The dread incantation by which the Priests of the Count slay shipfuls of soldiers at a time is not unique to them, though they do wield it with more, ah, verve than one usually sees among bank clerks.
Even among their inferiors, however, it always presages a collapse in fire, and splinters, and death. Speak it only when you would tell a man he is soon to die at your hand, unless fate elects to be kind.
My colleagues are well-versed in such spellcraft, for while Royalty is to give names, Wealth is to give numbers. It can be said, therefore, that Mottom’s days have been given number.
As a mercenary I can confidently say that no sober quantity of money or goods could make me attend this war, which until properly named I am terming “The War of the Vault”.
Granted, there is quite a drunken quantity of both money and goods available on both sides, but I imagine the money belongs to one who would be loathe to part with it, and I’m holding a personal embargo with the goods of the other.
I have little intent to escape. Eventually someone will come along with an absurd quantity of money, goods, or both, willing to part with it to hire a mercenary, at which point I would be happy to earn my payment.
If I must escape, though, I have repeatedly heard of this wonderful place called Samura.
When one hands wealthy feudal subjects repeating firearms, the resultant aesthetic is predictable. Breastplates give way to coats suited for the trenches with great speed, though the old steel-helms remain in service for some time.
I am lead to believe such even happens when the firearms are developed naturally. The universe is full of wonders.
Anyone else notice the first panels Cio has the exact same stance and expression as the Book 1 cover’s Allison? I have little doubt in my mind that it isn’t a simple coincidence.
Well o’ course ol Yab is remindsom of that blithery wretch. Ol sieeve skin here had no confidence in her identity, I imagine dear Cio be goin’ through the same. I for one just wanna see ’em kiss agian when the soden arse aint dyin’ and the imp ain’t cryin!
It has been established elsewhere that the Demiurges have a certain degree of control over their subjects’ technological development. For their convenience, they tend to keep the good stuff limited to their personal attendants.
While the flame of splitting the unsplittable pales before GLORY manifest, there is less difficulty in managing subjects who can’t wipe each other off the map on a whim, you see.
Verily, it is the habit – nay, ADDICTION – of Tyrants to deprive their subjects of arms. That way, the masses cannot turn those arms against their masters.
Even, indeed, when the Tyrant achieved their position precisely by turning the people against their previous rulers. Tyrants raise hypocrisy and corruption to an art form.
It is not for fear of uprising the Demiurges hoard technology, friend Preem. One could rain nuclear fire on the least of the Seven for a week, and at that week’s conclusion, the one’s emissary would proceed to explain, at length, the peacefulness of his land, and the kindness of its inhabitants. An axe would likely be involved.
No, it is a simple matter of wanting to keep their subordinates’ infighting at a manageable level. Rather difficult for one world to conquer another when the foremost tool of war for either will be its vatra.
The blood prophet Machiavelli would tell you that there’s no hypocrisy in knowing you can do a better job at controlling the mob than your predecessor.
Chaos, suffering, fire and death come naturally. It takes a Will, to supplant those with order, prosperity, industry and life. The mob cannot comprehend this, thinking that they prosper naturally, and murdering their lord whenever nature takes it’s natural course.
It is natural for power to flow from hand to hand, and leave a trail of devastation, as it carves it’s course through time. It is as natural for the mob to rise up against their lord, as it is for that lord to fight back, in defense of his own life.
Would you fault Zoss if he had chosen not to arm the Concordance of Demiurges, knowing that they would use their power to make war on one another, and one day rise against him?
It is, therefore, the duty of every prince to become the best tyrant he can be, in order bottle up that monstrous thing within his dynasty, for as long as possible.
If the mob casts him down, another must take his place.
Now, since his time, there have been some strange experiments in making the entire mob into the lord of their own destiny. However, most mobs seem to respond by abdicating their responsibility onto a chosen lord, and then blaming him for all their problems.
I wonder if they’re actually draining their life essence to fire those anti-ship blasts.
Regardless it does not look like a healthy practice. Take it from someone with a thousand enemies. It’s not their death that matters, it’s your survival.
…and that looks counterproductive. Which is why fanatics are the worst.
You, good sir, are of much sense. Draining one’s life essence to blast ships as if one’s people were nothing more than batteries? Quite a waste. I prefer a good, quick cut of the life threads if I must do this. Better to collect the power from a star’s light and breath, or a nice, hot ball of uranium, honestly. More efficient at physical strikes and a lot less damaging to one’s own body and spirit.
If it’s draining their fury, or some other renewable and useless-in-battle trait, such as compassion, it may be effective enough to solve the problem, and even enhance the odds of survival.
Also, when your goal is to protect someone with an infinite number of enemies, cutting that number down is always wise. Perhaps you need a few fanatics in your own employ, so that your numbers might fall to 970 enemies? Every enemy dead is one less that you have to worry about.
Hmmm…. the Corps of Krieg have arrived it seems. The shelling will begin in five minutes, and the trench warfare will continue until someone blows up the feeble star bathing them in it’s gaudy incandescent glow….
Then they will fight with bayonet, stick and stone in the pale light of the infinite cosmos.
That or they’ll all die in the first five seconds.
The dread incantation by which the Priests of the Count slay shipfuls of soldiers at a time is not unique to them, though they do wield it with more, ah, verve than one usually sees among bank clerks.
Even among their inferiors, however, it always presages a collapse in fire, and splinters, and death. Speak it only when you would tell a man he is soon to die at your hand, unless fate elects to be kind.
Past performance does not dictate future returns.
My colleagues are well-versed in such spellcraft, for while Royalty is to give names, Wealth is to give numbers. It can be said, therefore, that Mottom’s days have been given number.
I feel shaken right to my nest egg. 10/10 first comment.
As a mercenary I can confidently say that no sober quantity of money or goods could make me attend this war, which until properly named I am terming “The War of the Vault”.
Granted, there is quite a drunken quantity of both money and goods available on both sides, but I imagine the money belongs to one who would be loathe to part with it, and I’m holding a personal embargo with the goods of the other.
How do you intend to escape, when this battle grows into a war that enfolds the cosmos?
I have little intent to escape. Eventually someone will come along with an absurd quantity of money, goods, or both, willing to part with it to hire a mercenary, at which point I would be happy to earn my payment.
If I must escape, though, I have repeatedly heard of this wonderful place called Samura.
It shall be a different war on that day, Fel, for by definition the war of the vault is confined within the vault.
It’s been said that War is Hell.
The reality is that Hell, at least, has decent bars.
War also has (in)decent bars
WHAMUU!
AWAKEN, MY MASTERS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUhVCoTsBaM
Well *I’M* not cleaning all this up.
Are those Death Korps?
Death Korps of Mottom.
When one hands wealthy feudal subjects repeating firearms, the resultant aesthetic is predictable. Breastplates give way to coats suited for the trenches with great speed, though the old steel-helms remain in service for some time.
I am lead to believe such even happens when the firearms are developed naturally. The universe is full of wonders.
Aye, it seems many parts of the universe developed similiar fashions. It makes sense for the all the humanoids. How very universal
wearing uniforms of brown
in castle form and jayne cobb’s town
the corpse will keep your mother down
Did someone say die for the Imperiatrix?
What a shitshow.
Aye, it verily is.
The excrement has, indeed, impacted the rotary air-circulation device.
Oscar’s GOD DAMN FACE though
tonight only!
000752 VS jack Daniels!
who would win? who would survive!?who would claim.. the championship?!
Three tubes of black glass on the red devil.
“Why do we fight?”
“To win the war.”
Mottom, Mammon,
Moth,
Blastwave.
Backwise quickly yon floppy slatternbrains!
Chase the sun to the end of the land
the pass bristle and moor to put feet on the sand.
I left but I still have the keys in my hand.
Anyone else notice the first panels Cio has the exact same stance and expression as the Book 1 cover’s Allison? I have little doubt in my mind that it isn’t a simple coincidence.
All hail our new main character!
Well o’ course ol Yab is remindsom of that blithery wretch. Ol sieeve skin here had no confidence in her identity, I imagine dear Cio be goin’ through the same. I for one just wanna see ’em kiss agian when the soden arse aint dyin’ and the imp ain’t cryin!
Well, this looks exciting.
Holy crap. Three final panels are damned epic.
I’m partial to the tiny, crumpled remains of the priest in panel 5, to be honest.
It’s comedy GOLD! *badum-tssh*
Come now Cio, you’ll get out fine. chaos is where demons do best!
Here I was thinking that only Layla Brimstone got modern guns.
It has been established elsewhere that the Demiurges have a certain degree of control over their subjects’ technological development. For their convenience, they tend to keep the good stuff limited to their personal attendants.
While the flame of splitting the unsplittable pales before GLORY manifest, there is less difficulty in managing subjects who can’t wipe each other off the map on a whim, you see.
Verily, it is the habit – nay, ADDICTION – of Tyrants to deprive their subjects of arms. That way, the masses cannot turn those arms against their masters.
Even, indeed, when the Tyrant achieved their position precisely by turning the people against their previous rulers. Tyrants raise hypocrisy and corruption to an art form.
It is not for fear of uprising the Demiurges hoard technology, friend Preem. One could rain nuclear fire on the least of the Seven for a week, and at that week’s conclusion, the one’s emissary would proceed to explain, at length, the peacefulness of his land, and the kindness of its inhabitants. An axe would likely be involved.
No, it is a simple matter of wanting to keep their subordinates’ infighting at a manageable level. Rather difficult for one world to conquer another when the foremost tool of war for either will be its vatra.
We’re rather easy to distract, it turns out.
The blood prophet Machiavelli would tell you that there’s no hypocrisy in knowing you can do a better job at controlling the mob than your predecessor.
Chaos, suffering, fire and death come naturally. It takes a Will, to supplant those with order, prosperity, industry and life. The mob cannot comprehend this, thinking that they prosper naturally, and murdering their lord whenever nature takes it’s natural course.
It is natural for power to flow from hand to hand, and leave a trail of devastation, as it carves it’s course through time. It is as natural for the mob to rise up against their lord, as it is for that lord to fight back, in defense of his own life.
Would you fault Zoss if he had chosen not to arm the Concordance of Demiurges, knowing that they would use their power to make war on one another, and one day rise against him?
It is, therefore, the duty of every prince to become the best tyrant he can be, in order bottle up that monstrous thing within his dynasty, for as long as possible.
If the mob casts him down, another must take his place.
Now, since his time, there have been some strange experiments in making the entire mob into the lord of their own destiny. However, most mobs seem to respond by abdicating their responsibility onto a chosen lord, and then blaming him for all their problems.
Hrmm… Verily.
I probably don’t need to comment on my abject terror, huh.
I wonder if they’re actually draining their life essence to fire those anti-ship blasts.
Regardless it does not look like a healthy practice. Take it from someone with a thousand enemies. It’s not their death that matters, it’s your survival.
…and that looks counterproductive. Which is why fanatics are the worst.
You, good sir, are of much sense. Draining one’s life essence to blast ships as if one’s people were nothing more than batteries? Quite a waste. I prefer a good, quick cut of the life threads if I must do this. Better to collect the power from a star’s light and breath, or a nice, hot ball of uranium, honestly. More efficient at physical strikes and a lot less damaging to one’s own body and spirit.
If it’s draining their fury, or some other renewable and useless-in-battle trait, such as compassion, it may be effective enough to solve the problem, and even enhance the odds of survival.
Also, when your goal is to protect someone with an infinite number of enemies, cutting that number down is always wise. Perhaps you need a few fanatics in your own employ, so that your numbers might fall to 970 enemies? Every enemy dead is one less that you have to worry about.
A good end for a little adventure! Let”s go to the tavern and get another quest.
I’ve yet to see a bulletin board in any of the back-story shots.
LET THE MUSIC PLAY ON!
This party pleases my War Aspect.
Hmmm…. the Corps of Krieg have arrived it seems. The shelling will begin in five minutes, and the trench warfare will continue until someone blows up the feeble star bathing them in it’s gaudy incandescent glow….
Then they will fight with bayonet, stick and stone in the pale light of the infinite cosmos.
That or they’ll all die in the first five seconds.
The Black Speech is such a beautiful language.
Beautiful in the sense that a train wreck is beautiful, but still beautiful.
And the Universe itself trembled, as if it knew its time was drawing close….
My violence-bone has never been more FIRM. The yeast of my soul has RISEN. AND I MUST DEFILE IT.
You want butter on that?
To quote a gentleman and scholar: “The time has come, and so have I.”