Men Without Honor

["House Ginaz" <house_ginaz@hotmail.com>]

In order to close the book on the MRB, I've written out some solo-RP since 
all the other major players are not PCs. This event will not be wholly known 
ICly to all, but many hints will be dropped in future RP and on the rumors 
board. I thought some might enjoy reading it.
-Jacob

        The battlefield is already slick with blood as the unmarked 
ornithopter lands, the vigor of its landing causing swirls and eddies in the 
acrid smoke that hangs over the clearing like fog. A black door is thrown 
open and a very tall, very bald man carefully climbs out, smoothing out his 
black and purple dress uniform after his brief descent. A young Lieutenant 
rushes forward to greet him, slipping slightly in a slick mess before 
reaching the man.
	“Marquis!” More of a statement than a greeting, accompanied by a crisp but 
fatigued salute.
	The Marquis waves the young officer out of his pose of attention, and bids 
him give a report as the two of them stride over the broken ground towards a 
command tent that looks to have been hastily erected in preparation for this 
final battle. A squat gray building seems to be the focus of the large 
number of troops that are milling around the battlefield. The only rebels in 
sight currently are either dead or gravely wounded; it’s well known that 
every man and woman would fight to the death rather than surrender. Very few 
of the Ginaz soldiers seem to be wounded; perhaps the casualties are already 
being tended to elsewhere.
	The young officer launches into a summary of the disposition of the 
remnants of the rebel forces and the state of the Ginaz army. “The rats are 
all holed up in there, Your Excellency,” he points at the squat building, 
“and we have them surrounded. We plan to …”
	This sentence is never finished as a flock of the rebels seem to boil out 
from various holes in the building, some from doors, some from windows and 
some from freshly blasted holes. A low hum pervades the air as all those who 
had disarmed their Holtzman shields now re-arm them, but the young officer 
is seconds too late as his head explodes in a cloud of flechettes.
	Like a summer storm, however, this outburst of violence is over as quickly 
as it began; dozens of rebels lie dead or dying under Ginaz blades and 
relative quiet settles through the smoke onto the site. The young officer 
seems to be the only Ginaz casualty of this outburst.
	“Jacob Ginaz!” A voice from inside the building barks through the silence. 
“I call you out by the forms! Fight me like a man!” After this, the silence 
settles even further around the soldiers and their dead, seeping into the 
cracks in the ground and into their bones. Most of the men appear to be 
horrified at what is about to occur, but look directly at the Marquis to 
determine his reaction to the challenge of the unseen man. Face set in grim 
determination, he holds up a long-fingered hand to hold the fire of his men.
	“Show yourself if you be a man of any honor. Then I will decide if your 
challenge will be accepted.” The Marquis speaks quietly but his voice 
carries, apparently even into the building as there is some muted discussion 
within. Soon, a head pokes out of the door, topped with rough auburn curls 
and adorned with a long, scraggly beard. The rest of the man follows soon 
and he stands up straight, a bloodied sword already in his left hand.
	The Marquis regards the man coolly. “Renault Berritt.”
	A long silence again, as the two men regard each other icily. The Marquis’ 
countenance is a carefully controlled façade, no emotion apparent. Renault’s 
is a mask of barely suppressed rage, and his eyes have the wild, unfocused 
stare of the criminally insane. Finally, the Marquis speaks, and his light 
baritone rumbles like far-off thunder:
	“Very well. I grant you a duel because of what you once /were/, a nobleman 
and a trusted friend. I grant this boon to the monster before me in memory 
of what he once was.” He holds up a hand to stifle the protests of his 
officers, never taking his eyes off the other man.
	Renault laughs heartily and yells in a challenging tone: “Very well then! 
Your honor shall be your undoing, you old fool!” He strides confidently out 
of the building and directly toward the Marquis, blade pointing at the 
taller but slimmer man. In response, the Marquis activates his shield and 
draws his own blade, which is pristine and seems never to have been touched 
with the ichor of battle ... although any who know its history know this is 
not the case.
	The two men stand mere feet apart, shields crackling tightly, and the 
Marquis bellows, “Any who interfere will die by my hand, be they friend or 
foe!” Renault cackles in reply and lunges, and the duel is joined.
	The initial thrust is easily parried and the duel begins in earnest. Blades 
flash and shields spark and snap brightly; both men are clearly quite good, 
although neither seems to be breaking a sweat quite yet.
	“You know nothing that I do not, Berritt. I did not teach you everything I 
know, so you will not defeat me.”
	“Fool! I learned everything you taught me and improved on it! Now you are 
old, /Master/, and cannot keep up with me.”
	Silence from the Marquis.
	And so the battle rages, blades singing their horrible and exhilarating 
song of death, and the shields’ percussive crackle adding a counterpoint to 
that deadly fugue. Finally, an opening: Renault feints and the Marquis makes 
as if he takes the bait, lunging off-balance to stab at the rebel’s ribs. 
Renault grins, a feral rictus, and slashes downward carefully at the 
Marquis’ exposed back. At just the last second, the Marquis shifts his wait 
and instead tackles the other man by the legs, and both men go down with a 
grunt, Renault’s sword jarred from his hand by the impact. As the Marquis 
grins fiercely down at his pinned opponent, a slashing pain sears just under 
his right shoulderblade.
	Treachery! The Marquis’ forearm under Renault’s chin keeps the man pinned 
down while he turns his head to meet the unseen enemy. A young woman in the 
uniform of a Ginaz Lieutenant stands above him, sword poised for a 
death-blow, her blood-tainted blade already arcing downward. The Marquis 
releases Renault and rolls frantically away, but he is rewarded only with 
another flash of pain on his cheek and the sound of blade against bone. 
Dazed, turning, he sees the woman’s face contorted in shock, and follows her 
gaze and the blade down to the sodden hole torn in Renault’s chest. His 
breath comes in wet gasps, and he’s clearly near death.
	Jacob’s blade shoots out and pierces the woman’s side with a slick thunk. 
She screams and drops her blade, expressionless with confusion; this is 
clearly not what was supposed to happen. The Marquis jerks his sword free 
viciously, now fairly howling in rage, and staggers to his feet.
	“Quickly, two long ropes!” His officers obey, the rage on the Marquis’ face 
enhanced by the splatter of his own blood on his face. “Men without honor 
must die without honor, and these two do not deserve the honor of dying by 
steel. String them up!”
	Stone-faced soldiers rush forth with a long coil of rough rope, which is 
quickly lopped into two large sections. They bind Renault’s and the 
Lieutenant’s hands roughly behind their backs, and as they struggle for 
breath four medics quickly repair any immediately life-threatening damage, 
so that they may live to die in indignity. An indignant young advisor orders 
them not to waste any painkillers, however. Finally, the two traitors, now 
trussed like prize pigs, are ready to be hung. The ends of the ropes are 
slung over a nearby branch of an ancient white Marcinko pine, and the 
Marquis snatches them away from two terrified young soldiers. He yanks hard 
so that the two traitors are standing up on their toes, and marches around 
to face them without letting up on the reins.
	“Your lack of honor disgusts me, Lieutenant. I should string you up like a 
common criminal.” He spits in the young woman’s face. “And you, Renault, 
whom I trained and once trusted with my life.” He punches the man brutally 
in the stomach and delivers a knee to his skull that sends teeth flying. A 
slow trickle drip-dropping to the ground indicates that Renault has lost 
control of his bladder. The Marquis bursts into laughter, an unusually cruel 
bark coming from a normally gentle giant. “My dear friends, I will not even 
honor you by killing you myself.” With that he drops the reins and the two 
traitors collapse in bloody heaps on the ground.
	The Marquis marches away to his ornithopter, and as he climbs in he speaks 
softly over his shoulder to the stunned members of his staff, in a hoarse 
whisper. His eyes are moist with impending tears, so he turns away again.
        “Send them to the Harkonnens.”

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