-On Corvids and emotional attachment-
I found myself enjoying the camaraderie and esprit du corps I found amongst the Nobrean Corvids, but it is something I could never truly embrace with my whole heart: for first I would have had to spit upon everything I had been taught as a neonate in the intelligence creche I was raised in; then I would have to admit that these people were my true peers and that I was like them. It is, I found, easiest to reconcile by viewing it in the same manner one would the affection one receives from a pet canid. It loves you unconditionally, but you are beyond it, you exist in a state so far above its comprehension that to stoop to its level would be to debase yourself utterly.
-On personal hygiene-
Simple mental feats taught us in the creches, such as pain editing and voluntary sensory exclusion, seem to be beyond the capability of your average grounder. The greatest years of mental plasticity and learning potential are wasted on rudimentary arithmetic, basic linguistics and countless hours of recreational activity. This means that generally, if one wishes to blend in, one must take certain... steps. That said, there is something to be said for the delightful sensation of standing in a cubicle, inundated by falling water. The act of ablution and exfoliation is almost sexual in its intimacy, exploring every micrometre of your skin with a glove lathered in fragrant astringents. Of anything left in a gravity well when I return home, I miss showers the most.
Upon my arrival on Mar Nosso, I took some time to acclimate; soaking in the consumer culture, the homogenisation and co-opting of external elements as curios and sources of entertainment. I was pleasantly surprised at the advanced nature of their ability to control and placate their populace while desensationalising anything deemed adversarial to the absolutist corpornational identity they instill in their chattel. Their mastery of socio-linguistics in particular makes me wonder if we shouldn't hire consultants from among their number.
They have sanitised the events of the Solo Nobre Incident and successfully market it locally as The Reassertion, though the greater colonial community still refers to it as The Long Night. It's a clever manipulation; they held claim previously, and by shaping the dialogue to focus on that fact, it distracts from lasting concerns about military action projected into civilian-heavy locales.
Then there is the way they treat dissidents. As our existing intelligence has shown, there is a growing movement on Mar Nosso who have taken up the Corvid mantle, after the revolutionary element on Novo Solo during Great Leader's reign. Agitators unlucky enough to be taken alive by SNC security personnel generally find themselves remanded to special Public Safety Centers for R&R - brevspeak for Review and Release. Again, note the banality and inoffensive nature of every term used here, all perfectly weighted to glide past the hindbrain's sense of danger, yet what it really means is enhanced interrogation and summary execution.
Where we rule by fear over our serfs and chattel, they clearly seek to lull their populace into a sense of comfort and security, open to consumption and contentment. It's a simple enough principle really, though one not entirely concordant with our own methodologies.
When you don't want your chattel to panic, you don't show your teeth.
Mar Lixo? It's the hideous, malformed relative the more inbred wellbound 'noble' families try not to ever speak of. It was, according to early records, a verdant world with vast alkali deposits covering its southerly continent from ancient meteor impacts. The relative stellar scarcity of lithium brought it to the attention of Clade Vocc. The value of lithium and its compounds for a variety of technologies, especially spacefaring technologies, is tremendous.
Self-contained extraction and refinery communities of suitable cattle stock were seeded, and for a time, there was scarcely a vessel in the firmament that did not contain lithium hydroxide from Mar Lixo in its scrubbers, or batteries assembled there. In time, the refineries and factories dominated more and more of the landscape, belching byproducts into the air and sea, the food web died, short of the most hardy cyanobacteria and aquatic thermophiles. Life was simply not necessary on Mar Lixo; only, at the time, it was called Agate. From orbit, its initial discoverer remarked on how much it resembled a perfect sphere of said stone.
Now, its oceans thick with lead, antimony, hydrazine, lithium hydroxide and a thousand other compounds, its new name makes far more sense. Mar Lixo. Sea of Filth.
-Clade Thrain and its deep space capital-
There was a time when Vocc and Thrain entertained the idea of a shared pedagogic syllabus, allowing for freer dissemination of knowledge between our two great Clades. I was one of the lucky subjects of this failed program and spent six stellar rotations on the Clade Thrain orbital, Hapax Legemenon.
There was a stronger emphasis on paracausal theorems and quantum mechanics, a shift in titles and honorifics, and their use of chattel even included servile roles and augmented scriveners; but there were more commonalities between us than I had expected. What really stayed with me, though, was the initial sight of the orbital. Set against a stellar nursery limned in bright golds and reds, it hung like a titanic black spider, a squat, broad void in space with spindled limbs that must have been kilometres in length. I still see it when I close my eyes sometimes, and I swear it's looking back at me.
-On Corvid Councils-
I attended one of those so-called "councils" once, just for my own edification. Great Annihilator Above I swear it was like watching half a dozen peacocks engaging in some sort of complicated mating ritual whereby they each skriked about "issues" and "the true way to freedom." Each peacock had its own entourage of loyal adherents, who attempted to shout down anyone who contradicted the particular brand of "truth" their favoured idol was proselytising at the time.
Predictably, as with any gathering of Corvids, it devolved into heavy drinking, fistfights over nuances in their chosen version of the manifesto, and offers to settle it on the blacktop for slips and an apology. At least the racing showed some element of Darwinistic selection.
It is my third lunar cycle embedded incognito with the Linschotten Massive. For those of you unfamiliar with my previous reports; firstly, why are you unfamiliar with them? Secondly, they're accessible on Voccnet.int.humint; the Linschotten Massive are a Corvid separatist enclave named for a minor agrarian necropolis on Solo Novo. They came to our attention after it became known that they were agitating for a less subservient role in Nobrean affairs under the inevitable corpornational dictatorate that would arise after the projected victory of forces on secondment to the SNC.
After providing what passes for leadership amongst these petrochemical-huffing primates with information on architectural and infrastructural cascade failure points within surrounding districts that would have been obvious to anyone with a basic understanding of engineering and physics, they appear to have ascribed to me some mystical quality and dubbed me a "wrecksmith." Only last night I had to endure several hours of nauseating low-fidelity electronic noise and racks of meat with suspect provenance seasoned with ethylene glycol, gunpowder and sauce rendered from capsicum variants so pungent I am still suffering the scorching aftereffects. As a final insult, I suffered the indignity of my face being marked with engine oil by a "gearhead", a role serving some form of ecumenical function amongst these petrolithic throwbacks.
Please, let me come home.
-The Linschotten Massive, a Corvid regional subdivision-
My time amongst the Massive has been eye-opening, but there are several remarks on my reports on Voccnet/HUMINT wondering precisely what they are. The Massive are a law unto themselves even amongst the greater Corvid entity. The original men behind the Massive are said to have been a combination of disenfranchised construction workers seeing more money poured into memorials for the dead than for their hungry children, and several local land owners equally tired of seeing their arable land turned into mausolea.
I have seen some evidence to support this assertion, and some that contradicts it. The lore amongst the Massive themselves is treated as scripture, however, and pressing too hard invites the displeasure of my hosts. They have been good to me, even before they knew my real origins - and I'm starting to suspect they were always aware and merely playing along - and I feel it would be impolitic to push harder yet.
I would describe them as equal parts revolutionary movement, tribe and criminal enterprise, with their smuggling endeavours providing the primary bulk of their financing. They show strong cultural attachment to ancient traditions like harvest festivals and planting rites. Unsurprising given their integration into the agrarian communities of Linschotten.
Most of the Massive's arsenal is repurposed farm equipment, Killdozers and Propters and one-off builds involving combine chassis and the like are rife. Laser weaponry is rare, and the shield technology I've been authorised to help them with only goes so far. They tend to go in one of two directions with regards to defense. They'll either cover the vehicle in synth-crete k-beams stolen from the inter-district highways and add engine power to ameliorate the loss of speed, or they'll just stack horsepower and torque until you simply can't hit them.
In closing, I believe it very much in our best interest to maintain positive relations with the Massive.
-Masks of the Saints-
This art installation consists of a gilded human skeleton, death-masked head lifted toward the sky, right arm outstretched. Behind it, a section of brick wall taken entirely from 56-C, upon which hang an array of colorful partial and full-face masks, many of which are adorned with feathers acquired from fauna found only on Solo Novo. Beneath the left foot of the gilded skeleton is a charred, featureless mask, bereft of detail save for the governmental seal of Eixo. The masks' authenticity has been verified by cultural anthropologist Eija Järvinen.
On their presence on Mar Nosso.
You might wonder why Clade Thrain has any interest in the present opportunity on Mar Nosso given their reputation as wanderers in the deep dark out beyond the Colonial Rim. Well, it's not money, I can tell you that much. Exotic mineral and gas mining operations mean they aren't exactly short on capital. Perhaps it was motivated by aggressive acquisition attempts by the Concern with regard to the Clade's holdings, and perhaps it's even a means of exacting prestation from my native Clade Vocc for standing shoulder to shoulder with us during our current preoccupation with the Rite of Succession; for what is more valuable than favour and influence to those beyond the concept of physical currency?
All I know is that they are coming, and that makes me nervous.
Nossean Corvid shield-tender, medium wheeled
Due to the inefficiency of jury-rigged hardshields, a recent Council of Wrecksmiths set about sidestepping the problem in the best way they knew how: Chop together something to suit and spread the instructions to fellow gearheads.
Essentially, one takes a dual rear axle pickup truck covered in half-inch armour grade plates carved off old milsurp bought on the open market, loads the bed down with a daisychained bank of capacitors "repurposed" from city infrastructure, adds a linked pair of small gimbals on the roof for Bonesaws or Carlos.
The sheer weight means Coifs are ponderous things, easily left behind by their faster squadmates. Standard Spacer combat and survival doctrine instructs one to pick off the rest of the squad, then gorge oneself on the capacitor bank in the aftermath.
Nossean Corvid shield-tender, heavy tracked
The excessive weight of the capacitor banks in this heavy tender meant that the Wrecksmiths had to look to a sturdier chassis than the humble pickup truck. Settling on the tried and tested Nobrean Canmore, of which there are an enormous amount on the military surplus market, the Casque actually manages to be a passable tank in its own right, though its profile is enormous thanks to capacitor banks bolted to every surface and covered over with plating and ablative blocks.
The additional bulk meant a trade-off in mount size, but a heavy tank with Shrikes and Stutters or a Preacher and Duchess is by no means a slouch. I've seen overconfident Lexovs blown out of the sky by talented cannoneers, and nobody wants to have their genetic material excised from the Clade's genebanks for terminal mediocrity.
Nossean Corvid shield-tender, ultra tracked
The Sallet is, as far as I am aware, still a single custom-fabricated proof of concept, as sourcing the colossal chassis that carries it all is not easy. Most post-Reassertion Kilgores, Lowmills and the like were salvaged by the SNC directly and not sold as surplus. That said, I've seen the plans, and they could be easily converted to use construction vehicle chassis, in the manner of the Killdozer. Reminiscent of the Nobrean Corvid Dragon, the Sallet juts priapically several stories into the air, the heavy mounts side-mounted in parallel atop multiple floors of stacked capacitors, internal magazines and engineering spaces, casting an intimidating shadow over all it surveys.
Should the Sallet ever go into what passes for production amongst the Corvids of Mar Nosso, I suggest adhering strictly to my combat tutor's advice for dealing with any large turreted vehicle: Pound it in the Ass.
===Eija’s Nose Art Entries===
Paver, Spacer Treadbike
Engine fairing, right side
Piloted by Eija Järvinen
I always liked the look of the Paver, if not the performance envelope. It's not got the instant responsiveness of, say, an Arlo or a Hoker, but after my time with the Linschotten Massive I found myself enjoying the additional challenge of maneuvering a non-Agrav vehicle. I started out street racing with several members of the Massive, barreling through the district on Broomcorns, Troubadors and Hannibals. Once it became clear my cover had never existed in the first place, I had the parts for a Paver shipped down and spent some time getting my hands dirty building it myself.
There was a certain tactile pleasure and sense of accomplishment in constructing the machine myself, and after giving it a suitable paint job, I unveiled it to my daredevil peers. I fitted it with a Carlos and a Black Hand, along with adaptive camouflage plating, and thanks to a healthy amount of self-interest and generous use of the latter fixture I made it to the Spaceport with ample time to watch several other pilots wreak exquisite carnage across the district, levelling almost every building. I disabled the weapon systems with Composition-8 and left the vehicle dirtside to save on reaction mass, which would have cost me a pretty penny. I wish I'd kept the hula girl off the dash, though.
["This Love" depicts a black heart clutched in a checkered fist, a single droplet of blood oozing forth from the top.]
"Massive Pride Nobre Wide"
Broomcorn, Corvid Treadbike
Piloted by Sariah Lindo
So as it turns out, the Massive pegged me for a Spacer from the moment I showed up, despite my efforts to obscure my origins and blend in. They were so happy that one of us had taken an interest in them though that they hadn't the heart to break mine by letting me know they saw right through me. Such sentiment is abhorrent and makes my skin crawl but their positive reaction to my presence and eager thirst to hear tales from the stars has ameliorated the sting somewhat.
It was Sariah Lindo, an outrider for the Massive, who finally broke the news, leading to an endless slew of questions from Corvids both young and old about everything from what other worlds I've seen and how grav units work to the precise nature of waste evacuation in zero-g. She acted as somewhat of a buffer between the others and I, shooing them away when the clamoring grew too great. I feel some small pang of loss when I think about how her Broomcorn was found in the Tenements, shot through by my brethren. I will miss her, I think, for a very long time.
["Massive Pride Nobre Wide" depicts four hands throwing up gang signs, specifically forming the letters MPNW.]
Roper, Corvid Heavy Grav-Tank
Automobile door used as glacis plate
Painted by Eija Järvinen
"Needs must when the devil drives," goes the old saying, and I'm not sure whether it's the petrochemical fumes, the psychoactive fungus in the festive ale or some small sense of camaraderie I've begun to feel with these soildwelling subhumans in their struggle against the regime, but I actually admire the resourcefulness of these slavering dogs and helped decorate one of their larger war machines this week.
Their capacity for destruction with seemingly innocuous pieces of farm machinery and automotive cast-offs is truly impressive. If nothing else, the ability to do more with less is a trait I believe is worthy of further study for integration into Clade doctrine.
["Merry Wrecksmas" depicts a festive figure wearing a pom-pom hat made of still-bloody skin turned inside out, delivering an overflowing sack full of explosives]
Politics is the opiate of the belligerent, and patriotism the virtue of the vicious. Declaring oneself to a particular doctrine is an act of submission to the ideals of another. In fact [and I say fact rather than truth because truth is the domain of the religious], there exist only two real concepts: will and power. Through application of one, the other is achieved.
A veteran of the usual outer colony hotspots, both on and offworld, Kessler subscribed to the 'speed kills' combat philosophy. It's an entirely valid doctrine, light vehicles and relativistic weapons make for a terribly effective pairing especially when faced with outdated materiel.
That said, the aphorism works both ways. Simlinked sensor and visual telemetry from the moments prior to Kessler's demise show him executing a lateral juke, his Hoker taking a round directly between the port glacis and the main body, emulsifying both immersion fluid and pilot. Corroborating telemetry from Kessler's squadronmates shows the round came from a partially-immobilised NEP Betushka later identified as the carriage of Rika Morita, the 'Saviour of Soto'.
As far as universal constants go, physics is the great equaliser.
The predisposition toward lighter materials and more robust shield generators of my Spacer brethren is not merely a concession to mass and density considerations as regards displacement in drop pods and re-orbiting costs. It is a simple flexion of the fact that we have the technology to do better than bolting several thousand pounds of scrap iron to our vehicles.
My combat vehicle operations tutor once referred to it as 'the idiot buffer'.
-On Tinfoil Hats-
While the reflectivity and radiopermeability of aluminium and tin do little to block the more esoteric particles, the concept itself - a cranial shield to airgap one's brain from waveform manipulation of thought - is sound. It definitely bears further investigation.
-On NEP Laser Carbines-
The funny thing is, we sold them an ancient design that we moved beyond by about a dozen iterative generations, and they looked at it like it was the Second Coming of their so-called Saints.
Spacer Balltread, Light
Derived from an all-terrain design primarily used these days as a recreational vehicle, the Charon's six treadballs are splayed out in an equidistant, hexagonal configuration. The main cabin and turret assembly are kept suspended and oriented via an A-grav ring. The main cabin itself is a shallow sloped wedge akin to certain early stealth tank designs and its weapon mounts fitted asymetrically on the left side. Capable of surprising bursts of speed and with a remarkably tight turning radius for a non-Agrav, it tends most often to be helmed by those neophyte combat pilots who have yet to be given the honor of a Lexov or other fully Agrav-capable steed.
Piloting one is a litmus test of sorts: Either you ferry your foes to the afterlife, or it ferries you.
Spacer Ultra Quadmech, discontinued
This particular design showed promise early on in urban pacification scenarios - such as the suppression of Lithium Refinery #026 on Mar Lixo - where its titanic form and imposing, predatory shape held maximum psychological impact upon inferior forces with limited access to weapons. Its broad limb dispersal and ability to 'stand tall', stepping over shorter buildings, allowed it to navigate heavily industrialised zones where minimal infrastructure:insurgent ratio was desirable. That same ability also gave it considerable advantage in covering multiple blocks at once via its array of precision optical maser and gamma ray emitter turrets.
That said, the self-same ability also proved, in further testing against relatively contemporary forces, to be a serious design flaw. When standing tall, the Hekatonkhaire became the singular focus of fire. Furthermore, without some means of adding point defense turrets to the lower legs to protect from ambush strikes and kamikaze runs, it proved easier to assault via a term one tester referred to as 'lumberjacking'. The final nail in its coffin was sheer cost vs effectiveness. We maintain several for use on our own worlds as deterrents, but the design overall proved to be an embarrassment to its designer, Segovax Thorne, whose punitive gelding and permanent assignment to an overseer position on Mar Lixo has served as sufficient inspiration to his peers in our applied research cells.
Marta De Silva
EOD/Demo specialist, career military for financial/vocational stability. Met multiple internal selection criteria for direct recruitment; including clearance level, access to infrastructure/materiel, proficiency. Additional discretionary traits deemed beneficial; vestigial sense of loyalty to unit and regime, negotiable morality, pyrophilia.
Field consultancy contract voided prematurely by NEP asset Rika Morita. Commiseratory payout of .005% paid to next of kin.
-Beynder, SNC Informatics Division
It is our way to strive for excellence in all things. We have exemplars of every field imaginable - including, of course, innovators in the application of force.
Vocc boasts the greatest number of warrior cults of any Clade, their lethality matched by their theatricality, as is proper amongst Vocc's scions. The Draugr in particular eschew socialisation and hedonistic pursuits, undergoing a ritual cleansing beneath the light of the Great Annihilator in order to pursue the perfection of slaughter. First, the warrior is anointed with exotic matter; neutrinos harvested from the illimitable void, diamond dust torn from the hearts of gas giants, elemental metals left in the wake of dying stars. Second, he is blessed with a tincture refined from the blood of the greatest names in the Clade's history. Finally, he is then given a war name, dedicating himself evermore to the art of destruction.
On the field of battle, Draugr do not exhibit the same individual drive for glory as other Spacers. Instead they make themselves known as a thunderous, cataclysmic surprise, mechs and Agravs shimmering into being only after the deafening roar of their heavy weapons has heralded their arrival. Withering hailstorms of electro-disruptive rounds and streaks of searing crimson strip shields while Lorentz force weapons hurl slugs of tungsten at relativistic speeds through armour plating and packets of superheated plasma melt plate, concrete and flesh alike. The initial seconds of a Draugr assault consist of focusing down larger prey in mere moments, allowing them to pick off smaller foes at their leisure, leaving infantry for last; a grisly digestif to cap off the feast of slaughter, entire companies blood eagled and flayed, laid out in the sun.
It is said that the Draugr feel nothing save the desire to bring the quiet of the grave to any world they tread upon, and that they mortify their flesh, carving repudiations of the gods across every inch of their skin. It is also said that each Draugr's skin holds but a part of a greater tale, and that there is a chamber secreted away on some unnamed ship where the hides of fallen Draugr are lain reverentially, as pages in a book. A book no living soul shall ever read.
The honours and accolades festooned upon such exemplars of deathdealing by our people are numberless, and though they make no outward indication of it, I find it difficult to believe that they do not feel pride and a sense of superiority whenever their elevated status is recognised by the deference shown their ilk. Beyond rumour and hearsay, greater detail regarding their innermost workings is occulted from even those such as myself. To know the Draugr, one must become Draugr, and that is a road which few are willing to tread.
Pompadour, Corvid Agrav
Mostly intact hood panel
Driven by Joybastard
A bit of an urban legend around the Tenements, Joybastard was one of those creepy, worst-possible-outcome sort of guys. Somebody disappeared? "Oh, Joybastard must've got them." Having a bad day? Here's Joybastard to drag you kicking and screaming into a six day DMT/ether/adrenochrome binge after which you'll probably have somebody's teeth stitched onto your throat. His force of personality and his willingness to go far beyond necessary kept his eccentricities and occasional bad weeks from completely alienating him from his brethren.
His Pompadour was a reflection of who he was, with every inch of its panelling painstakingly covered in cured, embroidered human skin, its edges spiked with sharpened human bone. The twisted wreckage of Joybastard's grisly steed was found toward the back of a collapsed alley, the oppositional arrangement of nearby Corvid wrecks painting a picture of long-standing sufferance finally given sweet release. The hood panel was apparently blown off in the initial salvo, as it was found wedged in a window three stories up, some light warping and burnt edges the only damage.
Can't say I'll miss the guy.
[Captive Audience" depicts a Pompadour's hood, covered in human faces stitched together like a quilt.]
A self-avowed connoisseur of humankind and seeker of transcendental experiences - "better living through chemistry," he phrases it - the Corvid known as Joybastard was somewhat of an urban legend before the events leading up to the SNC's retaking of Solo Nobre. Clinically sociopathic, frequently on several different psychogenic substances at any one time, disarmingly charming when he chose to be, and gifted with an amorality and predatory guile I find myself quite appreciative of, he was a consummate monster stalking the tenements and slums. I entertained the thought of recruiting him several times.
Imagine my surprise when I found out that, despite the apparent desire of his peers to murder him during the Long Night, fortune favoured him. He had dismounted from his beloved Pompadour to micturate, and had left it running in the interrim, relying on his reputation to keep potential thieves away from his prized possession. I may give further thought to entreating him for pending operations.
Canmore, Loyalist Heavy Tank
Partial right side turret glacis plate
Commanded by Tech Sgt. Raisa Cantari, KIA
The 402nd Chemical Sustainment Battalion isn't something the NEP liked to talk about. They were one of those special off-book arrangements that presented the outward face of just another unit, masking something much nastier behind the facade. A source of mine dug up a memo discussing the potential benefits of area denial through Tubarão saturation. It outlined a rolling exclusion zone with a line of heavy tanks supported by direct fire, long range hitters and fast-moving skirmishers to protect the flanks.
The unit's primary function was never given approval but that didn't stop crews from adopting certain motifs associated with their highly specialised arsenal, nor did it stop them from unloading enough of the NEP's special sauce to deforest a small moon.
["Blistered Sister" depicts a red-haired pinup model with her back to the viewer, peering over her left shoulder. She's wearing a padded NEP tank helmet and a camouflaged thong. Her face is melted, her skin blotched with burns, and her left hand is tearing into her ribcage. A cloud of green gas is seeping out from between her ribs.]
[Contest winning entry, will be featured in Brigador Killers]
"The Knot of the Slain"
Prism, Spacer Heavy Agrav
Front right glacis plate, partial
Piloted by Castor Finnankainen
A self-styled Clade Thrain mystic, Finnankainen's repository of occult lore gathered from across the Inner and Outer Colonies is admittedly staggering, even if his obsession with unproven paracausality theorems and insistence that belief dictates reality make him seem somewhat unstable. Personally, I feel as though his reliance upon electro-tattoo sigils of protection and unctions of prowess is backward and an insult to logic and reason, but I cannot argue with his kill counts, or the number of times he has survived certain death unharmed.
Finnankainen's Prism was fitted with a Banshee/Otomo configuration, and an audiokinetic pulse device. Its ruined frame was found in Haskin's Port after encountering an NEP heavy tank column but Finnankainen himself managed to make it to the Spaceport on foot without so much as a scratch on him.
["The Knot of the Slain" depicts the mystical Valknutr sigil - three interlocking triangles - in black, edged with deep purple, on a sea of stars.]
[Contest winning entry, will be featured in Brigador Killers]
Solringen Strategic Solutions
Having emerged as both a manufacturer of weapons and a paramilitary consultant after a particularly nasty series of conflicts that shook the Scutum-Centaurus Arm, Solringen supplied half the wars on this side of Sagittarius A* and then some. Outside of the arms trade, they sell their services as "professional intercessors." The use of their "Field Litigation Teams" to leverage dubious legal claims into legitimacy through the use of insurgency, intrigue and direct action has seen them help prop up otherwise flimsy coups and dethrone solid leadership time and time again across the Outer Colonies.
I've found no evidence they were involved with the SNC during the Solo Nobre Incident, but stranger things have happened in a Texas 7.
A veteran of several of our more impactful operations on colonies along the Scutum Crux arm, Warsong and her Draugr peers were instrumental in breaking a nascent federation of non-compliant worlds in need of adjustment. She herself is, from what little I have been able to glean on her, considered a 'junior' sister of one of Clade Vocc's most insular warrior lodges, the Draugr, and I have witnessed her alacritous acclimatisation to their practices in the rapidly spreading maze of intricate scarification across her face and neck.
Having met her numerous times, she typifies the collective savagery and dedication to the art of killing ubiquitous amongst her lodgemates, and though she has yet to succumb entirely to their almost autarchic behaviour, my recent entreaties have succeeded in piquing her interest in freelance work for the SNC.
Post Scriptum: The unfortunate incident involving the late Rebecca Farnsworth suggests that any further contact should not be attempted by wellbound operatives, and instead through me as there are certain... nuances... to our culture that may elude those not born to them.