Re: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Signups!]
08-10-2011, 03:57 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Niall.
Username: Niall
Name: Ordinant Cath Faireoir
Gender: Female
Race: Anáil Feithidí. An eerie combination of the torso of a human and the legs and body segment of a millipede. Don’t ask about their reproductive system, unless you want to receive the visage of an eerie combination of your face and your kneecaps.
Colour: Standard Issue Bombadier Jacket Blue; #133366
Biography: Any member of the Anáil Feithidí would have made a suitable Grand Battle competitor. Highly regarded as holding the greatest interplanetary military force by any planet unfortunate to be caught in their intergalactic war path, their citizens are primed for war by the sociologic spark that is their Executive Ministry. From an early age, the virtues of combat, tactical thinking and subservience are impressed into the young hatchlings. Feats of strength and cunning are publically rewarded (they do not have Science Fairs. They have Armament Fairs) whereas acts of defiance are publically rewarded with death or, if the Arbiter responsible for the unlucky dissenter’s sentence is feeling particularly creative, worse. It is this hostile environment that breeds soldiers capable of occupying whole planetary systems and enslaving its inhabitants within a year. Soldiers that, even at the rank of Sub-Private, have knowledge of advanced weaponry. Soldiers that, despite their ruthlessness, their viciousness, bleed patriotism and comradery. Soldiers that use tactics that under the law of most known Galactic Federations would be considered war crimes. Perhaps it is only fitting that the Anáil Feithidian entered into this Grand Battle is not the strongest of its kind, but the woman who pruned her society into the killing machine assembly line it was at the beginning of the Grand Battle.
Cath Faireoir, Ordinant of the Second Battalion, Owner of the Zenith Cross, Owner of the Darkened Amphitheatre, Doctorate in Military Occupation, richest woman to have never been arrested for tax fraud and currently residing in Baile Crann as its Archetypal Minister as she has done for the past 50 years was taking a stroll through the Darkened Amphitheatre. Her pride and joy, the culmination of her life’s work, during the day it was empty save a moustachioed cleaner scrubbing the last of the blood stains off of the lower seats while Cath took a morning stroll through the pit. A hunched, young man clutching a clipboard trailed behind her, trying desperately to appear shorter than her despite being a good head taller than her. His words were punctuated with rapid gasps of air, trying to stay behind his employer without breathing in the oily, black smoke trailing from her cigar.
“... and the Daily Clarion has requested an interview with you for their monthly featurette Your Ord...”
He was cut off sharply, as he always was whenever he tried to end his sentences. He had considered not ending his sentences with “Your Ordinant”, but he knew that if he ever forgot he might get a “look”, and that would be enough to end his career right then and there.
“What? You know I don’t do interviews. Damn reporters, they’re slimy weasels. They always request face-to-face interviews in public so you can’t do anything when they start asking tricky questions. Freedom of journalistic speech, Críost! How did we let that one stay in?”
Cath kept her back to her Trusted Adviser and blew another stream of black smoke into the wind.
“Just send them the usual biography: daughter of a rich oil merchant, but chose to forsake her aristocratic roots in favour of the Intergalactic Artillery. Quickly became the youngest female Post-General in Artillery history and the only female Ordinant in history. Helmed the successful triumph of Traicotian War as well as the subsequent conquest of the Traicotian Galaxy and neighbouring galaxies to boot. Foremost expert on Interplanetary Conquest, benevolent politician, once appeared as a Guest Cook on Masterchef. Currently owns and operated the Darkened Amphitheatre, the forefront of live entertainment, the cutting edge of excitement. Literally, the only place in the world you can watch enslaved aliens battle each other to the death for their freedom. Tickets on sale now. Kids get in half price etcetera, etcetera. The public eats that cac up. Got it Wheezy?”
Aaron “Wheezy” Jorent had been hired three months ago by Cath as one of her “Trusted Advisers”. Despite graduating at the top of his class with Honors, he had coughed once during his interview. The name stuck, Cath made it stick. She turned her back on him once more to inspect the circular walls of the walls of the pit "jokingly" given the title "Death's Maw". Once her back was turned, Wheezy appraised her elegant, upright form.
He noted that she left out certain facts in her abridged autobiography, like the fact that she had reached the rank of Ordinant without ever engaging in direct combat, that it was rumoured that it was she that had convinced the High Minister to declare war on the Traicotians and further spurred on the bloodlust of the Anáil Feithidí so as to continue their galactic rampage. She omitted other juicy autobiographical facts, for instance: while she was not the High Minister she held enough power, both in economics and the military, that the High Minister was simply a puppet she could use and dispose of if public opinion were to change. Facts about her treatment of slaves that, even by Anáil Feithidí standards, could have her imprisoned for war crimes if she was not also the War Crimes High Commissioner. But this was why she didn’t do interviews, of course. As the third of the four advisers, he was responsible for the day to day administration and liaisons of Cath Faireoir. The other three came and went at random and were privy to information far more sensitive than that he knew of.
“Pedro! You missed a spot!”
Cath had turned around now and was holding up a severed finger from one of the more fortunate combatants of the previous night’s battle. The round cleaner with the large moustache looked up to inspect the item in her hand and roared with laughter.
“AHAHAHAAAH! On my planet of Turogch, we call that dinner. Pass it to Pedro before it wastes! Here, Here!”
Pedro gestured with both arms to pass her the finger in jest. Cath momentarily allowed herself a small smile. Pedro was the only slave, or any being for that matter, that she made exceptions for. Not because she pitied him (he lived in an apartment the size of a pizza oven. She didn’t care), but because he was one of the few people who could amuse her, even after 20 years as the cleaner. She raised her eyebrow as she upped the joke's anti.
“Pedro, this is a finger of Turogch warrior. Are you suggesting I feed you one of your own?”
“Yes, yes. Is my brother. He wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Cath allowed herself a rare moment of public laughter, real belly laughter, before catching herself. She shouldn’t lose her composure in front of her assistant, it is unprofeesional. She lit up another cigar and gestured to Wheezy to continue.
“The Amphitheatre Steward wishes to know if you will be occupying your box tonight, Your Ordi...”
Before he could finish, Cath pulled a revolver out of her jacket pocket and without so much as turning to face her target, she let three bullets loose into the window of her private box. The glass shattered and rained down in fine shards onto Wheezy.
“I’LL GO BACK TO THAT DEATH TRAP WHEN SOMEONE INSTALLS BULLETPROOF GLASS, THAT’S WHEN!”
Description: Cath wears the traditional military jacket of an Ordinant and silk stockings on her many legs. In her heyday she was quite fit, if not quite the high grade military that would be expected of a high ranking Battalion officer. Now, at 120 (approx. 50 in human years) she has aged well. Although having lost most of her looks, she still retains some physical strength and speed in her limbs, although she has never had to put her skills to the test.
Morally, Cath is dubious, at best. She is concerned only with personal gain, such to the extent one could argue she is a sociopath, but they would be wrong. She is just highly selfish. Having never liked other people, she can see no reason to do anything for them or why she should have to. While Cath has ordered the death and imprisonment (legally and illegally) of thousands of beings, she has never once killed herself. She has never pulled the trigger, never pushed the button. For whatever reason, directly ending a life disturbs her, although she'll never show it. Secretly, she is also slightly squeamish and the sight of gore does not often appeal to her. Whenever she wants to appear at the Darkened Amphitheatre, she sends in a stunt double. The last stunt double got killed by an assassin, not that anyone knew. The body was disposed of and a press release was sent out stating she had dodged the bullet. Oh, that’s right, she’s also very narcissistic. She delights in the belittlement of other in order to boost her own ego, verbally and physically.
Cath has a good life. As the puppeteer of a race bent on universal domination, she has long discarded the stresses of manipulating a government to her will. She now does it with ease, seeing the same novice tactics used again and again in the parliament and the courtroom and knowing just how to undermine them. Knowing who is corruptible and who thinks they aren’t is a skill she is most proud of. Lately, she is focused more on her precious Amphitheatre. Pitting those brave enough to volunteer themselves to participate in a fight to the death, those fortunate enough to survive are granted citizenship, albeit racism runs deep through the Anáil Feithidí veins and the often live as second class citizens regardless. This racism is perpetuated by Cath herself, through the government and to the people. It’s not personal. As a planetary conqueror, it’s a business to her.
Cath has been feeling listless of late. Another new planet, another new species for her to add to her little colosseum, but as she expands her conquests further she finds similarity in evolution across different planets. Aliens may be different, but it seems they are not so different to each other. All of her artificial battles have merged into a continuous stream of similarity now. Her career is at a plateau just below what she feels it could be. It’s just that there must be something more, something greater to these battles than what they have become now...
Items/Abilities: Cath owns a manual revolver. Two actually, but one is hidden in one of her many boots. On her body at all times she keeps the other revolver, a taser, three mobile phones, twenty three cigars, a make-up compact, lipstick and seven rings, three filled with secret compartments of poison. She’s never used the poison, she just has a femme fatale fantasy she appears to be living in real life. Along with these many sundries, she owns what is known as a Para-Life. It is an artificial simulation of certain personalities. Any member of the Anáil Feithidí can, for a large fee, have their personality, memories and knowledge copied and uploaded to this handheld device and can converse with up to seven different AIs. Cath has her late Father, a genius who is one of the top minds at Eitilt University, and herself, among others.
As for her abilities, she is a crack shot with her pistols, always keeping prepared. While she doesn’t have great strength, she keeps herself reasonably fit, again, because you never know who might try to assassinate you. Due to her legs, she can move at great speeds when she puts her mind to it. Her real talents lie in that of persuasion and manipulation. She understands you. She’s seen countless people like you before and she knows what you want even if you don’t. She tells you what you want and how to get it all the while reminding you that she is in charge and you’d best do what she says.
She doesn’t trust you and you’d be a fool to trust her.
Username: Niall
Name: Ordinant Cath Faireoir
Gender: Female
Race: Anáil Feithidí. An eerie combination of the torso of a human and the legs and body segment of a millipede. Don’t ask about their reproductive system, unless you want to receive the visage of an eerie combination of your face and your kneecaps.
Colour: Standard Issue Bombadier Jacket Blue; #133366
Biography: Any member of the Anáil Feithidí would have made a suitable Grand Battle competitor. Highly regarded as holding the greatest interplanetary military force by any planet unfortunate to be caught in their intergalactic war path, their citizens are primed for war by the sociologic spark that is their Executive Ministry. From an early age, the virtues of combat, tactical thinking and subservience are impressed into the young hatchlings. Feats of strength and cunning are publically rewarded (they do not have Science Fairs. They have Armament Fairs) whereas acts of defiance are publically rewarded with death or, if the Arbiter responsible for the unlucky dissenter’s sentence is feeling particularly creative, worse. It is this hostile environment that breeds soldiers capable of occupying whole planetary systems and enslaving its inhabitants within a year. Soldiers that, even at the rank of Sub-Private, have knowledge of advanced weaponry. Soldiers that, despite their ruthlessness, their viciousness, bleed patriotism and comradery. Soldiers that use tactics that under the law of most known Galactic Federations would be considered war crimes. Perhaps it is only fitting that the Anáil Feithidian entered into this Grand Battle is not the strongest of its kind, but the woman who pruned her society into the killing machine assembly line it was at the beginning of the Grand Battle.
Cath Faireoir, Ordinant of the Second Battalion, Owner of the Zenith Cross, Owner of the Darkened Amphitheatre, Doctorate in Military Occupation, richest woman to have never been arrested for tax fraud and currently residing in Baile Crann as its Archetypal Minister as she has done for the past 50 years was taking a stroll through the Darkened Amphitheatre. Her pride and joy, the culmination of her life’s work, during the day it was empty save a moustachioed cleaner scrubbing the last of the blood stains off of the lower seats while Cath took a morning stroll through the pit. A hunched, young man clutching a clipboard trailed behind her, trying desperately to appear shorter than her despite being a good head taller than her. His words were punctuated with rapid gasps of air, trying to stay behind his employer without breathing in the oily, black smoke trailing from her cigar.
“... and the Daily Clarion has requested an interview with you for their monthly featurette Your Ord...”
He was cut off sharply, as he always was whenever he tried to end his sentences. He had considered not ending his sentences with “Your Ordinant”, but he knew that if he ever forgot he might get a “look”, and that would be enough to end his career right then and there.
“What? You know I don’t do interviews. Damn reporters, they’re slimy weasels. They always request face-to-face interviews in public so you can’t do anything when they start asking tricky questions. Freedom of journalistic speech, Críost! How did we let that one stay in?”
Cath kept her back to her Trusted Adviser and blew another stream of black smoke into the wind.
“Just send them the usual biography: daughter of a rich oil merchant, but chose to forsake her aristocratic roots in favour of the Intergalactic Artillery. Quickly became the youngest female Post-General in Artillery history and the only female Ordinant in history. Helmed the successful triumph of Traicotian War as well as the subsequent conquest of the Traicotian Galaxy and neighbouring galaxies to boot. Foremost expert on Interplanetary Conquest, benevolent politician, once appeared as a Guest Cook on Masterchef. Currently owns and operated the Darkened Amphitheatre, the forefront of live entertainment, the cutting edge of excitement. Literally, the only place in the world you can watch enslaved aliens battle each other to the death for their freedom. Tickets on sale now. Kids get in half price etcetera, etcetera. The public eats that cac up. Got it Wheezy?”
Aaron “Wheezy” Jorent had been hired three months ago by Cath as one of her “Trusted Advisers”. Despite graduating at the top of his class with Honors, he had coughed once during his interview. The name stuck, Cath made it stick. She turned her back on him once more to inspect the circular walls of the walls of the pit "jokingly" given the title "Death's Maw". Once her back was turned, Wheezy appraised her elegant, upright form.
He noted that she left out certain facts in her abridged autobiography, like the fact that she had reached the rank of Ordinant without ever engaging in direct combat, that it was rumoured that it was she that had convinced the High Minister to declare war on the Traicotians and further spurred on the bloodlust of the Anáil Feithidí so as to continue their galactic rampage. She omitted other juicy autobiographical facts, for instance: while she was not the High Minister she held enough power, both in economics and the military, that the High Minister was simply a puppet she could use and dispose of if public opinion were to change. Facts about her treatment of slaves that, even by Anáil Feithidí standards, could have her imprisoned for war crimes if she was not also the War Crimes High Commissioner. But this was why she didn’t do interviews, of course. As the third of the four advisers, he was responsible for the day to day administration and liaisons of Cath Faireoir. The other three came and went at random and were privy to information far more sensitive than that he knew of.
“Pedro! You missed a spot!”
Cath had turned around now and was holding up a severed finger from one of the more fortunate combatants of the previous night’s battle. The round cleaner with the large moustache looked up to inspect the item in her hand and roared with laughter.
“AHAHAHAAAH! On my planet of Turogch, we call that dinner. Pass it to Pedro before it wastes! Here, Here!”
Pedro gestured with both arms to pass her the finger in jest. Cath momentarily allowed herself a small smile. Pedro was the only slave, or any being for that matter, that she made exceptions for. Not because she pitied him (he lived in an apartment the size of a pizza oven. She didn’t care), but because he was one of the few people who could amuse her, even after 20 years as the cleaner. She raised her eyebrow as she upped the joke's anti.
“Pedro, this is a finger of Turogch warrior. Are you suggesting I feed you one of your own?”
“Yes, yes. Is my brother. He wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Cath allowed herself a rare moment of public laughter, real belly laughter, before catching herself. She shouldn’t lose her composure in front of her assistant, it is unprofeesional. She lit up another cigar and gestured to Wheezy to continue.
“The Amphitheatre Steward wishes to know if you will be occupying your box tonight, Your Ordi...”
Before he could finish, Cath pulled a revolver out of her jacket pocket and without so much as turning to face her target, she let three bullets loose into the window of her private box. The glass shattered and rained down in fine shards onto Wheezy.
“I’LL GO BACK TO THAT DEATH TRAP WHEN SOMEONE INSTALLS BULLETPROOF GLASS, THAT’S WHEN!”
Description: Cath wears the traditional military jacket of an Ordinant and silk stockings on her many legs. In her heyday she was quite fit, if not quite the high grade military that would be expected of a high ranking Battalion officer. Now, at 120 (approx. 50 in human years) she has aged well. Although having lost most of her looks, she still retains some physical strength and speed in her limbs, although she has never had to put her skills to the test.
Spoiler
Morally, Cath is dubious, at best. She is concerned only with personal gain, such to the extent one could argue she is a sociopath, but they would be wrong. She is just highly selfish. Having never liked other people, she can see no reason to do anything for them or why she should have to. While Cath has ordered the death and imprisonment (legally and illegally) of thousands of beings, she has never once killed herself. She has never pulled the trigger, never pushed the button. For whatever reason, directly ending a life disturbs her, although she'll never show it. Secretly, she is also slightly squeamish and the sight of gore does not often appeal to her. Whenever she wants to appear at the Darkened Amphitheatre, she sends in a stunt double. The last stunt double got killed by an assassin, not that anyone knew. The body was disposed of and a press release was sent out stating she had dodged the bullet. Oh, that’s right, she’s also very narcissistic. She delights in the belittlement of other in order to boost her own ego, verbally and physically.
Cath has a good life. As the puppeteer of a race bent on universal domination, she has long discarded the stresses of manipulating a government to her will. She now does it with ease, seeing the same novice tactics used again and again in the parliament and the courtroom and knowing just how to undermine them. Knowing who is corruptible and who thinks they aren’t is a skill she is most proud of. Lately, she is focused more on her precious Amphitheatre. Pitting those brave enough to volunteer themselves to participate in a fight to the death, those fortunate enough to survive are granted citizenship, albeit racism runs deep through the Anáil Feithidí veins and the often live as second class citizens regardless. This racism is perpetuated by Cath herself, through the government and to the people. It’s not personal. As a planetary conqueror, it’s a business to her.
Cath has been feeling listless of late. Another new planet, another new species for her to add to her little colosseum, but as she expands her conquests further she finds similarity in evolution across different planets. Aliens may be different, but it seems they are not so different to each other. All of her artificial battles have merged into a continuous stream of similarity now. Her career is at a plateau just below what she feels it could be. It’s just that there must be something more, something greater to these battles than what they have become now...
Items/Abilities: Cath owns a manual revolver. Two actually, but one is hidden in one of her many boots. On her body at all times she keeps the other revolver, a taser, three mobile phones, twenty three cigars, a make-up compact, lipstick and seven rings, three filled with secret compartments of poison. She’s never used the poison, she just has a femme fatale fantasy she appears to be living in real life. Along with these many sundries, she owns what is known as a Para-Life. It is an artificial simulation of certain personalities. Any member of the Anáil Feithidí can, for a large fee, have their personality, memories and knowledge copied and uploaded to this handheld device and can converse with up to seven different AIs. Cath has her late Father, a genius who is one of the top minds at Eitilt University, and herself, among others.
As for her abilities, she is a crack shot with her pistols, always keeping prepared. While she doesn’t have great strength, she keeps herself reasonably fit, again, because you never know who might try to assassinate you. Due to her legs, she can move at great speeds when she puts her mind to it. Her real talents lie in that of persuasion and manipulation. She understands you. She’s seen countless people like you before and she knows what you want even if you don’t. She tells you what you want and how to get it all the while reminding you that she is in charge and you’d best do what she says.
She doesn’t trust you and you’d be a fool to trust her.