POOHEAD189

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

"Really?" He asked, his tone suggestive as he leaned in closer. "Maybe you can show me the technique someti-"

Cygi popped between them and flared red, blaring a bugle from the 1800s as huge letters flashed WARNING: DO NOT TOUCH in Neil's face. The light stung his eyes and he involuntarily jumped from the sudden noise. Cygi's barrier disappeared almost as quickly as it came, though she began to march between Neil and Jocasta like she was stationed at a picket line, a musket with a bayonet leaning against her shoulder as she strutted between them. Neil bonked his head with the heel of his hand thrice, and shook his head.

"Ow..." He complained.

"What about you stud?" Jocasta asked, clearly amused.

"What about what?" Neil asked, grabbing another slice of pizza. He bit into it, and he marveled at how good it still was.

"You said you were in the army?" She asked, looking over.

"I did some ground work as a spy, but that wasn't much. I was mostly an engineer and a mech pilot. In the Valk war on Fortus. Or I was until I got tired of it, hence the bounty." He waved a finger once, as if scratching off a check mark.

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

The Sunbraela cantina had the look of a local dive, the walls built with fiber cement and textured to appear like unpolished wood. A quarter of the walls were covered in holoimages that gave the appearance of an open window, perfectly mirroring the tropical rainstorm that had been forecast for that day. Hookah smoke wafted languidly from Inez's left, the open table surrounded by off-worlders discussing business and smiling from an evident agreement. The air was filled with the pungent scent of alcohol, cipria smoke, and sweat. To the right by the billiard tables she heard glass shattering, and a curse followed. The clacking of the balls resounded along the walls. At the center of the building was a circular bar run by a surly xenos, with bug eyes and antennae on its dark blue head, four arms cleaning the counter and shacking a bottle, its tubular mouth opening and closing every heartbeat.

The music bopped with an assortment of drums and a lazy guitar from speakers high above the bar, making a drumming tune to the backdrop of dozens of conversations as barmaids walked back and forth with plates of samplers and alcohol.

Bad hadn't slept in a day, and though he wasn't much of a drinker, even he needed something to calm his nerves after accepting the contract back at Neb's. He drank his cheap stout, blinking and giving a yawn, arching his head to stretch his shoulders. It would look fairly average if he wasn't using his left arm in an arm wrestling match with a Plaxerran, the burly porcine xenos grunting as its neck flared, showcasing it was consuming more oxygen to gain a boost in strength. Bad placed his drink down, amused at the sudden burst of power. He grabbed the edge of the table, his necklace clinking against his chest as he put all his effort in the contest of strength. Slowly but surely, Bad bent his foes arm backwards until it struck the table.

The Plaxerran squealed, yellowed eyes narrowing as it got up, holding its arm and running away, knocking over a chair in its flight.

"Hey! What about our bet!?" Bad roared after him, but realizing he didn't care enough to follow. He would get paid soon anyway, if he lived. He sat back again, the back of his head and chair against the wall. His skin the color of bronze and his eyes and hair dark, he was built well, but his eyes were red from a trip in the void and his leg shook, though he did not appear nervous.

His stomach rumbled suddenly, and it seemed to wake him up, or at least perk him up a bit.
@Penny

A Chartered Course: Medieval Trading League RP

The lights transitioned from red LED to a more standard colored brightness, signalling the timer had begun. The commando moved without hesitating, FLM Shotgun shouldered and eyes keened. The course was littered with high rise obstacles, walkways, and dead ends, shifting through every iteration so the subject could not memorize a way to complete it. His feet moving in short, brisk steps, he stopped on a dime when a blackmoon mercenary stepped out of the next turn, holding a lasword. Two shells infused with plasma and fired by the FLM's in-built particle accelorator cartridge ripped through the mercenary before he could fire, ruining its holo image and revealing the grey training android even as it crumpled into a scrap heap.

Suddenly two mines sprung up from the floor, red lights flashing. The shooter somersaulted into another curve of the course just before they detonated, spraying lasers that would have failed him if they touched any vital areas on his person. He was on his feet, the cracks of his weapon erupting, punching through two more illusionary mercs as they turned the corner to aim at him. Another stepped off a high rise and leaped at him, staff in hand. He raised his gun to block the strike, taking the merc's feet out from under it before it even landed with a well-placed kick. It hit the ground, but couldn't complete a roll. The commando's foot planted on its chest and another slug was discharged, shattering the android's head.

A turret sprang up, its lasgun swiveled into his direction. He unhooked a small magni-charge from his belt, pressing his thumb on the release and tossed it. The explosive, now activated, spun in mid-air to stick into the turret's side even as he rolled out of its vantage point. A loud, incessant beep rang out before it exploded, shattering the turret and leaving it in two solid chunks of junk. The shooter started to sprint, noticing he was in a dead end. The walls were perfectly smooth and without handholds, but he kicked off the left wall and used it to boost him up high enough to grab the lip of the back wall, hauling himself up onto the platform at the end of the course.

A ring sprang up, indicating the course had been completed.

"Second best time on record." A monotonous female voice declared over the comm. "23.739 seconds. Placing the name Badrek Mal'Draigg in the system."

He reloaded the weapon, ignoring the annoying use of his full name with a small expulsion of air from his nostrils. If they were insistent, he guessed he did not care enough to argue. He racked the weapon with a satisfying clack, and stepped down the decline he was likely supposed to rush up in order to complete the run. He glanced up where Neb was awaiting him, and saw a taller figure with him, standing patiently. He was familiar, taking Bad over a second to remember who it was. He sighed, not in the mood to talk to solicitors.

The blue line that stretched across the floor lit up as Bad stepped over it, and the course reverted to red LED lights as smaller droids were dispensed to clean up the courseway. Bad placed the FLM shotgun on the stand, not even deigning to look the recruiter's way.

"Not bad, Neb. But it needs a bit more stopping power. I think I'll keep my RW, though I do need a few more cartridges." He said.

"You could have been gentler with it." Neb said, his mustache curling with the sarcasm.

"Sorry," Bad said, unzipping his pack and fishing around for his wallet. "Four florins for the run and the mags?"

Neb was an old friend. A soldier in his youth, he had been retired for twenty years, and he looked it. Bad had a difficult time seeing him as a field man, but he knew weaponry, and had a nack for supplying any mercenary that came his way. He had come here for seven years, and Neb hadn't led him wrong yet, though like now, Bad did test runs for new equipment Neb had received from foreign markets, making sure he hadn't lost on any investment. If things went well, Bad might get a discount on the weapon in question, but he wasn't in it for this run.

"I'll let you keep the florins if you listen to our friend here." Neb said, a glint in his eye. Bad raised an eyebrow, then regarded the recruiter, who had an implacable look of neutrality on his face. He had his hair cropped short, and wore a smart suit, with black spectacles that hid his eyes even under the light.

"You're with the league?" Bad asked, stripping the FLM into its various components so Neb could clean its entirety after hours. Unscrewing the cap beneath the barrel, checking the selector at the butt was at its center, unlatching the grip beneath the selector and stripping the butt on the table before he popped his hand against the grip, bisecting the weapon.

"I am. And I am well aware of your answer the last time we attempted to recruit you." He explained.

"And you're still here? Ok, what do you think might change my mind?" Bad asked.

"Well, we have remade the contract, and would like to offer you a temporary, freelance position. And I think you'll find the assignment more to your liking..." He remarked, producing a dataslate.
@Penny

Shields of the Empire

"Lower spears!" Brasidas cried, his voice carrying across the ranks of sweat and dirt-caked men. The same cry echoes from the Domestikos, and the order was further passed from turmcarch to turmarch, ten foot spears lowering century by century like blades of grass in the high wind. Dust kicked along the sparse landscape, stripping the ground to a reddish hue, as if the very earth was wounded. In the distance, drums beat in a rhythmic pattern, signalling the protostates to hold their positions.

The formation was spread thin, only nine men deep, and only four of them with spears at the ready. A whistle was blown, and the five men behind the front ranks shifted into a looser formation and drew their composite bows, nocking arrows in one motion. The whistle rang again even as they settled their aim, and the twang of bows were followed by the shade of two thousand arrows arcing into the men still stuck in the riverbed. Another whistle, signalling to retrieve another arrow. Even as they loosed, the mass of the enemy army had arrived on the opposite bank, holding up wicker shields and singing in a wailing dirge to their gods as they began to step down the slope. Four volleys had been sent by the time the Khareeds had the opportunity to hit the imperial army, and they thundered toward the obvious opening Brasidas had left.

The Protos Kapetanos and his Cataphracti had dismounted, leaving their horses in the rear and forming a rough wall at the center of their formation, flanged maces and heavy shields held aloft. Brasidas screamed a warcry, and the men met it with a roar of their own, stomping their feet in unison as the khareeds lowered their lances, intent on the charge. A cloud passed over the sun, leaving a small lingering glint on one of the steel weapons, the last warning before the cataphracts performed their favorite tactic. The light horse and whooping men atop them were met by the maces, thrown from ten meters away, clashing into armor or causing disarray amongst their horses. Cataphracts were expert mace throwers, and though it caused little casualities, the khareeds hit with less surety and force, and the heavily armored men met them with staunch resistance.

The clang of lances on shields and scalemail rang, terrible screams erupting and brutal warcries mingled with the whimpering of the dying as another flight of arrows arced over them, stinging the approaching mass of infantry. Brasidas was nearly knocked off his feet by fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh, but he caught himself, driving his spatha through the leg of another horse. The beast screeched and the rider tumbled off, stuck by a small spear before he could rise to take stock. If all went to plan, Phaedra would wheel right and hit the infantry before they could envelope the imperial infantry. Brasidas would hold the center, stepping back and allowing the enemy to drive a wedge to let the jaws of their trap fall.

The center had turned into a melee, not a route, like the khareeds wanted. Brasidas and his men began to decimate them like an alchemist's acid, slowly but inexorably, as if it was a foregone law of nature. He had planned to backstep and let them get a false sense of security in their initial charge, but the bloodlust was up, and the cataphracts had held a bit too well. He hoped this small victory would not cause a greater defeat.

The Sunday Group - Seeds and Harvests

The Pavonis Campaign - Warhammer 40000

The bakerlite vox rung with an incessant clanging that threatened Zeb's eardrums, but the colonel was too busy to grab it for a solid four rings until he snatched it up like a klohawk from Ras Shakeh. "What!? I told you I needed those batteries entrenched on the left flank... I don't care if you have to yell until the sigilite hears you, if I don't get a report in an hour that satisfies me you'll be court marshalled." He slammed the vox back down.

"Uh, sir?" Zeb asked, having not deigned to sit down due to the crutches, and he kept his ground while the others had decided to walk, until they noticed Zeb wasn't with them. Colonel Brae turned to regard him, his face hard but filled with confidence only an experienced officer could muster. Almost like Katia, just less practiced and more weather-beaten.

"Soldier, I'm very bus-...you're Zebulon Conners, aren't you?" He asked, his steely countenance slacking a hair. "Yes, I've heard of you. I should have figured you would be tagging along with the Comissar. Well don't expect special treatment. You look half dead anyway."

"Don't worry about me, sir. But about your orders, I have to ask...retreat where?" Zeb inquired. He nor Katia, nor any of the men had come from any of the 'hot zones' to the north or east, but they had still lost half of their men and barely made it to Du-retour. Even if they were to be attacked within the next 3 days, he would rather be entrenched in a fortified position rather than back on the road to an evac that likely didn't exist anymore.

"To alt-sector 206, sergeant. We can update your dataslate-"

"Dataslate, sir?" Zeb chimed in.

"...We can provide you with a dataslate. Anyway, I was informed you and your men had acquired a rough map that should have the alt-sectors lined out. 206 is southeast from here, past the flat lowlands, I believe. As of four days ago, that area was cleared by our Marauders and Thunderbolts, and major Patrick Cargill has set up a perimeter there and recquisitioned a number of Arvus Lighter shuttles to be used for that purpose that pertains to your mission."

Zeb blinked. "Are we taking them off-world, sir?"

"Not if we can help it." Brae said, letting his exhaustion show. The pockmarked youth approached again, a bit less disturbed interrupting Zeb than Katia.

"Colonel, we've lost two Hellfires to an Ork bombing raid." The boy said, clearing his throat. He seemed skinny enough to almost be emaciated in Zebulon's estimation. He wondered if the lad was with the staff or had been picked up after a sudden case of dead parents? "The casualities are one hundred and eighty seven."

It was then Zeb decided to turn, resting his weight on his good leg and turning, rapidly approaching Katia and Rikkard. Come to think of it, he wasn't certain why Rikkard followed. If Zeb hadn't been ordered, he would have preferred not to know. Still, his mind whirred with possibilities, thoughts on what they were going to do. If they were going to evacuate, they needed to wait until a bombing run. Not because the Orks would be running away, but because their green asses would be too preoccupied watching the pretty fires and wanting to be part of the fun. Honestly, the best bet for any of the civilians would be to walk unarmed and without an escort. No sport for the Orks, that way. But even then, there were likely rogue units lying in weight, or maybe a flameboy needed some extra targets for their new flammah, and none of the PDF troops would ever let their wives and children leave without an escort. But if they were going to go, they needed firepower, and a lot of it.

That or an idea...

The colourful threads in a troubadour's vest

Had Ali been well, her calling herself a witch might have taken him aback more. Like every common man, he was superstitious. He remembered his da telling him of specters in the woods, and black magic performed in strange rituals in covens within the bosom of the great forests. But he had never heard of a witch saving someone's life, and as far as he had seen, she had not asked anything of him. No cup of blood, no bargaining for his soul, no firstborn child. If she was a witch, maybe they weren't so bad.

Or maybe people were simply stupid.

She tucked him in, surprisingly gently. He felt she had the hands of a healer, not of wickedness. He could not know how he was sure, but he knew he was, somehow. Ali found himself fading away back to sleep before he even knew it, and an unknown slip of time passed as he shut down, his body slowly healing from her herbs and care.

Something caused him to wake up. He had never been a light sleeper, but as was as if something had taken his hand and helped him wake up. He stirred, groaning quietly, until he heard a voice in the doorway.

"I'm not here to play games with you, witch. I'm here for what I'm owed."

Ali did not know if he had the strength to sit up, but he was deathly curious on what was going on. The voice was gruff, that of a man that was on the precipice of running out of patience. Normally, Alidren was notably strong, but right now he felt far too weak to really help out in anyway. He almost cursed himself, but he felt the need to be quiet unless the man tried to force entry, in which case Ali would need to be prepared. If it came to that, he hoped she didn't expect him to be like a knight in shining armor. Even if he would certainly try.

He held his breath in anticipation, reading his muscles in case he needed to burst out of bed quickly.

Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

"Looks like we found some rats rutting in the mess. Far be it for us to stop 'em, right Kurt?" A lean, dirt stained ruffian said. He smiled widely, revealing cracked teeth, save for one that shined like silver.

"No, no, I think it's mighty greedy of the lad to be taking up all that fine cut of meat." The leader growled salaciously, gesticulating with his blunderbuss. "Now disentangle yourselves all slow-like. Give us other lads a- SIGMAR ALMIGHTY." Neil had begun to do what the leader, Kurt, had told him. But once Emmaline had released him from her and clung to a blanket, Neil turned and sat on the cushion, looking for his trousers. At their exclamation, he looked at them curiously, as if they were deranged with warpstone. Kurt pointed between Neil's legs. "Boys he's got a club!"

Neil grinned, not only for the jovial comment, but he had also thought he was going to have to be violent or belligerent to keep their attention away from his naked girlfriend. He glanced at Emmaline and winked subtle, spinning back to the gang and placing his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I'm always armed. And you can go on and tell us who you are. Maybe we'll work with you if you can wow us a bit."

"Wow'd you, eh?" Kurt asked, raising his blunderbuss.

"Bit unfair, isn't it? You with a gun and me with just a cudgel?" Neil asked, crossing his arms. A few of the men snickered, though a feral glint was in their eyes.

"Why don't you and the missus tell us what exactly it is you do, and if you're valuable, you might live another day longer." He remarked, and there was no negotiation in his eyes. Neil knew if he did not play this well enough, the man would shoot him dead here and then do Sigmar knows what to Emmaline. He couldn't let that happen.

"We're thieves, like you fine gentlemen. Can't you tell by our clothes? We're from Nuln." Neil said, sliding his trousers on. He saw the incredulity in their eyes, and he grinned. "Yeah, we escaped, and took a good bit of gold too. Some Nuln exported chocolate as well. Check our bags." No matter what one might say, anyone who could escape a besieged city with more than they brought in would be valuable, even if it sacrificed some of their goods. Neil could already feel Emmaline's displeasure, but was better than being dead. "We can do the same thing for you guys, if you'd have us. We've been lookin' for a crew for tramp with, right babe?"

Cinnabar Forever! (RCN)

Cousin Slade glanced back, somehow gauging Kaiden's approach before he even announced himself. He was sure he could see a small smile on his face, but it disappeared before Kaiden could be sure that was exactly what he had spotted. Slade turned to regard him, wearing the ostentatious uniform of an accomplished astronavigator. Kaiden felt... not inadequate, necessarily, but the 2nd class grey uniform of the cinnibar navy with black piping was not necessarily an outfit meant to inspire command, even if he had the emblem of fire lieutenant pinned at his breast.

"A fine assignment you have, from what my sources tell me. You'll do well, cousin." Slade congratulated him, placing a hand on Kaiden's shoulder. The prince gave him a handsome smile, but his heart was not in it. It had been too long since he had seen a member of his family, and even though Slade was his closest contact of the clan, he still felt his father's presence even here, hovering above them as if he could hear their every word.

"Thanks, but I've got a long way to go before I'm fit to brag." Kaiden remarked, the two standing side by side now, watching as the crew of the Destroyer dubbed the Troy was being re-outfitted with the latest armor plating. She floated on water, as the destroyer itself floated on a vast inland sea, water being the usual place for ships of the line to land and finish repairs. The plasma thrusters stripped atoms and voided them as ions to give thrust, and water was a perfect reaction mass to help the ships lift and settle down with minimum incident.

"Word of advice, cousin." Slade remarked, leaning in as if to speak some hushed conspiracy. "I know you're the type to want to prove yourself, but the military has no place for heroes. Particularly not when peace is so fragile. If you want to rise up the ranks quickly, keep your head down and do as you're told as quickly and efficiently as possible. They'll take note of good work, not audacity. The world is no longer a place for men of action, like those generals you're so fond of reading about. Trust me."

Kaiden thought back to that moment, a mere week before he was shipped off to the assignment that brought him back into contact with Sabatine Hickoring, the last person in the galaxy he had wanted to see. Life was full of ironies, he supposed. Kaiden stood up from his chair, turning to exit the chamber without engaging in any preamble with Sabatine, or Lieutenant Ratchet. The entire trial had soured his mood for the moment, and for a brief second he felt as he had then when he had met his cousin. Unsure of himself, defensive. He knew it would pass, but he couldn't shake it at the moment.

"First Lieutenant?" Sabatine asked, rising behind him.

"You've done well, Lieutenant. Get some rest. In 0600 hours we'll disembark, but for now, try and sleep." He said, not deigning to look at her. He stepped off the platform and out into the hall, indicating midshipman Otis, who was awaiting Kaiden at the designated spot. He saluted, but Kaiden waved it down. "Have you got the orders?"

"Aye, sir. They've been told to every crewman set to serve on the Nestor." Otis replied, an honest man if there ever was one. "We're all loyal to you, Lieutenant. Don't worry about us."

Kiaden smiled wanly, appreciative despite the situation. Micha was being given command, but the men were to follow him only so far as to get back to base with speed. Any action that could be deemed insubordination to what the small council of Lieutenants decided today, or any dishonesty on Micha's part, and the men would rally and protest. It was not much, and even with that caveat, it was a risky gamble. But thirty eye witnesses, or at least character witnesses, would be hard to dispute even without Kaiden there to see it through.

"You're a good man, and so are they. When this is all over, I'll buy everyone a round."

"The war or this engagement sir?" He asked.

"Let's find out together."

The Pavonis Campaign - Warhammer 40000

His ribs ached like absolute hell, but the medicae had done a thorough job. In fact, he had found an emblem of the Orders Hospitaller next to his bed, once the Catachan left. He couldn't have been in better hands, unless the Emperor himself appeared and healed him with a wave of his hand. He wondered what warranted the special treatment, but he felt in the pit of his stomach the reasoning. He had done some gak-brained maneuvers out there, but somehow he had been blessed with keeping his life. The Imperium likely wanted him out on the front lines as soon as possible so he could keep at it.

"I'd rather Katia find me wanting." He said, using the polite term for front-line commissar execution. He doubted he was through with the military, but they had always fed him some lines of working your way up the ranks to get a safer posting. Hopefully that was soon.

He used his crutches to vault over the doorline, entering into the scholam-turned command center. Zeb's dark thoughts fled him as soon as he saw Hagman, Skald, and Rikkard coming up the back. He wished Prax was there, but the grief wouldn't wash over him just now. At least some of them had made it out a live. They greeted him and messed his hair playfully, some acting as if they had lasguns even now, hipfiring to mock his exploits from the other day. After some ribbing, Katia approached. Zeb sobered up, clearing his throat.

Whenever Katia walked, people looked. The squeaky stand that followed her, feeding her an IV somehow did not diminish the cold, powerful look. Though without her greatcoat, she did look far more womanly. She raised an eyebrow, as if she could read his mind and found the thought unsatisfactory.

"Sergeant Connors." She said tartly.

"Commissar Petrovska." He said, and truth be told, he was glad she was alive. "You look well."

"As do you. Well enough to see the colonel, in fact."

Zeb blanched. "What?"

She pulled the IV out of her arm as if it were a small nuisance, tossed it aside and tied her long hair into a bun, before grabbing her hat and solidly planting it on her head. "We're due in five minutes. Follow me. Men? Keep an eye on the place, will you?"