Post by Insano-Man on Sept 17, 2018 21:10:54 GMT -5
DENNIS ANGUS MORRIS (Colonel, Administrator)
Aliases: Duke of Sausage, Baron of Beef, Count Wienerstein, Steakfingers, Dosar nes Bosram
Affiliation: Loonies, Security Administrator
Species: Human (Male)
Birthplace: Unknown
Birthdate: Unknown
Height: 6'3" (1.9m)
Weight: 240-260lb (108 - 127kg)
SUMMARY
Deep in the heart of war, an eternal tyrant reigns from a throne of blood. Colonel Dennis Angus Morris is the most senior officer and de facto leader of the infamous Castle Wienerstein. He is a Looney, a soldier, and a juggernaut of a man rippling with muscle and martial talent. He is an icon of his kind, an exemplar looked up to by the Loonies of the Big Toe. He is one of those few Loonies imbued with immortality and has lived for at least three centuries. He's mean as Hell and he's not going to take your sass.
APPEARANCE
Dennis Morris was named "Duke" for a reason. He's huge. He's 6'3" of pure, human muscle, so broad he'd have to punch his way through most doorways. Hard-cut muscles sit under a scarred mess of tanned skin, something like grilled hamburger stretched taut. Little knots of wild hair wrap around old scars and a massive chest. Atop it, a brown-eyed face set into a permanent scowl - the man never seems to talk, but you can always hear his teeth gritting together. That face isn't much different; something straight from a military flick or action movie, harder than stone and machined like a tank. Brown, almost black stubble rests on his scalp - and dares not grow any higher.
There has never been a single moment in the Duke's life when he's allowed himself out of his armor or uniform. A black security jumpsuit hides behind a full body's worth of granite combat armor. Both are stretched to their absolute limits - it seems a miracle the man can bend over without tearing something. Only his massive arms are uncovered, from biceps to fists. An open-faced infantryman's helmet caps off his head with a monocle permanently folded up to its forehead. Elsewhere, there's not much else. On his belt, a holster, a knife, and a flashlight. His chest and shoulders are all plates and no gear, showing off a few flimsy rank badges.
Duke goes about his routine with only a few weapons. A heavy handgun and a few magazines of ammunition, as opposed to the usual Looney fare of electrolasers and batteries. The pistol is an apt companion; a thundering brick of steel and plastic that seems to fire freight trains as slugs. An oversized boot knife rests in a sheath on his left leg. Something even larger hangs on his belt, probably meant for hunting rhinoceros. Even his flashlight is proportionately massive. If anything, it seems to have been intended as a club. A few choice stains on its base leave little to the imagination.
An array of simple holograms serve as Duke's window to the electronic world. Most are nothing out of the ordinary, nothing more than the typical Looney arrangement of quasi-physical windows and keypads. Holographic emitters and sensor nodules poke out from opportune places along his belt. Juxtaposed against them, a forearm computer resembling older, budgeted takes on Looney equipment. In a pinch, the screen can pry loose to serve as a tablet. A lifetime's worth of dings and scratches give it a look even more like a relic from better days.
BEHAVIOR
Appearances can be deceiving. That is not the Colonel Morris way of doing things. Duke acts, speaks, and conducts his business no different from how he looks; like a sledgehammer swung by a trained bear. An aura of simmering rage and furious disdain fills the air around him. His footfalls are enough to shake the whole of the Big Toe right down to the Chambers of Myth. If the sheer size of his shadow hasn't already enforced his authority, someone is going to have a very bad day.
Duke seems physically incapable of anything but shouting at the top of his lungs. His stock American voice is deafening, booming, something like a train crash or a shotgun blast with every word. Anyone standing in front of him is sure to be bathed in airborne spit. It is much to everyone's benefit that Duke is a man of few words - a stoic cannon that needs to fire but once to get its point across. Most learn it quickly; if he ever has to talk, something's gone terribly wrong.
Appearances can be deceiving. That is not the Duke's way. In combat, he is a frenzied locomotive of prowess and violence. He is an unbridled engine of destruction, so thick with danger and bravado that no one has ever been sure if it's even possible to kill him. It is a terrifying sight to see such a big thing move so fast. It is a shocking thing to see how much bludgeoning and gunfire this man can shrug off. It is an awe-inspiring experience to see him at work, piercing eyes and shattering jaws in rapid-fire bursts of talented marksmanship and close-quarters excellence. The Duke was not given his respect. It was earned.
The Duke is two things. First and foremost, he is a soldier; even as a colonel and an administrator, he is loyal to his friends and companions to an absolute fault. Bending over backwards does not even begin to cover it. Conversation and emotional support, maybe not as much. Second, he is a Looney - as much as most others are scared to death of him. He is a skilled survivalist, a tunnel-dweller of preternatural senses, and a man dedicated to his bunker's survival at all possible cost.
GOALS
RELATIONSHIPS
HISTORY
Like any good action movie hero, Dennis Morris is a man of mystery without a past. No one knows where he came from. He's certainly not telling. It's not even clear if he knows himself; the man is literally immortal, imbued with an eternal age of 38 - or, at least, so far as anyone can tell. For all anyone knows, he's just forgotten by now. All he knows - which, by now, is public record - is that he's been a Looney all his life. Supposedly, anyways. There's nothing to really say otherwise.
MOVING UP
Duke's rise to fame and power began humbly. He was listed as a survivor from Camp Plunkett in 1008 OSC, then a patrol sergeant, in a manifest in the Demmitt Command Post. He arrived with around twenty others, found permanent residence in the base, and went to work establishing himself. Not much more happened. He served - rather briefly and unsuccessfully - as a liasion with Puerto MagnÃfico for several months. Afterwards, he was charged with base security. He spent six years at the command post, screaming at off-duty drunks and pokey townsfolk. Of the pieces of his past, the Demmitt Command Post is the one he will say the least of.
Not long after securing the rank of warrant, Morris moved on in a personnel exchange in March of 1014. He was destined for the Sadruba Thicket, to the airbase of Nadia's Way. Initially, it wasn't much more than a change of scenery. Morris was pushed back into a security uniform. He went to work chewing out terrified cadets and spitting on monster corpses. The terrorscapes could not hold him. Their vile beasts could not challenge him. It was enough to sate his need for spleens, but only just. There, he stayed, occupying twenty-two years of his life, waiting for something bigger.
January of 1036 threw an upturn into the Duke's path. He was a menace to Nadia's Way. A brutally-effective soldier and a keeper-of-the-peace no one would ever think to cross, but friends were not much to be found. He was placed on a personnel transfer list, sent along to the worst place his superiors could think of, and quietly disappeared across the MASTER network. Little did anyone realize, the Duke had gone to just where he wanted to be. The Pires Command Post, right on the northern border of the Southern Veinlands. A wretched place of nightmares, meat, and despair. He was finally home.
MOVING OUT
One man alone could not right the wrongs Pires faced daily, but the Duke left his mark. The administrators of the facility did not waste any time with him; they took one look at his combat credentials and sent him off on patrol. Thirteen Cult-controlled towns were razed in the months to follow. Casualty rates among patrolmen dropped to nearly half of what they were before. His legend began to take form. Word spread to nearby bunkers. Here was a man, so simple and straightforward to his muscly physique, who was impervious to harm - six meat infestations in just a single month could not kill him. Broken cultists and mutilated monsters were his staircase to the top. Could he be stopped? Could he ever be contained?
No. No, he could not. Though Pires is an empty husk today, it did not go quietly. When the Cult rallied to put the beast down, in August of 1039, they ran headlong into a screaming pit of traps and fire. Lying in wait were the Duke and his cohort, a howling maelstrom of railguns and particle cannons. Official Cult stance on the siege of Pires was that they suffered only a few martyrs as casualties. The Duke came away with combat footage telling a different story; thirty men, at least, and no less than a hundred monsters. The Cult claims that Pires was slain to the last. Only ten Loonies died in the siege. Forty-three broke loose.
The exodus from the bunker was a different story. Six more Loonies died on the long trek through the meaty underground, ten more along the crimson trails to nearby Camp Octomania. The Duke remained solid - and screaming - all along the way. Survivors from Pires claimed the Duke had gone the whole way with a wounded Looney slung over his back. Footage of their arrival at Octomania showed the man carrying one for each shoulder. For the stragglers leftover, Morris was a hero - a beacon of light they needed with their home in ruins behind them.
If the Duke has ever been capable of remorse or compassion, it was that moment that drew it out. He remained at Camp Octomania for no less than sixty years, rising to security administrator twice in his stay. He stayed until the last of Pires had finally given up to old age. Legend has it that Morris was there to see them off, and that they died only with the approval of the Duke. On the same day, Morris filed for transfer and disappeared back into the MASTER network. He'd done his duty; to Pires, and to Octomania. He was needed somewhere else.
THE MUSCLEMIND
He arrived from the ether in the Norton Command Post at Digit Peaks, high in the Big Toe, in December of 1102. The Crimson Expanse was spreading in the distance. The Loonies weren't paying it much mind. If something didn't change, everything was going to be covered in meat. The Duke wasn't going to have any of it. He worked himself into the miners of Norton, found his place ripping mutants and horrors apart with his teeth, and endeared himself to the staff - sort of. He was a vicious slab of bedrock with the manners of a hungry bear, but he kept the peace. It was enough to earn their respect, at least.
Things continued more-or-less the same way they always had. The Duke was rotated out of the miners and into base security. He earned his respect there by knuckling down offenders so hard the bones could be heard snapping in the next bunker over. His sheer presence on the staff was enough to keep fingers out of the proverbial cookie jar. His reign of terror on the Toe had begun in earnest. There was one small problem; what could the Duke do alone? A man with guts and a rifle wasn't enough to save Pires. How could he save the Toe? Something else needed to be done.
In 1114, the Duke found his way. He had achieved security administrator - again, and to no one's surprise - just a year prior. He had earned the admiration of his entire branch of service and the respect of the entire bunker. He flexed his power, pinched the opportunity of the Toe, and rallied Norton to a new cause. A network emerged under his championship. At least a century of experience - and probably more - pulled the rest of Norton's council together for his grand scheme. The Duke was going to war. This time, he wasn't doing it alone.
RAGE AGAINST THE MEAT
So rose the Norton Emergency Response Network, or NORK. It was the Duke's first great gambit for the fate of the Toe. Bunkers signed on obliviously as Norton grew, snaggling them up in supply agreements, family ties, and operational dependencies. If the Duke couldn't hold them by the throat, he'd have someone else do it for him; for every thing a bunker needed from Norton, it needed another from a neighbor. In it all, Morris was merely the instigator. The council behind him worked fiendishly to carry out his plan. They learned the truth only a year before it could be set in motion.
Tales about the NORK's first raids have crossed bunkers since the action started in 1118. The Duke is the star of dozens of them. That he flew the first gunship strike, that he was on the ground with the first convent raid, or that he claimed first blood in the fighting. Some even say it was all three. Whatever the case, Morris was there, in body or in spirit, for each plan, each raid, and each extraction. He penned countless successes against the Cult with his muscly fingers. Everything was going to plan.
At least, it was, until Norton's council rose up roughly seven years later. They'd been duped into fighting a war against cultists halfway across the mountain. By 1125, they'd finally gussied up the courage to sack the Duke. He was dropped from administrator to captain, unceremoniously placed on patrol, and kept out of the bunker as long as humanly possible. Wildlife in the region soon veered towards extinction. Noise complaints came along from bunkers on the next continent over. As quickly as could be, the council drew up plans for a withdrawal, disengagement, and demobilization.
At least, they tried, until they realized they were caught in their own web. Norton's network was committed to the Duke's plan. They'd seen the writing on the wall and returned the massive mastermind's salute. By the time the Duke had been removed from the picture, the wave of early successes had blown dissent away. The show had to go on. While Morris never made the council again, his plan went along, backed by Norton's premier strategists. A half century of fighting went by, for the Duke and for the Loonies, until the NORK finally dissolved in 1164.
WRESTLE THE SUN
The Norton Command Post went with it and sent Morris out into the wilderness. It was not the same, desperate, last stand of Pires. It was a grim realization of dwindling odds and a dying network. Loonies departed in small bands as cultists swept into an empty bunker - and promptly blew up when they tried the door. The Duke rallied his companions through the cold to the shelter of the Hallenbeck Command Post. It was a new platform for his schemes and a new home for his people.
Again, the Duke worked to establish himself. He studied the bunker, the locale, the aftermath of the NORK. He watched cultists continue to pierce through the untainted highlands of the Toe, saw villages swear themselves to the incarnadine faith. He stood at the walls of his new castle as a soldier, threw his back into every labor asked of him. People knew him, trusted him, and respected him, but he needed more. The Loonies alone could not break the crimson crusade. They needed help from on high.
The Duke reigned, as he always had. He was looked on with awe, respect, and fear. Mostly fear, but it got the job done. The job in question was nothing short of outright treason. The Duke looked skyward, to the stars, to the spaceships turning cultists into ground beef all across the Crimson Expanse. He gathered his support and leveraged it for the task. Swaying Hallenbeck wasn't terribly difficult - most people were more afraid of what the Duke could do than what any of the other bunkers could.
Swaying the Space Loonies, on the other hand, was a touch more difficult. The Loonies had caused trouble up there. They'd sacked space stations, stolen ships, busted up unionite networks, and caused a terrible ruckus. The Duke's word meant nothing. They didn't much care that he was immortal. They didn't care how many necks he'd snapped. He was just another dirt-eater with an attitude problem. They weren't afraid of him - how could he ever get his fists all the way to orbit?
As he always did, the Duke found a way. Maybe he couldn't get up there to strangle a few greyskins. Maybe he couldn't slap the tongues off of a few frogs. It didn't matter. He could still tell them where and when to shoot. He had enough respect with the years behind him to get them on the phone. All he had to do was work out a convincing argument. He'd have his people scout out some interesting locations and leave a bullseye for the guns up above. They didn't have to work together. They just had to shoot at the same target. Simple enough.
BIGGER, MEANER, LOUDER
Much to the fortune of the Loonies on the continent, it was too simple to fail. In 1186, the Space Loonies answered. Some saw the man's pedigree and knew right away that he meant business. Others were just curious to see how much brain was behind the brawn. Cultists scattered, splintered, splattered - the Duke's wrath rained from orbit. The results were swift and effective. The Crimson Expanse learned the same fear the Southern Veinlands had learned - the same fear that kept Loonies and monsters up at night. The Duke's second plan took form. It just needed a banner behind it.
1203 rolled in with a new century to the Duke's name and a new network wrought from the sweat of his toned brow. He brought together his old allies and new accomplices, forged them into the Hallenbeck Emergency Response Network. He stood with the administrative council at his back, holding up his wall of silence with their full support. He had brought the Space Loonies to the table with nothing less than results. He just needed to actually do something - couldn't much let the aliens steal the show, could he?
With the network behind him, the Duke sent the Loonies back into the maelstrom. It was the turning point everyone had been waiting for. Here was the Duke again, bigger, meaner, and louder, crushing cultists and mangling monsters all across the front line. The stories spread again; he leapt from gunships, rode tanks by gun barrel, ran screaming into battle alone in tales that lit up radio chatter for decades. Cultists raided Hallenbeck and there, in each and every myth, was the Duke, standing bare-chested at the battlements.
The command post was christened Castle Wienerstein, and Morris named its Duke of Sausage. Fact or fiction, the man did nothing to dispel his legend. He worked tirelessly each day to set in motion another raid, another strike, or another barrage of hellfire from above. The meat could not beat him. The Loonies pushed it back, day after day, month after month, year after year, wrenching success from the jaws of defeat with the Duke watching over them. When Morris finally announced his alliance with the Space Loonies in 1216, no one dared challenge him. Only the Duke knew the road to victory.
NEVER STOP SCREAMING
A century of fighting passed. The meat shrunk to the foot of the Toe. The Duke aged not. He was never broken. He was never humbled. He was never silenced - if anything, he only got louder. The myth of the man rose with every year that went by, every triumph and tragedy penned to his name. He has remained the colonel of Castle Wienerstein for a hundred years. He has earned his reputation as a demon and a villain to the cultists of the Crimson Expanse. He has earned his respect as a hero and a legend to the Loonies of the Big Toe. The Space Loonies try not to think about him too much.
Deep in the heart of war, an eternal tyrant reigns from a throne of blood - and he's mean as Hell.
Aliases: Duke of Sausage, Baron of Beef, Count Wienerstein, Steakfingers, Dosar nes Bosram
Affiliation: Loonies, Security Administrator
Species: Human (Male)
Birthplace: Unknown
Birthdate: Unknown
Height: 6'3" (1.9m)
Weight: 240-260lb (108 - 127kg)
SUMMARY
Deep in the heart of war, an eternal tyrant reigns from a throne of blood. Colonel Dennis Angus Morris is the most senior officer and de facto leader of the infamous Castle Wienerstein. He is a Looney, a soldier, and a juggernaut of a man rippling with muscle and martial talent. He is an icon of his kind, an exemplar looked up to by the Loonies of the Big Toe. He is one of those few Loonies imbued with immortality and has lived for at least three centuries. He's mean as Hell and he's not going to take your sass.
APPEARANCE
Dennis Morris was named "Duke" for a reason. He's huge. He's 6'3" of pure, human muscle, so broad he'd have to punch his way through most doorways. Hard-cut muscles sit under a scarred mess of tanned skin, something like grilled hamburger stretched taut. Little knots of wild hair wrap around old scars and a massive chest. Atop it, a brown-eyed face set into a permanent scowl - the man never seems to talk, but you can always hear his teeth gritting together. That face isn't much different; something straight from a military flick or action movie, harder than stone and machined like a tank. Brown, almost black stubble rests on his scalp - and dares not grow any higher.
There has never been a single moment in the Duke's life when he's allowed himself out of his armor or uniform. A black security jumpsuit hides behind a full body's worth of granite combat armor. Both are stretched to their absolute limits - it seems a miracle the man can bend over without tearing something. Only his massive arms are uncovered, from biceps to fists. An open-faced infantryman's helmet caps off his head with a monocle permanently folded up to its forehead. Elsewhere, there's not much else. On his belt, a holster, a knife, and a flashlight. His chest and shoulders are all plates and no gear, showing off a few flimsy rank badges.
Duke goes about his routine with only a few weapons. A heavy handgun and a few magazines of ammunition, as opposed to the usual Looney fare of electrolasers and batteries. The pistol is an apt companion; a thundering brick of steel and plastic that seems to fire freight trains as slugs. An oversized boot knife rests in a sheath on his left leg. Something even larger hangs on his belt, probably meant for hunting rhinoceros. Even his flashlight is proportionately massive. If anything, it seems to have been intended as a club. A few choice stains on its base leave little to the imagination.
An array of simple holograms serve as Duke's window to the electronic world. Most are nothing out of the ordinary, nothing more than the typical Looney arrangement of quasi-physical windows and keypads. Holographic emitters and sensor nodules poke out from opportune places along his belt. Juxtaposed against them, a forearm computer resembling older, budgeted takes on Looney equipment. In a pinch, the screen can pry loose to serve as a tablet. A lifetime's worth of dings and scratches give it a look even more like a relic from better days.
BEHAVIOR
Appearances can be deceiving. That is not the Colonel Morris way of doing things. Duke acts, speaks, and conducts his business no different from how he looks; like a sledgehammer swung by a trained bear. An aura of simmering rage and furious disdain fills the air around him. His footfalls are enough to shake the whole of the Big Toe right down to the Chambers of Myth. If the sheer size of his shadow hasn't already enforced his authority, someone is going to have a very bad day.
Duke seems physically incapable of anything but shouting at the top of his lungs. His stock American voice is deafening, booming, something like a train crash or a shotgun blast with every word. Anyone standing in front of him is sure to be bathed in airborne spit. It is much to everyone's benefit that Duke is a man of few words - a stoic cannon that needs to fire but once to get its point across. Most learn it quickly; if he ever has to talk, something's gone terribly wrong.
Appearances can be deceiving. That is not the Duke's way. In combat, he is a frenzied locomotive of prowess and violence. He is an unbridled engine of destruction, so thick with danger and bravado that no one has ever been sure if it's even possible to kill him. It is a terrifying sight to see such a big thing move so fast. It is a shocking thing to see how much bludgeoning and gunfire this man can shrug off. It is an awe-inspiring experience to see him at work, piercing eyes and shattering jaws in rapid-fire bursts of talented marksmanship and close-quarters excellence. The Duke was not given his respect. It was earned.
The Duke is two things. First and foremost, he is a soldier; even as a colonel and an administrator, he is loyal to his friends and companions to an absolute fault. Bending over backwards does not even begin to cover it. Conversation and emotional support, maybe not as much. Second, he is a Looney - as much as most others are scared to death of him. He is a skilled survivalist, a tunnel-dweller of preternatural senses, and a man dedicated to his bunker's survival at all possible cost.
GOALS
- When most people say they want the Cult gone, it's just hopes and dreams. When the Duke tells you he wants the Cult gone, you'd better believe he's serious. He's out to beat the meat and crush the Cult. He's in one of the best positions to do it; the head of one of the largest Looney networks on the planet. If anyone's going to get the job done, it's the Duke.
- It's a bit odd to hear it from a Looney, but the Duke's after a united Talto. He's not pushing for nationhood, a new Pioneer Network, or anything like that. He just wants something as big as he is, something that can go toe-to-toe with every cultist on the planet. If the meat's gone afterwards, he's not all that fussed about it standing the test of time. He's still a Looney, after all.
- Safety. Not for him - a man like the Duke couldn't stand to be safe. For Loonies, all across the planet. For every bunker from the Chambers of Myth on up to the Scuttler Slice. He knows it's not going to happen, but it's a noble goal - and he's got a good shot at getting it done.
RELATIONSHIPS
- Loonies adore and fear the Duke. In Castle Wienerstein, he's a hero - he's been out there, covered in tumors, ripping monsters apart with his fingernails. He's a soldier no one's topped and a leader that's managed the impossible. He's a hulking tower of simmering rage no one would ever look cross at - if brow-beating is a martial art, the Duke's earned his master's belt in it. Loonies off the Big Toe have heard the legends. Not many are ready to think the man's actually real. The Duke himself isn't picky; whether a local Looney or a far-flung transfer, everyone's a gun in the fight.
- The Space Loonies are a mixed bag of perspectives. Some see him as just another caveman with a bad attitude. Some see the numbers - he could have come from the Pioneer Network. Some are honestly terrified that he'll find a way to get up there. One way or another, the Space Loonies are committed to the relationship. The Duke's even earned the recognition of the Joint Orbital Defense Command. That's huge. That's almost as big as he is.
- The Cult of Meat loathes the Duke of Sausage like no other. He is the enemy. Not just an enemy - the Duke is the enemy. His bloody path across the meatscapes has earned him titles of bitter hatred. The Deep Spire, the Iron Tyrant, the Dosar nes Bosram - redworlder for "Baron of the Underworld". Morris is something like a demon to the Cult. Not many will argue if you call him that. Don't ask the Duke what he thinks of the Cult. For the love of God, do not ask the Duke what he thinks of the Cult. Not even as a joke.
- Human, alien, machine, or something else - the Duke is not picky when it comes to species. Redworlders, unionites, sorassan, no one is afforded a special hatred. Whether this is simply a by-product of his seething rage for everyone and everything, no one can really say. One way or another, it's made him the chief representative for the Big Toe; the primary point of contact between the Space Loonies and the bunkers below.
- The people of the Big Toe have heard of Morris, but he's a footnote compared to the Loonies themselves. He's never been a celebrity outside his bunker. The daily struggle for survival gets in the way of that pretty well. The Duke's not terribly concerned about it. Fame's never been something he's been worried about - unless it helps keep order. He doesn't want to have to come over there.
HISTORY
Like any good action movie hero, Dennis Morris is a man of mystery without a past. No one knows where he came from. He's certainly not telling. It's not even clear if he knows himself; the man is literally immortal, imbued with an eternal age of 38 - or, at least, so far as anyone can tell. For all anyone knows, he's just forgotten by now. All he knows - which, by now, is public record - is that he's been a Looney all his life. Supposedly, anyways. There's nothing to really say otherwise.
MOVING UP
Duke's rise to fame and power began humbly. He was listed as a survivor from Camp Plunkett in 1008 OSC, then a patrol sergeant, in a manifest in the Demmitt Command Post. He arrived with around twenty others, found permanent residence in the base, and went to work establishing himself. Not much more happened. He served - rather briefly and unsuccessfully - as a liasion with Puerto MagnÃfico for several months. Afterwards, he was charged with base security. He spent six years at the command post, screaming at off-duty drunks and pokey townsfolk. Of the pieces of his past, the Demmitt Command Post is the one he will say the least of.
Not long after securing the rank of warrant, Morris moved on in a personnel exchange in March of 1014. He was destined for the Sadruba Thicket, to the airbase of Nadia's Way. Initially, it wasn't much more than a change of scenery. Morris was pushed back into a security uniform. He went to work chewing out terrified cadets and spitting on monster corpses. The terrorscapes could not hold him. Their vile beasts could not challenge him. It was enough to sate his need for spleens, but only just. There, he stayed, occupying twenty-two years of his life, waiting for something bigger.
January of 1036 threw an upturn into the Duke's path. He was a menace to Nadia's Way. A brutally-effective soldier and a keeper-of-the-peace no one would ever think to cross, but friends were not much to be found. He was placed on a personnel transfer list, sent along to the worst place his superiors could think of, and quietly disappeared across the MASTER network. Little did anyone realize, the Duke had gone to just where he wanted to be. The Pires Command Post, right on the northern border of the Southern Veinlands. A wretched place of nightmares, meat, and despair. He was finally home.
MOVING OUT
One man alone could not right the wrongs Pires faced daily, but the Duke left his mark. The administrators of the facility did not waste any time with him; they took one look at his combat credentials and sent him off on patrol. Thirteen Cult-controlled towns were razed in the months to follow. Casualty rates among patrolmen dropped to nearly half of what they were before. His legend began to take form. Word spread to nearby bunkers. Here was a man, so simple and straightforward to his muscly physique, who was impervious to harm - six meat infestations in just a single month could not kill him. Broken cultists and mutilated monsters were his staircase to the top. Could he be stopped? Could he ever be contained?
No. No, he could not. Though Pires is an empty husk today, it did not go quietly. When the Cult rallied to put the beast down, in August of 1039, they ran headlong into a screaming pit of traps and fire. Lying in wait were the Duke and his cohort, a howling maelstrom of railguns and particle cannons. Official Cult stance on the siege of Pires was that they suffered only a few martyrs as casualties. The Duke came away with combat footage telling a different story; thirty men, at least, and no less than a hundred monsters. The Cult claims that Pires was slain to the last. Only ten Loonies died in the siege. Forty-three broke loose.
The exodus from the bunker was a different story. Six more Loonies died on the long trek through the meaty underground, ten more along the crimson trails to nearby Camp Octomania. The Duke remained solid - and screaming - all along the way. Survivors from Pires claimed the Duke had gone the whole way with a wounded Looney slung over his back. Footage of their arrival at Octomania showed the man carrying one for each shoulder. For the stragglers leftover, Morris was a hero - a beacon of light they needed with their home in ruins behind them.
If the Duke has ever been capable of remorse or compassion, it was that moment that drew it out. He remained at Camp Octomania for no less than sixty years, rising to security administrator twice in his stay. He stayed until the last of Pires had finally given up to old age. Legend has it that Morris was there to see them off, and that they died only with the approval of the Duke. On the same day, Morris filed for transfer and disappeared back into the MASTER network. He'd done his duty; to Pires, and to Octomania. He was needed somewhere else.
THE MUSCLEMIND
He arrived from the ether in the Norton Command Post at Digit Peaks, high in the Big Toe, in December of 1102. The Crimson Expanse was spreading in the distance. The Loonies weren't paying it much mind. If something didn't change, everything was going to be covered in meat. The Duke wasn't going to have any of it. He worked himself into the miners of Norton, found his place ripping mutants and horrors apart with his teeth, and endeared himself to the staff - sort of. He was a vicious slab of bedrock with the manners of a hungry bear, but he kept the peace. It was enough to earn their respect, at least.
Things continued more-or-less the same way they always had. The Duke was rotated out of the miners and into base security. He earned his respect there by knuckling down offenders so hard the bones could be heard snapping in the next bunker over. His sheer presence on the staff was enough to keep fingers out of the proverbial cookie jar. His reign of terror on the Toe had begun in earnest. There was one small problem; what could the Duke do alone? A man with guts and a rifle wasn't enough to save Pires. How could he save the Toe? Something else needed to be done.
In 1114, the Duke found his way. He had achieved security administrator - again, and to no one's surprise - just a year prior. He had earned the admiration of his entire branch of service and the respect of the entire bunker. He flexed his power, pinched the opportunity of the Toe, and rallied Norton to a new cause. A network emerged under his championship. At least a century of experience - and probably more - pulled the rest of Norton's council together for his grand scheme. The Duke was going to war. This time, he wasn't doing it alone.
RAGE AGAINST THE MEAT
So rose the Norton Emergency Response Network, or NORK. It was the Duke's first great gambit for the fate of the Toe. Bunkers signed on obliviously as Norton grew, snaggling them up in supply agreements, family ties, and operational dependencies. If the Duke couldn't hold them by the throat, he'd have someone else do it for him; for every thing a bunker needed from Norton, it needed another from a neighbor. In it all, Morris was merely the instigator. The council behind him worked fiendishly to carry out his plan. They learned the truth only a year before it could be set in motion.
Tales about the NORK's first raids have crossed bunkers since the action started in 1118. The Duke is the star of dozens of them. That he flew the first gunship strike, that he was on the ground with the first convent raid, or that he claimed first blood in the fighting. Some even say it was all three. Whatever the case, Morris was there, in body or in spirit, for each plan, each raid, and each extraction. He penned countless successes against the Cult with his muscly fingers. Everything was going to plan.
At least, it was, until Norton's council rose up roughly seven years later. They'd been duped into fighting a war against cultists halfway across the mountain. By 1125, they'd finally gussied up the courage to sack the Duke. He was dropped from administrator to captain, unceremoniously placed on patrol, and kept out of the bunker as long as humanly possible. Wildlife in the region soon veered towards extinction. Noise complaints came along from bunkers on the next continent over. As quickly as could be, the council drew up plans for a withdrawal, disengagement, and demobilization.
At least, they tried, until they realized they were caught in their own web. Norton's network was committed to the Duke's plan. They'd seen the writing on the wall and returned the massive mastermind's salute. By the time the Duke had been removed from the picture, the wave of early successes had blown dissent away. The show had to go on. While Morris never made the council again, his plan went along, backed by Norton's premier strategists. A half century of fighting went by, for the Duke and for the Loonies, until the NORK finally dissolved in 1164.
WRESTLE THE SUN
The Norton Command Post went with it and sent Morris out into the wilderness. It was not the same, desperate, last stand of Pires. It was a grim realization of dwindling odds and a dying network. Loonies departed in small bands as cultists swept into an empty bunker - and promptly blew up when they tried the door. The Duke rallied his companions through the cold to the shelter of the Hallenbeck Command Post. It was a new platform for his schemes and a new home for his people.
Again, the Duke worked to establish himself. He studied the bunker, the locale, the aftermath of the NORK. He watched cultists continue to pierce through the untainted highlands of the Toe, saw villages swear themselves to the incarnadine faith. He stood at the walls of his new castle as a soldier, threw his back into every labor asked of him. People knew him, trusted him, and respected him, but he needed more. The Loonies alone could not break the crimson crusade. They needed help from on high.
The Duke reigned, as he always had. He was looked on with awe, respect, and fear. Mostly fear, but it got the job done. The job in question was nothing short of outright treason. The Duke looked skyward, to the stars, to the spaceships turning cultists into ground beef all across the Crimson Expanse. He gathered his support and leveraged it for the task. Swaying Hallenbeck wasn't terribly difficult - most people were more afraid of what the Duke could do than what any of the other bunkers could.
Swaying the Space Loonies, on the other hand, was a touch more difficult. The Loonies had caused trouble up there. They'd sacked space stations, stolen ships, busted up unionite networks, and caused a terrible ruckus. The Duke's word meant nothing. They didn't much care that he was immortal. They didn't care how many necks he'd snapped. He was just another dirt-eater with an attitude problem. They weren't afraid of him - how could he ever get his fists all the way to orbit?
As he always did, the Duke found a way. Maybe he couldn't get up there to strangle a few greyskins. Maybe he couldn't slap the tongues off of a few frogs. It didn't matter. He could still tell them where and when to shoot. He had enough respect with the years behind him to get them on the phone. All he had to do was work out a convincing argument. He'd have his people scout out some interesting locations and leave a bullseye for the guns up above. They didn't have to work together. They just had to shoot at the same target. Simple enough.
BIGGER, MEANER, LOUDER
Much to the fortune of the Loonies on the continent, it was too simple to fail. In 1186, the Space Loonies answered. Some saw the man's pedigree and knew right away that he meant business. Others were just curious to see how much brain was behind the brawn. Cultists scattered, splintered, splattered - the Duke's wrath rained from orbit. The results were swift and effective. The Crimson Expanse learned the same fear the Southern Veinlands had learned - the same fear that kept Loonies and monsters up at night. The Duke's second plan took form. It just needed a banner behind it.
1203 rolled in with a new century to the Duke's name and a new network wrought from the sweat of his toned brow. He brought together his old allies and new accomplices, forged them into the Hallenbeck Emergency Response Network. He stood with the administrative council at his back, holding up his wall of silence with their full support. He had brought the Space Loonies to the table with nothing less than results. He just needed to actually do something - couldn't much let the aliens steal the show, could he?
With the network behind him, the Duke sent the Loonies back into the maelstrom. It was the turning point everyone had been waiting for. Here was the Duke again, bigger, meaner, and louder, crushing cultists and mangling monsters all across the front line. The stories spread again; he leapt from gunships, rode tanks by gun barrel, ran screaming into battle alone in tales that lit up radio chatter for decades. Cultists raided Hallenbeck and there, in each and every myth, was the Duke, standing bare-chested at the battlements.
The command post was christened Castle Wienerstein, and Morris named its Duke of Sausage. Fact or fiction, the man did nothing to dispel his legend. He worked tirelessly each day to set in motion another raid, another strike, or another barrage of hellfire from above. The meat could not beat him. The Loonies pushed it back, day after day, month after month, year after year, wrenching success from the jaws of defeat with the Duke watching over them. When Morris finally announced his alliance with the Space Loonies in 1216, no one dared challenge him. Only the Duke knew the road to victory.
NEVER STOP SCREAMING
A century of fighting passed. The meat shrunk to the foot of the Toe. The Duke aged not. He was never broken. He was never humbled. He was never silenced - if anything, he only got louder. The myth of the man rose with every year that went by, every triumph and tragedy penned to his name. He has remained the colonel of Castle Wienerstein for a hundred years. He has earned his reputation as a demon and a villain to the cultists of the Crimson Expanse. He has earned his respect as a hero and a legend to the Loonies of the Big Toe. The Space Loonies try not to think about him too much.
Deep in the heart of war, an eternal tyrant reigns from a throne of blood - and he's mean as Hell.
