Quest for the Cosmic Relics - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Beginning

FALCON’S FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY 001: Rain and Resentment

Everyone talks about duty. They never talk about what it costs.

The High Council was considering trade routes. I was considering whether to punch my commanding officer. We all pick our battles, I suppose.

There were things going on that I could not explain. There were whispers. Buried orders. Convoys that left no records. Yet, I left the army not with fanfare, but with wet boots and a pint of disappointment.

Still not sure what dragged me into that tavern—gravity, fate, or the smell of old wood and burnt coffee. But if I hadn’t, I never would’ve met Sneaker.

And we never would’ve started this.

1.1 Falcon meets Sneaker the Gnome

It was on a rain-soaked evening that Falcon arrived in a dimly lit tavern. The rain came sideways, hard and fierce, as if the sky was angry.

It hammered Falcon’s cloak, soaking through armor seams, cold as regret.

Neon signs pulsed overhead—KARSIS BELT: DOCK SECTOR 9. Beneath them, the Sooted Lantern waited, tucked between two neon-lit vendor towers on the edge of the outer colonies, pulsed with warmth.

He stepped through the heavy doors of the tavern, his armor glimmering with both starlight and water.

The tavern felt small but cozy. Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, adorned with weathered flags and remnants of centuries-old stories. Both lanterns and neon lights flickered in the corners, casting a soft, colorful glow that added to the rustic charm.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spilled ale, creating a comforting haze that blurred the line between past and present.

Laughter rang across the courtyard as merchants bargained mid-bite, travelers swapped tales over mugs of beverage, and a troupe of dancers spun stories with their hands and hips. Nearby, an aristocrat gestured wildly, insisting his airship had outrun a comet.

Falcon didn’t care. He needed silence.

He wasn’t an officer anymore.

He was just... Falcon.

Falcon had claimed a corner table near the hearth, the flickering flames offering some reprieve from the chill of the evening. While nursing a beer, his armor caught the light in muted glints.

A figure resembling a seasoned trader leaned closer to a man with a patchy beard, his voice low. “Top-tier plasma tech—real clean, no serial marks, perfect for unregistered operations.”

“…artifact, they say,” one whispered. “A red glow. Silent hum. A life of its own. Some think it’s tech from before the Federations.”

Falcon's brows furrowed, but he kept his expression steady. He had no time for rumours and tales. Yet, something about the man’s words struck a chord deep within him.

He wasn’t here for just a drink.

He was hunting a lead.

Falcon stared into the fire. That convoy. That crate. Fulgrim’s orders: “Secure the zone. Ask no questions.”

Someone had questions now.

“Nice armour,” said a voice at his elbow. “Seen action, or just used for brooding?”

Falcon spun. A gnome, perched on a barstool like he owned the place, wide-brimmed hat pushed back, boots scuffed, belt jangling with tools and suspicious gadgets.

He adjusted the straps on his pack, his small frame barely reaching Falcon's chest, his sharp eyes focused.

Falcon glanced up, irritated.

“And you are?”

“I’m Sneaker,” he said. “Professional mischief engineer, night-brewer, coffee revolutionary. You?”

Falcon’s glare said go away. He didn’t.

“Not a talker. You’ve got that ex-officer spine. Tense, proud, morally constipated.”

Falcon raised a brow.

Sneaker grinned. “Ah. Stoic type. Chest out, spine rigid, moral compass stuck in hard mode. Love it.”

Falcon’s glare said, I will crush you if you move closer.

Sneaker ignored it. “Armor’s impressive, by the way. But ever consider… LEDs? Maybe a little horn that honks when enemies approach?”

Falcon didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even consider the concept of small talk.

“So you look like a man with stories to tell,” Sneaker said, sliding onto the bench opposite Falcon without invitation. “Mind if I join? Beer always tastes better with company, or so I’ve read in a questionable book.”

“Are you always this irritating?”

“At your service,” he said with a flourish, tossing his wide-brimmed hat onto the table.

Falcon towered over the gnome. Crafted from reinforced alloy plates and colored a subdued, weatherworn yellow, his armor bore the marks of long campaigns—scratches, dents, and faded paint along the seams.

His eyes narrowed as he carefully studied the gnome. He wore a satchel and a large leather belt that rattled with tools, bottles, and gods-knew-what else.

“My titles are many. Advisor to kings, inventor extraordinaire, brewer of midnight coffee, and connoisseur of a variety of plants and spices.”

“Quite the introduction. You’re not a bard, are you?”

“Not officially. Though I dabble in storytelling when the need arises,” Sneaker replied with a grin.

Falcon studied him for a beat. “You talk a lot.”

“I compensate for the tall folks,” Sneaker said, flagging down the bartender. “A gnomish ale, if you’ve got it. The kind with the extra kick.”

The bartender chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Got just the thing. I’ll be back in a moment.” With a quick pat on the table, he disappeared into the bustling crowd, leaving the two to their conversation.

“But enough about me. You’re not from around here. Armor like that doesn’t usually wander into backwater towns like this,” Sneaker said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hunting,” Falcon said.

Sneaker cocked his head. “For coin? For women? For absolution?”

Falcon met his gaze. “For answers.”

He paused, narrowing his eyes, then took a slow sip of his beer.

“I’m not from anywhere anymore,” he said finally.

“Oh?” Sneaker replied surprised.

“I left the Imperial Army.”

“Just like that?”

“Not just,” he murmured, swirling the beer. “The colony was smoking. Fulgrim radioed in: ‘Mission success. Trade lanes secured.’ That’s when I knew. We weren’t there for the people.”

Sneaker leaned back, quiet now.

“Peaceful protest. Civilians. They held signs. We brought stun tanks. Fulgrim didn’t blink. Said it was for ‘order.’”

The fire crackled. Outside, thunder rolled.

“Sounds like you woke up,” Sneaker said.

He nodded once. “Now I’m looking for what they buried. Black alloy. No serials. Vanished.”

The gnome’s smirk shifted—still amused, but calculating.

The bartender dropped a gnomish ale with extra fizz.

Around Falcon and Sneaker, snatches of gossip and wild tales floated through the air. “I swear, I saw a man with a hammer that crackled with lightning,” one young man claimed, his voice eager.

Falcon swirled the drink in his hand, watching the firelight dance across the ale. Maybe it was the noise, the warmth, or just the strong stuff in his glass—but against his usual instincts, he opened up.

"In my youth," he began solemnly, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames, "I served under Colonel Fulgrim, a man who held a position of great authority within the imperial army." His hand trembled slightly as he paused, a hint of somber reflection in his eyes.

"As a soldier, I was eager and determined. I believed in the cause, in the ideals we swore to uphold. But Fulgrim… he often sent me on missions that left me questioning our true purpose.”

Falcon’s fingers tightened around his glass. “It seemed we were being used to further ulterior motives, while the real threats went unchecked. Every time I raised my doubts, he dismissed me—like I was imagining things.”

Around them, muffled laughter and the clink of mugs carried through the room, but Falcon seemed oblivious, his expression a mix of resolve and quiet determination.

He turned his mug slowly in his hands, eyes on the dark swirl inside.

Sneaker wobbled in his chair, leaning forward. “What’s behind all this then?”

Falcon’s voice lowered. “The rich nobility — you know, the ones in flashy suits who smell like money from a mile away.”

He paused, weighing whether to continue.

As Falcon spoke, harsh words echoed in his mind: You’re disclosing confidential information, soldier.

“Lately, more and more rebel groups have been forming against the Imperial Alliance.”

“But that wasn’t even the strangest part. It’s what we found beneath the station—strange documents, military supplies. And the men who tried to stop us… weren’t from any known company.”

“Beneath the city of New Haven was a dig site sealed off by Imperial command. Fulgrim’s personal crest flew over the excavation. Hours later, we watched from the shadows as a convoy rolled out, the lead transport cradling a coffin-sized crate. From the distance, we saw a thin glow leaking from the seams.”

“By morning, the crate—and whatever truth it held—was gone, spirited away like it never existed.”

Sneaker raised an eyebrow. “You think there’s something bigger?”

Falcon leaned closer. “These crates were routed to the edge of the known galaxy, the Lagune system, but never arrived.”

“Where exactly?”

“The Outer Rim.”

“Word is, whole systems are going dark out there. Ships vanish. No distress calls. Just… gone.”

“Something’s moving out there, Sneaker.”

“Something that wants to bring back the dark.”

“And Fulgrim’s too busy pleasing nobles to even notice.”

Sneaker gulped, his eyes flicking instinctively to the strangers clustered near the door. Would he sleep well tonight?

Somehow, he doubted it.

Before he could respond, the creak of floorboards drew their attention.