing sacred to the young? By Godwind.” The boy doesn’t take the time to look ashamed before hurtling on. ”Grandfather, the peace-fighters are here, like Erva said! They are here to help. We will push back the rebels!” The Grandfather shakily stands, before grabbing a long, wooden rifle he uses to steady himself from a nearby cot, the design similar to that of a a Mosin-Nagant. He stares intently into the eyes of his grandson, and shakes his head. “My son’s son, you should not dream of war, like many of you young make the mistake of. I told you to board the savior ships with your Mother and your sisters, but you insisted. I don’t want you to have to go through what I have. War is not for children.” The boy’s face turns a light shade of red, but he doesn’t say anything. The elder sighs, and pushes out of the tent and into the setting daylight. “Go and get a gun you can handle, boy. Godwind willing, at least be ready to fight, if you are so insistent.”
The boy nods and runs back up the path as his grandfather weakly follows.
Soon, he comes to the newly erected armor, where he stands in line with some of his friends, many discussing how exciting the new people would be, and how surely the Khor would flee upon seeing the organized movement of the Peace-warrior spacers. “We will have this solved in a single tenday!” one laughs, the boy chuckling hesitantly alongside them. They go around as they slowly move forward in line, discussing what they’ll do when the revolution is put down until it comes to the boy. “What about you, Almed? What will you do?” one of his friends asks. The boy spends a couple seconds thinking before responding. “I’ll probably continue to help Mother and the family with the goats, I suppose.” His friends look at him, straight faced for a couple seconds, before collectively bursting into laughter, one of them clapping him on the back. He again turns red-faced. He’s about to retort when he realizes that he’s about to be at the front of the line, and his friends walk up and collect their weapons, many gathering M18s from the Exogarden armorer, or AK-74s from the K’Lath representative, who Almed quickly realizes is one of his Grandfather’s friends, who would surely give him a bolt-rifle like Grandfather used, but which he was no good with. He decides to take his chances with the spacer weaponsman, a wide, shorter man, who the boy hesitantly steps up to. The man rustles around a bit before handing him a large, heavy rifle, which he takes, the weight unwieldy but manageable. He begins to speak in common, saying “Thank you,” before being quickly interrupted by another spacer who plucks the rifle from him before quickly saying something to the weaponsman, who chuckles and hands Almed a smaller rifle, which he hesitantly takes and mutters another thank you before walking off to meet with his friends again.
He eventually finds them, all standing around and eating the food the K’Lath grubmaster had given them, a soup made of goat flesh and a variety of spices and vegetables. They’re all wearing their rifles, eager to show them off, all large and high-calibered, when Almed walks up, and they spot his rifle. “Why did they give you a woman’s weapon?” one asks, seemingly seriously, the others trying not to laugh. Almed sighs, and says quietly that they didn’t, another man with the word “Anderson” sketched on his shirt took the rifle they gave him and switched it for the Starling. Upon hearing this, the other boys sober. “You really should stand up for yourself, Almed. It would do you good.” Almed just shakes his head and continues eating. “I mean, it’s not your fault you’re small. You’re just later in… uh… well, it’s not your fault,” another one says.
Almed just sighs, and mumbles “I’m going to go back to camp and get ready for colors.”
As he leaves, the other boys, all between the ages of 16 and 18, look at each other darkly before setting off along the outside eating area, searching for the peacekeeper named Anderson.

Elsewhere.
3 miles southeast.
18:23 PM, Dark Hours.

The sun was setting rapidly, leading into a night that would be surprisingly short. Twelve men in a variety of clothes, the single unifying feature being grey and purple shemaghs wrapped around their faces, stand around a small campfire, one of a camp of about a dozen, roughly 130 men. They have treadbikes around them, snowmobile-like vehicles designed for traversing desert dunes. The light smoke rises from the campfire, quickly dispersed in the wind, as small amounts of food cook over it, mostly hunks of meat from goats and desert lizards. The men, waiting as they watch their food cook, are passing around a pipe of sorts, filled with what appears to be purple dust.
The men, as evidenced by their outfits, appear to be Khor militiamen, the splinter army forwarded by their religious separatist group, the Fh'Khoreth. They have a single leader, a man in plain robes with a large circular, toothed symbol sewn onto his back and shoulders, a Fh'Khoreth warpriest, should anyone familiar with them have seen it.
"Eat and rest well, brothers," the man intones. "Come the time, we shall set off and see what this monolith to these L'Chek space-mongrel's god has done, that taints the desert so." He references the distant greenery, motioning towards it as he speaks to the assortment of men, both young and middle-aged. "Soon these filthy unbelievers will be eaten by the scavengers of the desert, as we advance with the full might of the Brotherhood."
They continue to smoke the Melange, although some of the older men seem reluctant. Two of them glance at each other before standing and walking to the edge of the camp, before conversing in hushed tones.
"This fanatic is a madman. I do not believe we are ready to take on an army of foreign soldiers."
"You lack faith, brother. We are surely capable of at least scouting the camp, learning what powers they hold. No alien sorcery will stop us."
"I think you lack sense, my brother. Think. These men are capable of sending off the children and women to safer spaces through rockets, and have been altering the desert since we were but children. Their sorcery is powerful."
The other man shakes his head. "I am fearful, my brother, but we cannot simply leave. Even if we are to make it back to Victor, we would be trialed as criminals, and not just us, but our families would be killed as well. No. We must fight, and if so, die to protect our kin."
"Still, my brother and friend, I hate to think what would happen to our families should we be on the losing side in this war. I remember our days in the Mobile Infantry, when we would not fear combat against our own blood. Now, we are a nation divided, and I know not which side to fight for."
"I know not either. I will pray on this."
"I as well."
The men step back into the camp, and sit across from each other, tiredly observing as the younger men begin to consume the Spice Melange, and watch as they begin to exhibit the telltale signs of agitation, and warily take the pipe as it is passed around.
The warpriest rises.
"Stay vigilant, brothers! Come midnight, we advance with the rest of the force!"