Just the Fiction: Notorious Actual Play - Part 3
As dawn broke, Malachi found himself approaching a towering palace, its ornate spires and domes gleaming in the morning light. This, he knew, was Skab's Palace, the domain of one of the Targ Cartel's most powerful members.
Malachi entered the town surrounding the palace, he observed the various locals who milled about, preparing for the day's work. Something seemed off about some of them – their movements were sluggish, their expressions vacant and unfocused.
Intrigued, Malachi followed the faint sound of a strange, pulsing rhythm, which seemed to be emanating from a nearby warehouse. Cautiously, he made his way towards the building, his hand resting on the hilt of his rifle.
As he peered inside, Malachi's eyes widened in surprise. A Mystic Order acolyte stood in the center of the warehouse, his human hands outstretched as he vibrated a series of metal canisters, creating a mesmerizing, rhythmic tone. Two mercenary guards, one human and one Murian, were nearby, pistols in their hands as they frantically rummaged through a stack of crates.
Malachi stepped forward, rifle at the ready, his presence instantly drawing the attention of the mercenaries. They whirled around, their pistols leveled at the Pellucid Nomad.
"Hold it right there, stoneman," the Murian growled. "This is none of your business. Lower your weapon or we'll shoot."
Malachi's shock rifle did not waver, his eyes focused on the mercenary. "I would advise against that course of action," he said, his voice calm and firm. "Fighting a Nomad rarely ends well."
The acolyte suddenly stepped forward, raising a hand to the mercenaries. "Wait," he said, his voice calm and measured. "This Nomad is a friend."
The crystals that form Malachi's face twisted into an expression of confusion. "Friend huh? I don't know any of you."
The mercenaries hesitated, their weapons still raised. The acolyte turned to Malachi, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Malachi Das I presume," he said. "I had heard a Nomad was on Talus. I owe you a debt of gratitude. Well, actually it's a debt owed to your guild and promised to repay to the next Nomad I encountered and you seem to have won that honor."
Malachi remained silent, his gun trained on the mercenary. The acolyte continued.
"My name is Barden Maw. Years ago, I was under the employ of a money launderer who was target of a Nomad. When the time came, I fought my best to protect my employer but you Nomads sure are persistent. I fully expected to meet the same fate my employer met that day but this Nomad spared my life. Instead, she took me to a small village that was suffering from a virulent contagion and tasked me with healing the sick. And to think that everyone says Nomads are heartless."
Still aiming down the sights of the rifle, Malachi replied, "I don't see how that has anything to do with me."
The acolyte bowed his head. "I owe a debt to your guild. I am repaying it now by avoiding conflict with you."
"It's not enough," Malachi retorted. "I need information. I'm looking for a smuggler named Kwame Devine. Tell me what you know and then I will consider that debt paid."
"I am sorry, but I don't know anything about your smuggler. Our business here is of another nature. I will give you a bit of advice though. Most people on Talus move around a lot. Sometimes information can be found in places you have already searched. May we take our leave or are we to fight to the death here?"
Malachi slowly lowered his weapon slightly and cocked his head quickly to the side, indicating that they should leave. With a wave of the acolyte's hand, he and his mercenaries quickly exited, leaving Malachi alone in the now silent warehouse.
---
Malachi continued his search around the town, stopping to question merchants and locals about Devine's whereabouts. But the responses were always the same - shrugged shoulders and vague denials. It was as if the people were afraid to speak up, their loyalty to or fear of the various factions outweighing any desire to assist a Nomad.
Suddenly, Malachi's attention was drawn to a commotion in a nearby alleyway. He quickened his pace, his shock rifle at the ready, and peered around the corner.
Two burly Targs and their pig-like snouts were towering over a smaller, Murian figure, their faces contorted with menace. The Murian cowered before them, his eyes wide with fear.
Malachi stepped forward, his presence instantly commanding the attention of the Targs.
"Leave the Murian be," Malachi said, his voice low and authoritative.
The Targs turned to face him, their tusks bared in a snarl.
"Well, look who it is - the Nomad," one of them sneered. "Yeah, we know you've been snooping around town. Don't you have someone else to find or did you come to stick your nose where it doesn't belong?"
"I said, leave the Murian alone," Malachi repeated, his grip tightening on his weapon.
The Targs exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing.
"Oh, we'll leave him alone, alright," the other Targ said, his beady eyes narrowing. "As soon as we're done with him."
Malachi leveled his shock rifle at the Targs, his expression unwavering.
"I will not ask again," he said, his voice as stony as his appearance.
The Targs hesitated, disgusted that their fun was interrupted. But knowing that Nomads are not to be trifled with, and the fact that this one is under contract to the Cartel, they backed down. One of the pig-men looked down upon the Murian, "See you around you little rat, you're lucky this Nomad doesn't know how to follow his own code."
Malachi watched them go, then turned his attention to the Murian, who had emerged from his cowering position.
"Thank you, Nomad," the Murian said, his voice trembling with gratitude. "I thought they were going to kill me."
"You're welcome," he said. "But I would advise you to be more careful in the future. The Targ Cartel does not take kindly to those who defy them."
The Murian nodded, his eyes downcast.
"I know," he said, "but all I did was do what they asked of me. They just didn't like the result."
Malachi considered the Murian's words, thinking about his own role and constant duty to the guild. As he turned to leave, the Murian called out to him.
"Wait, Nomad! I have powers. Only Murian I know with the mystic powers! I can help you."
Malachi paused, his gaze meeting the Murian's. "How can you help me?"
"Oh, divination of course. I can give you a vision of the future. Please allow me to help you."
Malachi instantly dismissed the idea of a Murian with mystic powers but he was desperate to find any lead that would point him towards his quarry. "Okay, go ahead."
The Murian had Malachi kneel before him. Then places his furry, clawed hand upon the crystalline face of the Nomad.
A strange tingling sensation rippled through Malachi and he felt a shift in his awareness, as if he were being pulled into a realm beyond the physical world.
The face of the Murian faded, replaced by an endless expanse of shifting, kaleidoscopic patterns. Malachi found himself consumed in a sea of colors and shapes, the boundaries between reality and vision blurring.
Suddenly, a series of images began to coalesce before him. He saw himself, trudging through the familiar desert sands. The landscape seemed to stretch on endlessly, the horizon an endless expanse of dunes and ravines. The harsh, burning sun rose and set a thousand times.
Malachi's became dejected as he realized that this vision was not merely a fleeting glimpse, but rather a portent of the days to come. The hunt for Kwame Devine would not be easily won; it would take time, patience, and no small amount of perseverance.
As Malachi continued to observe the vision, a new scene emerged. He recognized the barren, desolate world – it was the remote planet where he had once been abandoned, the radiation of its blue sun scarring his crystalline form and rendering him sensitive to extreme temperatures.
Malachi felt a sense of panic and the pang of dread as he watched the vision suddenly deteriorate into chaos. Meteors streaked across the blue sky, fiery trails of destruction and green skies left in their wake. Storms and lightning. Malachi found himself running, protecting his head against the explosive projectiles as they rained down upon the planet's surface. He dodged left, rolled forward, ducked, ran and slid under an outcropping just as a large stone of destruction slammed into the world.
The vision shifted once more, and Malachi found himself back in the town, the Murian's hand still pressed against his face. He blinked, his senses returning to the physical world.
"What did you see?" the Murian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Malachi's expression was unreadable, his crystalline features showing no emotion. "A long hunt," he said simply. "And a return to a place I had vowed to never see again."
The Murian nodded, his eyes filled with a strange, yet understanding light.
"The path ahead will not be an easy one, Nomad," he said. "But I sense that you are destined for more than just the capture of your quarry. Familiarity and change. Maybe even growth."
Malachi's holstered on his shock rifle, his mind already turning to the challenges that lay ahead.
"We shall see," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "Stay away from the Targs if you can."
"Can I ask you one more thing, Nomad?"
"Yes."
"Why do you hide them? Your own mystic powers. I felt them as clear as I feel my own."
The crystals of the Pellucid seemed to dull and he pondered.
"Because the last time I used them, I caused more harm than I intended. I'd rather not happen again."
With that, Malachi turned and continued on his way, his footsteps leaving a trail in the sand as he disappeared into the night.
---
This fan fiction was generated from my playthrough of Notorious.
You can find my review of Notorious here.
You can find Notorious through this affiliate link if you want to force Drive Thru RPG to give me some pennies when you buy something.
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