[sub]Roland Axis
New Stratton[/sub]
[hr]

Roland was beginning to get the distinct impression that he wasn’t well liked amongst this group. Between the shit-dirty looks he was getting from the veteran corporals, and vaguely threatening glances he was getting from the Elven inquisitor, it was becoming exceedingly clear that he was Hoff’s squad’s [i]persona non grata[/i]. He thought of responding with some veiled threats of his own, but in the end held to one of Theron’s favourite lessons; [i]‘The noisy cat never makes the kill.’[/i] Simply put, threatening folks just didn’t a body any good. Better by far to hold your piece and let them think you an easily cowed fop. That way, if events ever got violent, they’d be all the more surprised when you slide a knife blade in between their ribs. 

Besides, if it did come down to a mano a mano confrontation between him and the Templar, he wasn’t sure how much he liked his chances. That sword looked wicked long, and she handled it like it weighed no more than a lover’s kiss. No way a woman like that didn’t know what she was doing in a fracas. She was one problem that was going to take an application of cunning to sort out, not brute strength. Maybe he could even convince her that he was an ally, rather than an enemy? Doubtful, if the stories he had heard about her on the ship over were true, but still an option.

They waited for the heavy iron-reinforced gates to be hauled out of their way before setting off. Those same gates slammed behind them with a depressing finality, a deep, thooming crack echoing around the ruined buildings. There was no way those heavy timbers could be lifted out of the way in time if the worst was to happen, and the squad was forced to flee for safety. They’d be killed and devoured, just in sight of safety, long before the barriers were moved. Not a comforting thought for the young convict.

The silence as they trekked through the ruined city was oppressive. It weighed down on Roland, like a suit of old fashioned armour, pressing down upon his shoulders and neck, threatening to force him into the dirt. Even the quietest nights in Holden - those times when winter was at its coldest and the drunks, the whores, and the troublemakers decided that it was better to stay in their own warm homes than to risk the frigid streets - never became this silent. There was always some hint of noise. Cats fighting down alleyways, people talking to loudly in their homes, the gentle muttering of the derelicts perched in shadowed doorways. Here there was nothing, save the creak of old, battered structures swaying in the wind, the crunch of their own booted feet in the dirt, and the constant accompaniment of gunfire. It was unnerving in the extreme, and Roland clasped his loaded Ether gun closer to his chest, the weapon being the only thing providing him with a small measure of comfort in this awful place.

So alone was he with his own horrible imaginations that he didn’t even hear the rear-guard call out his warning. The thief kept marching forwards, one foot after the other, and barged into the man in front of him, a burly veteran. The two men grunted in pain, neither realising how lucky they were that Roland hadn’t accidentally stabbed his comrade with his bayonet. The bigger man turned around to glare at the conscript. 

“Pay more attention to where you’re going, arse - ” suddenly the man’s eyes widened from narrowed slits, pupils going wide with fear and recognition. He shouldered his way past Roland and raised his rifle, aiming the barrel at a Shambler which was hurling itself at them from the shadows of a nearby building. The musket round went off with a thunderous crack, and the monster fell with a hideous, raking shriek.

Roland took a nervous back-step, then another. He’d never seen anything like the Shamblers in his life, or at least he’d never seen anything like it that could move. The things were rotting corpses, long strands of rotten flesh peeling from their decrepit forms, their long bony fingers curved into talon-like hooks. It was the eyes that were the worst though. How could they still be glazed over in death, yet still hold such a burning hatred in their dull pupils? What gave those orbs their animal-like cunning? Surely no power on earth had done that.

How could they expect somebody like [i]him[/i] to fight something like [i]that[/i]. He wasn’t a soldier, he was a thief! It was no wonder they were losing the war for this continent. He wanted nothing more to throw away his rifle and the flee from here, run all the way back to New Stratton, dive onto a ship, and sail all the way home. He tried to, too, but his legs wouldn’t listen to him. They were frozen to the spot, and he was helpless to do anything but watch on in horror as the Shambler hordes threw themselves at his small squad.

What happened next was all so quick that, thinking back, he was hard pressed to recall exactly what it was that had transpired, and in what order. Somewhere along the way he must have unloaded his own musket, though whether he hit anything, he just couldn’t say. His bayonet, when he checked it afterwards, was slick with blood and gore, and stunk to the heavens of a foul rot. He had vague memories of plunging it into a Shambler's belly, screaming profanities as he twisted the weapon, tearing at guts and bone. Had he killed the beast? He must have, there was the body, laying slumped in the dirt.

He was breathing heavy, and a cold sweat had drenched his back. The ammonia stench of warm urine tickled at his nostrils, and he realised with a start that he had pissed his own breeks during the fight. Considering the circumstances, he just couldn’t bring himself to care right now. The horror of what he had just faced was mingling with his joy at still being alive, and both emotions were so strong that he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling.

The squad had been scattered during the action, and the only two he could see were the bounty hunter and the Inquisitor. 

[color=steelblue]“I ... I never … Have you …”[/color] He struggled to arrange his words into anything even resembling a sentence, before doubling over and heaving his meagre breakfast all over the dusty ground. He continued to heave until nothing more but bile and spit came up. Then he heaved some more.