| abstract
| - Overrun was a Tsuru's Legion technique which taught how to make a powerful charge while riding a war steed, delivering decisive attacks at the critical moment of a battle.
- It is a class-based Horde and Beast mode mix where two teams pit off against each other, one playing as the COG and the other playing as the Locust. When playing as the COG, your objective is to defend the Emergency Hole Covers/Generator at all costs, while Locust attackers are tasked with destroying these as fast as possible to win the match.
- The estate grounds are quiet, but unlike other nights, it is not the serenity of peace. As if sensing the fury that is approaching, even the insects and wildlife which normally inhabit the nearby regions have fled or hidden themselves, the lights of the estate turned up to their highest settings, casting a surreal glow across the area. In the windows of the house can be seen the grim silhouettes of guards, armed and waiting. From down the forest trail, in the direction of the city, sounds can be heard. The growing din of angry shouting and the clanging of metal on metal. The occasional flickers of burning torches and glowing plasma lanterns are visible through the darkened stands of trees in the woodland surrounding the estate of Imperator Sharpeye Skygazer and his mate, Snowmist Shadowstalker. A suited shadow steps into view of one of the windows, shorter by half a head or even a full head of the security that turn to acknowledge its presence with a respectful nod. After half a dozen heartbeats of observation, it turns to walk past the line of fragile glass obstructions toward the central entrance, eventually disappearing behind the occluding walls. After that brief stir, those posted at the windows continue their surveillance, stiffening with anticipation as the mob arrives. Soon, the torches and lanterns become more consistently visible through the forest on three sides of the estate. At the moment, no rioters appear to be approaching from the direction of the mountains. Shortly, however, hundreds of Demarians filter out of the woods and start taking up formations around the estate - even moving to cover the gap between the estate and the mountains. A grizzle-snouted Demarian, the leader of the rioters, takes a step toward the main entrance and raises his guttering torch before shouting: "You got one chance, Imperator! One chance! You know what they did to our people! You saw it, no doubt! Turn yourself over to us, no resistance, and this ends peacefully." The door swings open, just enough to reveal one figure - one that is most definitely not the Imperator's. The guard, tensed and wary, calls out in neutral tones, "The choice of peace is in your claws! Turn back - there doesn't need to be any more blood spilled tonight!" "So that's how it's to be then, is it?" the grizzle-snouted Demarian snarls. "Why were our military forces aiding in the slaughter of innocent Demarians?! Is this the Imperator's idea of alliances? Is this the Imperator's idea of *leadership?! Let him come and speak for him-" But whatever he was going to shout next is lost in the sudden roar of Demarians behind him, caught up in the fury of the moment, lunging forward at the sight of the open door. And as that front line starts its charge, the movement is seen by other rioters surrounding the estate. The raging, thundering footfalls commence, pounding past the old Demarian as he watches in horror as his charismatic rantings worked a little better than he expected - or wanted. The mob is going after the Imperator's house, peace-be-damned. Barely taking the time to bite off a curse, the guard dives back inside, slamming the door shut behind him. A delaying tactic only, as is the breaking of the glass as the other guards fire warning shots at the surging mob's feet, for they withdraw just before the raging Demarians reach the house's perimeter, pulling back into its interior. The crowd doesn't waste much time. Like water, it seeks its own level, busting through windows and kicking, pounding, hammering at doors - a tide of Demarian fury sweeping against the walls of what remains of New Alhira's bastion of government in the aftermath of the evacuation. Some rioters are wounded by gunfire from the guards, which just serves to rile them even more. A few are trampled by their own compatriots, tripping and falling underfoot in front of those who are oblivious in the darkness. The mob seems intent on tearing into the house and dealing with Imperator Skygazer without delay. The house is empty - its usual complement of staff all dismissed and sent away, maybe even this very night. The only signs of life are a few straggling guards that rush toward the only central room of the house...the study. There, they turn to make their stand with resigned expressions, holding their rifles like staffs rather than firing futilely into the crowd. Wearing a resigned expression of his own, the grizzle-snouted Demarian who led the crowd and tried, unsuccessfully, to win the Imperator's surrender now lopes after his comrades, roaring, giving in to the battle fury. The rioters were virtually powerless against the fleeing offworlders and their own kind who gunned innocent Demarians down at the landing pad. Now, all that anger, all that frustration, all that rage is brought to bear on the symbol of authority in New Alhira. They break through on all sides, pouring into the house, a flood of unleashed animosity bent on savaging everything in sight. And many of them start converging on the study. The noise and confusion of the riot echo around the clearing, casing discord and distraction around. Hence it's likely no real surprise that when a robed figure shows up at the edge of the clearing, having just stepped out the bushes, that no one really bothers to react. Most likely hand-selected, none of the guards break from their positions in the face of the inevitable tide, though there are several suspicious quivers of whiskers before the owner manages to school himself into stern impassivity again. With the doors behind them closed, locked, and perhaps even barricaded from within by the small handful of their compatriots that are not visibly present, they meet the mob with roars of defiance, rifles raised as clubs to knock out as many as they can before they are dragged down. Not many. And the ones they do pummel unconscious only serve as martyrs to the cause, stoking the already raging fury of the rioters. Claws and fangs flash through shadows and light. And the guns, formerly in the hands of guards friendly to the estate, fall into the clutches of several rioters. Almost immediately, they starting shooting up the ceiling, giving another charge to the already well-revved chaos engine tearing through the house. "SEIZE THE IMPERATOR!" shouts the grizzle-snouted Demarian as he leaps over a couch and runs into the hall that leads to the study. "SEIZE HIM!" And, amidst this ever-increasing furor, there is a sudden thump upon the doors - from the other side. A second thump, and then they are abruptly flung open - to reveal the furious, gray-and-black suited figure of Snowmist. "Stop!" she snarls after only a heartbeat's pause at the sight of the chaos that fills the once orderly halls. Unfazed, perhaps even encouraged by the realization that any attempts at stopping the mob at the door would have been futile, she roars as Sharpeye moves to stand behind her shoulder in support, "You'll kill yourselves an' all Demarians with this idiocy!" "Not *all*," one of the gun-wielding rioters sneers and then points at Sharpeye. "GRAB HIM!" A couple of rioters shove their way into the room, clutching at the Imperator and dragging him past Snowmist. One of the first things that happens: Someone snatches the protective mask off the Imperator's suit, exposing him to the ATRV-infected crowd. The next thing that happens: Caught up in the capture of their target, much of their destructive lust sated by having laid waste to the estate, many in the crowd are drawn after the smaller group that drags the Imperator, now bashed senseless, out of the building and off into the woods west of the estate. But others remain in the house - about two dozen. They go back to sacking the building. Most of them. One doesn't. One moves into the study and puts a hand on Snowmist's shoulder. "You cannot stay here," he whispers, turning to keep his gaze on the doorway, in case the rioters decide to make their way back after the Imperator's mate. "Where are your young ones?" Snowmist roars uselessly as her mate is taken, her own martial skills made useless by the sheer weight of bodies, saved from an unconscious compromise of her own suit only by the claw-guards that sheath the tips of her gloves when, in her panic upon seeing Sharpeye's helmet torn off, she attempts to unsheath them and claw the nearest rioters. Panting, shaking with futility and fury, she starts with a reflexive snarl toward the one who dares to touch her in the aftermath before she blinks, and then blinks again, the battle rage ebbing only slightly from her wild gaze. "Gone," she says hoarsely. "They're all gone. I moved them all...somewhere else." Tuftcheek bobs his snout. He brings his gaze back to fix on Snowmist again. "We will not have long. They should run out of things to break rather quickly. Come. I know a place in the desert. It should provide adequate shelter." His tail lashes back and forth as he steps out into the hallway, kneels and grabs one of the guns that were dropped but not picked up by the rioters. "The desert!" Snowmist echoes, half in unconscious derision, perhaps at the thought of leaving at a time such as now and having to hide on her own world. "Sharp - " she begins, a single, frantic glance thrown back toward the deceptively peaceful room, its imposing desk and chair in which the imperator had presided over work so often during the evenings or the rare days when he stayed home. Then, baring her teeth, she abruptly whirls to lope out after Tuftcheek. "His orders, actually," Tuftcheek informs as they pick their way through the wreckage of a part of the estate not currently being ransacked. He steps along the length of a toppled door, through the battered doorway, and out into the back yard of the estate. He peers toward the Stubtooth Mountains and scans the nearby fringe of forest with his eyes. "The path appears unhindered by rioters." "Sharpeye's?" Snowmist snaps disbelievingly, narrowed eyes scrutinizing Tuftcheek with renewed suspicion. "Who are you?" "You don't remember me?" The Demarian chortles, whiskers flaring a bit as he leads Snowmist away from the house and toward the woodland fringe. He stops short of taking her into the woods just yet, however. Apparently, he wants to be far enough to discourage detection by the rioters - but not so far that Snowmist thinks he's up to anything sinister. "I am Tuftcheek Longvision. I was among those the Imperator liberated from the rule of Longsnout and his cronies. I was among those who stayed behind on Demaria when the Kretonians began their assault. I chose to commit my body to cryogenic storage, against the day when our small army might rise up to defeat the Kretonians." He sighs, shrugs and twitches his ears. "Stumppaw Sandwalker awakened us a few years ago. No war left to fight. No war, then, at least. Now, it seems, my time has come. I have maintained communication with the Imperator over time. When I discovered I had been infected with this virus, I told him that I would stay. If he needed my aid in preserving the peace, he had but to call. After the trouble at the spaceport today, my commlink chimed." Snowmist's muzzle lifts in surprise at the chain of relations he draws for her, her foul mood forgotten for a moment at the serendipitous linkage of events. But at the reminder of what had just occurred, she grimaces, reflexively turning to survey their immediate area with a suspicious gaze, muttering, "What a mess...who knows what they'll do t'him! An' Blacktip's sick...the kits...it's far past their bedtime, an' it's the first they've been away from the both of us...home..." She sucks in a sharper breath, edging onto a half-snarl, half-whine, fingers curled helplessly within their confinement. Whitestripe steps out of the bushes a ways away, head turning as he tracks the walking party. His head turns back to look at the point where the riots bulled their way into the undergrowth, then back to the pair nearby. A moment longer, then he begins moving towards the pair, reaching up with both hands to tug his facemask down. "He knew what they might do to him," Tuftcheek replies somberly. "That is why he asked me to ensure your escape and the safety of his offspring. When I spied the mob making its way here, it was no difficult task to meld in with them." He grunts. "You didn't do yourself any favors yelling at them, though. I thought you were done for. Luckily, if you can call it luck, the Imperator made sure he was in plain view, so he got all their attention." Back at the estate, smoke billows from shattered windows and ruptured doorways. Flames start licking at the sky. The last rioters run, hooting, roaring and cheering from the grounds. They fade into the woods, running after the distant crowd that hauled the Imperator away. Snowmist's lips peel back, teeth gleaming white in the pale light of the moons and the wan edges of the estate lights in the distance. "I've made a handful of enemies in my time, intentionally and otherwise, but t'have it be citizens of m'own kind that steals m'family from me for the second time? If this city wasn't the best hope for our species, if it wasn't for Sharp an' his titles an' his Altheor-taken leadership roles, I'd say let them rot in their own slime come the two week mark," she hisses. Whitestripe quickly closes the distance between the pair and himself, but without much to draw attention to (beyond that he's dressed as a tribal). "This city was never the best hope for our species," Tuftcheek says, regret and resignation in his voice. "And the Imperator's actions, not his titles, are what earned his position. Certainly, you could condemn these Demarians for what they have done. But you condemn me, as well. I *too* am infected. If you wish to see me rot in my own slime, you may have that opportunity. I may not have supported the actions of that mob, but I will not lie: I too was angered by the brutality committed against our people this day. Offworlders come here, saying they want to help us, and they end up causing a panic. They end up killing our people and pitting us against each other as a consequence." His fangs click together and his whiskers flatten against his snout. "We should have tried to handle this ourselves without relying on offworlders. The moment we abdicated our fates to offworlders, we betrayed all Altheor stood for." "I'd give you the cure if I could, Tuftcheek! My son is infected too! But I don't trust *them* anymore, after what they've done!" Snowmist cries, less anger than simple pain propelling her words now. "We panicked, they panicked, what does it matter 'cept that people I claimed in my pride as *my* people're dead at the hands o' those I thought would help us, my bondmate is taken an' condemned t'the same transformation an' two o' my kits are outta my hands while the last is somewhere I can't reach...these stupid suits," she pants, eyes wild as she tries to claw at the helmet's fastenings, normally clever fingers made clumsy and fumbling by gloves and blind panic, barely cognizant of Tuftcheek's presence anymore much less Whitestripe's approach, "couldn't even hold m'own kit when he cried...I thought I couldn't comfort him later if I was transformin' also...but I was wrong, I should've...should've..." Whitestripe buts in, somewhat uncivilly, at that point. "Condemned yourself so that your other kits and mate would see their mother slowly become Thul?" He stops the few feet away from the pair, still somewhat in the gloom. "I recognize the Imperitrix, but you," he asks in his raspy voice of Tuftcheek, "You are not familiar. You are not with the mob, yes?" Tuftcheek drops the gun on the ground and then moves to try and still Snowmist's frantic efforts to open her suit. He speaks soothingly, calmly, as he puts one ungloved hand on her shoulder, "No one blames *you*, least of all me. But you mustn't remove that suit. Not when the infected are close by. When we get to the cryogenic facility in the desert, I'll be able to get into my own suit and you can liberate yourself from that monstrosity from time to time. But, for now - for me, for your offspring and for the Imperator - I need you to remain calm and composed." As Whitestripe cuts in, Tuftcheek swivels his snout to regard the newcomer. "I was with them. But not *with* them." He leaves it at that, then turns his attention back to Snowmist, to determine whether she's settling down and leaving her gear on. Snowmist tenses, resisting as Tuftcheek tries to hold her still, her weight already shifting to attempt a strike, a throw, a mad and illogical rush to bowl him over...a reflexive impulse that never comes to fruition as she abruptly sags in his grip, head bowed, breaths loud in her suit's speakers before she sucks in a lungful of air, holds it, and then finally quiets. "If they become Thul, then it doesn't matter what becomes of me," she husks, voice calm with the emotionlessness of numbness. "An' if they find a cure, then it doesn't matter that I became infected in the first place, does it? But you're right. There's still somethin' I gotta do, whether there's ever a cure or not. Maybe 'm not suited t'playin' figurehead for a city that seems t'know its own place an' isn't afraid t'take it with its own hands. Maybe I should never've left the space stations. Maybe it's time I went back t'the places between the stars...an' hunt for my prey of choice again. Startin' with the one that dropped that stars-cursed virus onto our world." Whitestripe takes the opportunity to move a little closer and stops a little outside of melee range, ignoring the gun in the process. "Hmm...it sounds like we've got our Imperitrix back, indeedy. I hate to be more abrupt then I already have been but, excuse me oh urbanely camo'd one...who are you? I would just assume you're an innocent bystander and all, but this is the Imperitrix after all, and Silvereye would be most cross if I just stood by and watched her taken off by some mob member." Tuftcheek bobs his snout approvingly at Snowmist, takes his paw off her shoulder and then, as Whitestripe makes his insinuation, Tuftcheek's ears swivel and flatten atop his head. He growls faintly as he turns to face the stranger, but he keeps his claws sheathed and makes no move for the gun on the ground. "If I wanted to drag her off, I daresay I would not have dallied here long enough to be queried by you. My name is Tuftcheek Longvision. I was called to aid the Imperator's mate by the Imperator himself. If you wish to go confirm this, I believe the mob went ... that way." He points west, into the darkened woods. Snowmist slowly straightens, dull gaze following the line of Tuftcheek's arm toward the west, before she turns to regard Whitestripe mutely. Without even the energy to give the traditional tail-flick of polite greeting, she simply blinks once and then turns toward the mountains that divide the forests and New Alhira from the desert, away from her ravaged home. "The cryogenic facility...you had a weapons cache there," she muses, more to herself than anyone else as she begins walking, not bothering to check if anyone is even headed in the same direction. "Even if it's been removed, maybe there's still a pistol stowed somewhere. Should've worn m'knives outside the suit...but I suppose it would've been bad t'give in t'temptation back there. An' commlinks...soon as I can get off-world, I can start makin' contacts again." Whitestripe nods his head in Tuft's direction, looking much more cheerful, letting Snowmist finish first before replying to Tuftcheek. "Ah, apologies then. Whitestripe Sandwalker. Charmed to meet you, moreso in other circumstances. Do you have other people here trying for the Imperator, or are you going to evacuate the Imperitrix alone? If the latter, by trail or by ship? To which cryochambers? Nearest landmark? Silvereye might need to know when he gets back, and I'm most likely to see him first if you don't raise him on commlinks first." As he chatters he glances over his shoulder to see if any of the mob have returned yet, shrugging off his outer hooded robe as he does so. Seemingly okay with the mob situation, he looks back, holding the robe out to the Imperitrix. "Best don this, Imperitrix. You are a little noticeable in that suit. Burn it before you get out of that suit, though, I am infected you see." Tuftcheek sighs, shaking his snout at Whitestripe. "If you're a friend of hers, just hang onto the robe. I doubt she's going to be assaulted by mobs of rampaging dribgibs while we trek to the desert." He turns and starts walking after Snowmist. "The weapons cache should still be in place. And I have a contact who can provide transportation for you, offworld." "My condolences," Snowmist responds to Whitestripe without inflection, neither turning to look at him nor accepting the cloak as she simply continues to place one foot before the other, ever closer to the sands by small degrees. "Good, Tuftcheek. I'll tell y'where Blacktip is once the transport arrives, an' your new assignment will be t'help watch over 'im for as long as y'can." Whitestripe glances at Tuftcheek as he replies, then looks back to Snowmist. With a light shrug, he redons the garment then snags the pistol from the ground and jogs a bit to catch up with them. "Tuftcheek. I do ask you again, as I think it's important. Are you going to walk out or take a vehicle, yes? Or are you not curious as to what happened to the Imperator?" Tuftcheek stops, letting Snowmist continue further down the path into the woods as he turns once more to face Whitestripe. He keeps his voice low as he answers: "We walk. The Imperator made it clear that I was not to risk his mate or his offspring by worrying about him. He has accepted his fate, whatever it may be. It falls to me to see to *her* safety and that of her young ones. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a duty to fulfill." With that, he strides through the moon-dappled shadows of the forest, trying to catch up to the departing Snowmist. Whitestripe jogs along. "Ah... Trail up through Daggers, past the falls, and down then?" Tuftcheek nods. "That's right. Are you coming with us or chasing after the mob?" Whitestripe holds the gun out to Tuftcheek at that point. "I think you will need this then. I have this." A flick of the wrist and the robed figure has a wickedly sharp dagger in his other hand. Moonlight glints off of it for a moment then it vanishes equally fast. "I will meet you at Altheor's Hope then. I am going to go see what they've done to the Imperator, my good man. After all, the good guys should really win this one, yes?" Tuftcheek accepts the gun. Nods to Whitestripe. "Assuming we figure out who the good guys are, perhaps. See you at Altheor's Hope." And then he's off, into the darkness, footsteps fading as he accompanies Snowmist into the wilderness. Whitestripe calls a quiet farewell to the pair. "Altheor guide your steps..." With that, he doubles back, jogging along the track and digging in his satchel with one hand as he does so. See also Last Flight out of New Alhira
- Overrun is the amount of air injected into soft serve ice creams.
- Overrun is an overseer quest and part of the Journey to the Center of Vaultopolis multi-stage questline in Fallout Shelter.
- The package brings a new PvP mode, four maps and Dune Buggy, an extra vehicle. In the new mode you need to domination master locations on the map as Golden Path and Rakshasa, earning points during the match. The four new maps will bring a balance to this new way. With this, players may seek to take strategic points on the map and also from frantic to fighting.
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