The Kings of Rifters

The old pages of the Rifter were written dark and dense with grand stories and bold tales, the stuff of legend, nobody would argue. Former kings now great names faded in the ink. But the new chapter of frigates lay upon the timeline like waves unwritten. And as a new breed of pilot descended from a skillpoint sky many knew the Rifter would be cast aside and set to dust as they fell, one by one, to the sweet lure and seduction of the new riches. A betrayal of an old master, good times long forgotten. Would the autocannons fall deafly silent?
The Rifters appeared on the horizon like menacing dots, like fire-ants bent on war and rampage. And the dots grew bigger and soon they rumbled into view like great ships sailing over a black water. Flags of various corporations draped over metal, skulls and flames and lightning bolts and birds of prey. Ornaments strategically placed like sacrifices to an old god; horns of a once great beast, the coat of a Wildlands bear, a boar's skull and a black wolf's teeth. Some were painted blood-red and some were blue and some a burnt-yellow and black and wasp-like and some were a broken mismatch as if salvaged from the great scrapyard in the sky.
Like dragons they soared, autocannons hissing and flickering at the space ahead of them, tasting a wind that was not there, wings like sails, majestically over that black sky they made noise like a thunder so demonic.
And they flew, and they flew, upon the wastelands and the great pilots in command sat high like kings in pods at the centre of their great structure, protected in a rib cage of rust and wires so the crew would take heart in their very presence. Afterburners howling a rapturous tongue and like a horde from hell they flew out into the unknown to dance on their own graves.

The Kings of Rifters ...



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