Planetary Orbital Weapon – [An orbital-particle-cannon based litRPG!] - Chapter 42

~ A prayer made to the great light of the heavens

The world rumbles, quaking as heaven’s sword cuts through it. The winds shift, even high up on the mountain where he stands, turning back for a moment during his ascent to watch the incredible spectacle.

Light cuts through the lands below, running this way and that way, as it has been doing for days now all across the world.

He turns his head back forward, ascending higher towards the peak of the mountain. Cold, frigid air nips at his old face, his gray beard pelted with flocks of snow.

“The battery is at eighty percent,” says the goblin, waiting a moment. She turns her head, looking at a secondary monitor. “No fuses blown. Eighty five.”

Gottlieb nods. It looks like Grunheide’s plan to create conductive slime tubing for the station’s burnt through electricals is working surprisingly well. The gun is in great shape. “Ninety.”

“Braungrube,” says Gottlieb, holding down a button that opens the speaker to her station. “What’s the status?”

There’s a crackling as she presses the button. The minotaur says a single syllable and is then cut off. “You have to hold it down,” explains Gottlieb.

It crackles again, and she comes back on. “Oh, sorry, um…” The minotaur takes a second. “It’s all going well. I see lots of activity on the outer regions of the site. A few caravans.”

“And the mountain?”

“There are a few people working their way up,” she replies.

“One-hundred,” says Grunheide. “We’re ready for another shot.”

Gottlieb nods before grabbing the controls and then carefully aiming the gun. They’re using a series of low-energy strikes for this little project. Each one only takes twenty-five percent of their battery load. They’re waiting for it to recharge to full each time, rather than dumping and recharging the full battery all at once over and over.

The station’s electrics are holding up, but there’s no reason to force them to the limit if it's not an emergency.

He pulls the trigger, and the gun hums up for another salvo.

Blauhausen flops down through the electrical vents of the station, having slipped out of her suit. The ooze carries a series of metal tools inside of her slimy, liquidy body as she slips through the maintenance shafts.

The thick, hose-like cables vibrate, shaking just next to her as the gun winds up for another shot.

She looks at them, her eyes drifting through her gloopy body as she reaches down and tightens a loose clamp that rattles as the pulse moves through it. Satisfied, she drops the wrench back into her goo and then slides off, looking for more things to fix and take care of.

It’s a little scary, being out here by herself. There are monsters in the station now. It’s safe with papa down in the gunner’s bay. He’s strong. But when she has to work, she’s nimble and able to slide into all sorts of gaps and grooves, should the need to hide arise.

With the station ‘growing’ there are more and more things to fix too, as a lot of the new areas are broken upon their creation already. There are loose fixtures and bolts, vents and plates that fell from their fastenings, undone or frayed cables that lead to mechanisms and devices that she doesn’t really understand. There’s always more work for her to do.

But everyone is working so hard on really important things, so she has to do her best too!

The winds cut through his hair as he ascends higher towards the peak of the mountain. The old scholar slips, losing his footing and only barely catches himself on a hanging piece of stone, the sharp edges of which cut painfully through his gloves.

Grunting, he pulls himself back up and against the deadly winds that seem intent to throw him down off of the mountain and to his grave.

Stubbornly, he treads onward, climbing up the steady mountainside as the light comes once again from above.

Standing now high enough to see what the gods hope to say, he places a boot on a stone and stares down at the world below as ash, dirt, and rubble fly high into the air that is darker and colder than it usually would be during this time of year.

As the light fades and the debris rain back down to the world far below the mountain, he stares at the world, the canvas of the heavens, and at the image drawn there on a scale so large that only the gods themselves could see it clearly. He feels as if he were an intruder in a secret gallery not meant for human eyes.

Scholar Kletter looks at the drawing of a man with the body of a human and the physique of a hero of old, carved into the lands of the world.

And…

Gottlieb presses the button a second time.

“Hey,” says Grunheide. “It’s only at seventy-five. Fifty, now,” she says, looking at the monitor. “I thought we were waiting for it to recharge.”

“I know,” replies Gottlieb, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he focuses. “This is the last one. I just need to make the bulge bigger,” he explains, focusing on the screen.

The goblin quietly turns her head back towards him, the material of her suit crinkling as her neck moves. “Pardon me?”

“They’re primitives, Grun,” says Gottlieb, leaning back and staring at the monitor as a cloud of dust rises in the air over the peak of his artistic creation. “They respect this kind of stuff,” explains the man.

“Please, Kai,” says Gottlieb. “You and I both know that I went easy on them, you creep,” says the man, looking at the blue light.

The two of them look back at the monitor. Gottlieb hits the communications button. “What’s the reception like down there, Braungrube?” asks the man.

The speaker crackles. “C- Confusion,” replies the minotaur.

“Are they praying to me?” he asks, looking around himself and then down at his hands, half-expecting something to happen.

There’s a crackling. He thinks it's coming from himself, but then it just turns out to be the speaker. “It’s likely that they can’t identify the image from ground level,” she explains. “It will take a while before reports from the mountain-top reach the rest of them down there.”

He nods. “Good,” says the man. “As long as they figure it out soon enough,” he says.

“Is this a wise use of resources?” asks Auxiliary Gunner Grunheide. He looks at her. “Nutri-rations or meat today?” he asks.

“All hail the human-god!” replies the goblin, turning back to the monitor.

Gottlieb nods.

All hail the human-god.

Praise be to the sky-light, the herald of death.

The dryad, her once simple, gentle form covered in the tattered, mangled furs of dead bears and wolves, walks towards the altar. Her deer-hooves clacking against the stones in sickly contrast with the predators that she wears. She holds a giant fang, carved down into a dagger, in her grasp, looking down at the goblin tied to the altar as a sacrifice.

She lifts the blade into the air above his chest. The goblin squirms, his screams muffled by the whole fruits that have been shoved into his mouth before sewing it shut.

He is one of her children, whom she, as the woodmother of the tribe, is obligated to protect, just as she is obligated to protect the many others.

Her tired, burned through eyes look around the dark cavern, filled with silhouettes with glowing, yellow eyes that watch her.

Sometimes, a mother must make harsh choices.

Sometimes, a child has to suffer more than others for the good of the family as a whole.

She plunges the dagger into his chest, pressing it down through his ribs, next to his heart. Pulling it out, she holds her other hand against his torso to hold him still as she runs the blade out in a circle over the area before setting it aside and reaching in with her hands, grabbing hold of the ribs in the way one at a time and breaking them off. Blood pours everywhere, covering her from head to toe. Her eyes are full of blood, and her head is full of the muffled screams that echo out around the cavern.

She breaks back the last rib before reaching in and cusping the still beating heart of the goblin. It’s so warm.

Her fingers wrap around it, feeling its pulse moving through her and into her.

She rips it out with a feral scream, channeling the old magics of the world through herself and into the heart in her hands as blood pours down onto her face.

— A goblin approaches the altar, and she looks at him, kneeling down and holding out the heart to him.

The goblin looks at her, lifting his hands, and takes hold of the heart. The two of them hold it, and then he tears into it, eating half of it as she eats the other half, the two of them engaging in the ritual as she had done with the dozens of his brothers before him.

Another goblin is brought to the altar, meanwhile, chained down and prepared for the ritual for the next.

After a time, she rises back to her feet, the spent goblin laying down in a pool of blood and fluids, his bones cracking and breaking as the poison spell runs through him. His knuckles pierce through his hands, his finger’s bones growing out over the old nails, His teeth break, new ones growing in that are sharper, larger, cutting through the old head that is still too small for them. He screams, undergoing a horrific transformation into something larger, crueler, and stronger.

She wipes off her mouth, looking back at the altar.

Praise be to the sky-light, the herald of death.

The dryad, her once simple, gentle form covered in the tattered, mangled furs of dead bears and wolves, walks towards the altar, again. Her deer-hooves clacking against the stones in sickly contrast with the predators that she wears, again. She holds a giant fang, carved down into a dagger, in her grasp, looking down at the goblin tied to the altar as a sacrifice, again.

And so it goes, over and over and over again throughout the nights that never stop. Thousands of goblins partake in the ritual, one way or another, and by the time it is all said and done, the night has become much more harrowing than it might once have been in the age of the goblin.

Now is the era of the hobgoblin. A deeper, older, more carnal, and violent version of the goblin that is far stronger and capable. Even with their numbers halved, this boon in strength will make them a far more viable contender against humanity.

Praise be to the death-god.

Razmatazz

I mean, this kind of artistry was bound to happen eventually. I think we all knew, deep down inside ourselves.

O great and shining star in the sky, Hear our prayer as we humbly bow before you. We need your guidance and protection, As we journey through this perilous world. Grant us strength in times of weakness, And insightful prudence when the future is unclear. Be our light in the darkness, And our beacon in the storm. We offer up our hearts and souls to you, In hopes that you will guide us on the path to righteousness. Hear our prayer, O great star, And may your radiance shine upon us forever. Hallow ~ A prayer made to the great light of the heavens Scholar Kletter Human, Male, Scholar Location: Atop a mountainside The world rumbles, quaking as heaven's sword cuts through it. The winds shift, even high up on the mountain where he stands, turning back for a moment during his ascent to watch the incredible spectacle. Light cuts through the lands below, running this way and that way, as it has been doing for days now all across the world. He turns his head back forward, ascending higher towards the peak of the mountain. Cold, frigid air nips at his old face, his gray beard pelted with flocks of snow. Gottlieb The battery is at eighty percent, says the goblin, waiting a moment. She turns her head, looking at a secondary monitor. No fuses blown. Eighty five. Gottlieb nods. It looks like Grunheide's plan to create conductive slime tubing for the station's burnt through electricals is working surprisingly well. The gun is in great shape. Ninety. Braungrube, says Gottlieb, holding down a button that opens the speaker to her station. What's the status? There's a crackling as she presses the button. The minotaur says a single syllable and is then cut off. You have to hold it down, explains Gottlieb. It crackles again, and she comes back on. Oh, sorry, um The minotaur takes a second. It's all going well. I see lots of activity on the outer regions of the site. A few caravans. And the mountain? There are a few people working their way up, she replies. One-hundred, says Grunheide. We're ready for another shot. Gottlieb nods before grabbing the controls and then carefully aiming the gun. They're using a series of low-energy strikes for this little project. Each one only takes twenty-five percent of their battery load. They're waiting for it to recharge to full each time, rather than dumping and recharging the full battery all at once over and over. The station's electrics are holding up, but there's no reason to force them to the limit if it's not an emergency. He pulls the trigger, and the gun hums up for another salvo. Orbital Maintanance Crewmember Blauhausen Blauhausen flops down through the electrical vents of the station, having slipped out of her suit. The ooze carries a series of metal tools inside of her slimy, liquidy body as she slips through the maintenance shafts. The thick, hose-like cables vibrate, shaking just next to her as the gun winds up for another shot. She looks at them, her eyes drifting through her gloopy body as she reaches down and tightens a loose clamp that rattles as the pulse moves through it. Satisfied, she drops the wrench back into her goo and then slides off, looking for more things to fix and take care of. It's a little scary, being out here by herself. There are monsters in the station now. It's safe with papa down in the gunner's bay. He's strong. But when she has to work, she's nimble and able to slide into all sorts of gaps and grooves, should the need to hide arise. With the station growing' there are more and more things to fix too, as a lot of the new areas are broken upon their creation already. There are loose fixtures and bolts, vents and plates that fell from their fastenings, undone or frayed cables that lead to mechanisms and devices that she doesn't really understand. There's always more work for her to do. But everyone is working so hard on really important things, so she has to do her best too! Scholar Kletter Human, Male, Scholar Location: Atop a mountainside The winds cut through his hair as he ascends higher towards the peak of the mountain. The old scholar slips, losing his footing and only barely catches himself on a hanging piece of stone, the sharp edges of which cut painfully through his gloves. Grunting, he pulls himself back up and against the deadly winds that seem intent to throw him down off of the mountain and to his grave. Stubbornly, he treads onward, climbing up the steady mountainside as the light comes once again from above. Standing now high enough to see what the gods hope to say, he places a boot on a stone and stares down at the world below as ash, dirt, and rubble fly high into the air that is darker and colder than it usually would be during this time of year. As the light fades and the debris rain back down to the world far below the mountain, he stares at the world, the canvas of the heavens, and at the image drawn there on a scale so large that only the gods themselves could see it clearly. He feels as if he were an intruder in a secret gallery not meant for human eyes. Scholar Kletter looks at the drawing of a man with the body of a human and the physique of a hero of old, carved into the lands of the world. And Gottlieb Gottlieb presses the button a second time. Hey, says Grunheide. It's only at seventy-five. Fifty, now, she says, looking at the monitor. I thought we were waiting for it to recharge. I know, replies Gottlieb, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he focuses. This is the last one. I just need to make the bulge bigger, he explains, focusing on the screen. The goblin quietly turns her head back towards him, the material of her suit crinkling as her neck moves. Pardon me? They're primitives, Grun, says Gottlieb, leaning back and staring at the monitor as a cloud of dust rises in the air over the peak of his artistic creation. They respect this kind of stuff, explains the man. Reprimand issued - Orbital Gunner Gottlieb - Misuse of orbital station's capabilities Context: Orbital Gunner Gottlieb has used the orbital heavy cannon in order to grossly over-exaggerate his physical features to the native population of the world - Notifying the captain Suggestion: I don't know where to start, honestly. I still suggest ejection into space. Please, Kai, says Gottlieb. You and I both know that I went easy on them, you creep, says the man, looking at the blue light. The two of them look back at the monitor. Gottlieb hits the communications button. What's the reception like down there, Braungrube? asks the man. The speaker crackles. C- Confusion, replies the minotaur. Are they praying to me? he asks, looking around himself and then down at his hands, half-expecting something to happen. There's a crackling. He thinks it's coming from himself, but then it just turns out to be the speaker. It's likely that they can't identify the image from ground level, she explains. It will take a while before reports from the mountain-top reach the rest of them down there. He nods. Good, says the man. As long as they figure it out soon enough, he says. Is this a wise use of resources? asks Auxiliary Gunner Grunheide. He looks at her. Nutri-rations or meat today? he asks. All hail the human-god! replies the goblin, turning back to the monitor. Gottlieb nods. All hail the human-god. Wood-Mother of the Goblin Tribe Dryad, Female, Woodmother Location: Down in the Old Caverns Praise be to the sky-light, the herald of death. The dryad, her once simple, gentle form covered in the tattered, mangled furs of dead bears and wolves, walks towards the altar. Her deer-hooves clacking against the stones in sickly contrast with the predators that she wears. She holds a giant fang, carved down into a dagger, in her grasp, looking down at the goblin tied to the altar as a sacrifice. She lifts the blade into the air above his chest. The goblin squirms, his screams muffled by the whole fruits that have been shoved into his mouth before sewing it shut. He is one of her children, whom she, as the woodmother of the tribe, is obligated to protect, just as she is obligated to protect the many others. Her tired, burned through eyes look around the dark cavern, filled with silhouettes with glowing, yellow eyes that watch her. Sometimes, a mother must make harsh choices. Sometimes, a child has to suffer more than others for the good of the family as a whole. She plunges the dagger into his chest, pressing it down through his ribs, next to his heart. Pulling it out, she holds her other hand against his torso to hold him still as she runs the blade out in a circle over the area before setting it aside and reaching in with her hands, grabbing hold of the ribs in the way one at a time and breaking them off. Blood pours everywhere, covering her from head to toe. Her eyes are full of blood, and her head is full of the muffled screams that echo out around the cavern. She breaks back the last rib before reaching in and cusping the still beating heart of the goblin. It's so warm. Her fingers wrap around it, feeling its pulse moving through her and into her. She rips it out with a feral scream, channeling the old magics of the world through herself and into the heart in her hands as blood pours down onto her face. A goblin approaches the altar, and she looks at him, kneeling down and holding out the heart to him. The goblin looks at her, lifting his hands, and takes hold of the heart. The two of them hold it, and then he tears into it, eating half of it as she eats the other half, the two of them engaging in the ritual as she had done with the dozens of his brothers before him. Another goblin is brought to the altar, meanwhile, chained down and prepared for the ritual for the next. After a time, she rises back to her feet, the spent goblin laying down in a pool of blood and fluids, his bones cracking and breaking as the poison spell runs through him. His knuckles pierce through his hands, his finger's bones growing out over the old nails, His teeth break, new ones growing in that are sharper, larger, cutting through the old head that is still too small for them. He screams, undergoing a horrific transformation into something larger, crueler, and stronger. She wipes off her mouth, looking back at the altar. Praise be to the sky-light, the herald of death. The dryad, her once simple, gentle form covered in the tattered, mangled furs of dead bears and wolves, walks towards the altar, again. Her deer-hooves clacking against the stones in sickly contrast with the predators that she wears, again. She holds a giant fang, carved down into a dagger, in her grasp, looking down at the goblin tied to the altar as a sacrifice, again. And so it goes, over and over and over again throughout the nights that never stop. Thousands of goblins partake in the ritual, one way or another, and by the time it is all said and done, the night has become much more harrowing than it might once have been in the age of the goblin. Now is the era of the hobgoblin. A deeper, older, more carnal, and violent version of the goblin that is far stronger and capable. Even with their numbers halved, this boon in strength will make them a far more viable contender against humanity. Praise be to the death-god. Razmatazz I mean, this kind of artistry was bound to happen eventually. I think we all knew, deep down inside ourselves.