Post by Emperor Ticoga on Jun 17, 2022 18:35:09 GMT -5
Through the blistering winds and near zero visuals caused by a massive blizzard, Ticoga enters through the harsh, bumpy atmosphere of the Glazed Sea. He had chosen, intentionally, not to bring his ship back to one of the military installations, nor to one of Arcose's many cities. He simply did not desire to go and report to the officers who once presided over him.
This was not due to any particular disloyalty - no, Ticoga now believed that he answered directly to one of the Triumvirate Emperors. In this case, to Mint. The Generals and Commanders had been instantly discredited by Mint's words; in telling Ticoga that the Empire needed thoughtful and strong leaders to command the military, it implied that the Triumvirate did not in fact trust the current military leadership. Be that for an apparent lack of willingness, failure to perform, or some other reason, Ticoga does not know. But neither does he particularly care.
Mint had told Ticoga to meet with him out in the frozen wastes of the Glazed Sea in a few days - but that command did not say whether or not Ticoga could arrive early and conduct private drills and preparation for what Mint claimed would be a vicious, brutal training regimen. And so, to ready himself for such, Ticoga had chosen to come to this location and get a proper 'Feel' for it.
He brings the ship down to land upon the flattened top of a massive mountain of ice and snow. Ticoga sets the floaters, which were already compensating against the powerful winds, to hold the ship steady as he piloted the vessel linearly straight down. He flips three switches, two of which were flashing green and one yellow, and hears the groan of the landing legs as the bottom of the ship opens, allowing the claw-like landing legs to unfold from the belly of the ship and extend down and outwards.
The ship falls slowly straight down, and settles on the flat ice; the pointed landing legs piercing into the ice as the ship's weight settles down. Ticoga had no concerns about the ship freezing - the open vastness of space was a far colder place than a blizzard could ever be, and the modern ships never so much as struggled with the hundreds, even thousands of degrees in the negative of outer space. After all, the ship's instruments told Ticoga that the blizzard was only running a temperature of negative eighty-four. Still considered tolerably warm by his species.
Ticoga runs through a general self diagnosis, and, once satisfied all was well, rose from his seat and walked to the decompression chamber leading to the boarding ramp. He steps through, and lets the door seal shut behind him. The door in front of him hisses as it slides open, and the boarding ramp lowers to the ground. Ticoga steps down the ramp, and onto the ice. Despite the howling winds and whipping snow, Ticoga takes a few dozen paces away from his ship, and settles into a basic stance.
He begins running through his drills, moving fluidly between sudden and harsh thrusts of his fists and elbows, between lashing kicks and knee strikes. For this Arcosian, this routine was akin to meditation. It would be several hours, at the least, before Ticoga stopped. The blizzard had slowed to a calm storm, still dumping snow upon the Glazed Sea, and the thunder of icebergs crashing into each other, or breaking off from the ice shelf can now be more properly heard. Ticoga closes his eyes, his muscles twitching in protest from the long session, and listens silently to the sounds of his homeworld.
This was not due to any particular disloyalty - no, Ticoga now believed that he answered directly to one of the Triumvirate Emperors. In this case, to Mint. The Generals and Commanders had been instantly discredited by Mint's words; in telling Ticoga that the Empire needed thoughtful and strong leaders to command the military, it implied that the Triumvirate did not in fact trust the current military leadership. Be that for an apparent lack of willingness, failure to perform, or some other reason, Ticoga does not know. But neither does he particularly care.
Mint had told Ticoga to meet with him out in the frozen wastes of the Glazed Sea in a few days - but that command did not say whether or not Ticoga could arrive early and conduct private drills and preparation for what Mint claimed would be a vicious, brutal training regimen. And so, to ready himself for such, Ticoga had chosen to come to this location and get a proper 'Feel' for it.
He brings the ship down to land upon the flattened top of a massive mountain of ice and snow. Ticoga sets the floaters, which were already compensating against the powerful winds, to hold the ship steady as he piloted the vessel linearly straight down. He flips three switches, two of which were flashing green and one yellow, and hears the groan of the landing legs as the bottom of the ship opens, allowing the claw-like landing legs to unfold from the belly of the ship and extend down and outwards.
The ship falls slowly straight down, and settles on the flat ice; the pointed landing legs piercing into the ice as the ship's weight settles down. Ticoga had no concerns about the ship freezing - the open vastness of space was a far colder place than a blizzard could ever be, and the modern ships never so much as struggled with the hundreds, even thousands of degrees in the negative of outer space. After all, the ship's instruments told Ticoga that the blizzard was only running a temperature of negative eighty-four. Still considered tolerably warm by his species.
Ticoga runs through a general self diagnosis, and, once satisfied all was well, rose from his seat and walked to the decompression chamber leading to the boarding ramp. He steps through, and lets the door seal shut behind him. The door in front of him hisses as it slides open, and the boarding ramp lowers to the ground. Ticoga steps down the ramp, and onto the ice. Despite the howling winds and whipping snow, Ticoga takes a few dozen paces away from his ship, and settles into a basic stance.
He begins running through his drills, moving fluidly between sudden and harsh thrusts of his fists and elbows, between lashing kicks and knee strikes. For this Arcosian, this routine was akin to meditation. It would be several hours, at the least, before Ticoga stopped. The blizzard had slowed to a calm storm, still dumping snow upon the Glazed Sea, and the thunder of icebergs crashing into each other, or breaking off from the ice shelf can now be more properly heard. Ticoga closes his eyes, his muscles twitching in protest from the long session, and listens silently to the sounds of his homeworld.