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    1. Mercenary5 8 yrs ago

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Current Arn't eggs just basically chicken placentas? Fucking weird.
5 yrs ago
I'm unemployed, so I have no excuse for inactivity.
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Awyen Salt-Tooth

The royal banners of the Svinoc tribe were needlessly confusing. Their tartan, red and dark olive, represented their clan and blood. Many banners were flying this tartan, but only two had the golden trim of the royal banner. The first depicted a black albatross mid-flight. This was the personal tartan of the Sea-King Awyen, first son of Chief Conall Ring-Giver. The other tartan bore the image of a lion, this was the tartan of Conalls younger son, Prince Faoelin Fair-Haired. Notably absent, was their father, the southern king himself.

The young Prince Faoelin was the first to notice that the sleepy village had been turned into a fortified encampment almost overnight. If someone had lived their whole lives in this sleepy town by the Grauglang, the hastily built walls would look no different than a Nhirian fortress. “I thought we would be sent to some backwater swamp.” Said Faoelin, evidently pleased by the recent construction “If we hurry perhaps we can be there in time for the evening feast!” Awyen remained silent for now. It was not good to make judgments too soon, but already he was concerned. There were many men here, and this was not a reassuring fact. Moreover, the evidence of an incomplete long hall suggested that this would be a much different meeting than the last. It was the holy grove, in addition to the proximity of the conflict, that made this small backwoods village the meeting place for chiefs. Any vows sworn in that sacred grove were vows watched by the ancestors. Awyens quartermaster, Iomhar, shared his lord's silence. Their minds wandered two distinct places, but both lead to the same conclusion.

“I don’t think attending any feasts would be a good idea,” spoke Iomhar. The young prince was taken aback. “I don’t understand,” Faeolin said frustrated “I’m here to negotiate, how am I supposed to do that from outside the town?”

Iomhar ignored the young prince and continued speaking “I don’t like this Awyen, there are only a few chiefs represented and there are thousands of men. The math just doesn’t add up. Seeing as we’re already late, we should find a hill and camp until we know what’s going on.”

“What?!? But we’ve been marching for weeks! I for one am going to sleep under a roof tonight and eat a hot meal.” Before Awyen could say anything Faeolin was cheered on by quite a few members of his party. Iomhar took swift action and struck the young prince so hard across the face that he nearly fell off his horse. The men took the hint and silenced themselves. “Insolent serf!” cried Faeolin, the insult landed but had no iron to it. Faeolin stared at his brother's retainer waiting for an apology that wouldn’t come.

“If you can’t make peace within your own company, what hope do you have to make peace with seven nations?” Awyen spoke with an almost monotone voice, a trait he had inherited from his father. Those daring enough among his company laughed. Others tread cautiously and kept quiet. In truth, Iomhar was in the wrong by striking royalty. Especially while serving as their escort. However it was a habit gained honestly at sea with Awyen, a quartermasters role was to keep the crew alive and healthy. Even if it meant slapping sense into the captain from time to time. Not only was Iomhar one of the best at what he did, but he had also proven his loyalty countless times over.

Awyen gazed at the fortified walls with a touch of anxiety “I can’t risk being seen as weak Iomhar.” “What about being seen as gullible?” the quartermaster quipped back. If one of the petty chiefs was making a power move, then entering the village would be walking right into their hands. “Well kiddo, seeing as you are the designated diplomat for this mission, what is your call? One of us must make an appearance, and one of us must stay where it is safe in case this is a trap.”

Faeolin decided that he should stay behind and watch the camp. This was fine in Awyen’s mind, better to face up to trouble than be drug into it. After all, Awyen knew that he had the fortitude to protect his people if he was captured, whereas his brother might not. If he was going to be betrayed, he would rather get it over with quickly. Awyen grabbed a warrior by his shoulder and asked him gruffly.

“Why are there so many men here, who are they loyal too?”
“We have come as the entourage of Lubbo Bladetaker, King of Carogacts, and we are here to save Thraxia.”
“Tell your king that Awyen of the Vedatanni seeks his audience.”
Character Application


Kussaz




Kussaz looked around the field. It seemed already that merchants and families from the baggage train were settling in and making camp. In a relatively flat spot, a boy was setting up a makeshift home using scavenged firewood and bits of animal hides. Earlier in the day, as he rode on the wagon, he had been carving wooden pegs while his father's horses carried salted beef and ale for the army. Now he proudly showed them to his father as he began to tie down what he could. No doubt the wagon will be instrumental to the construction of their shelter later, provided that their chief did not order some use for them in the coming few days.

This would be a fine event for them, especially the young ones. This was the first time so many tribes had been called to a council since the last invasion. However where at the first council the air was filled with apprehension and anxiety, here it seemed that there was a familiarity to the whole affair. Although the boy's father will be busy trying to trade his wares for excess goods from far off Thraxians, the boy himself will no doubt meet himself with boys from across the mountains. “Already the empire has started to whip us into a governable province,” thought Kussaz, as he gazed at a group of affluent merchants wearing Imperial dress improperly.

A young and rough voice broke Kussaz’s concentration.

"Kussaz, walk with me friend."

"Stay close. Keep your eyes and ears open. We have many allies and more enemies, but remember what matters most."

"The Rhead. Nothing else."

“That’s right, we are here on business,” thought Kussaz. He had warned his chief that there were more politically savvy men at his court that he could bring, should bring, instead of the old mercenary he had put out to pasture. Kussaz lacked the eyes of a king, but the boy had them. He could see the boy glancing at the lesser chiefs as a cat watches a bug. His eyes darted around the field trying to decide which to let creep away and which deserved to be swatted. The witch-queen had that same look in her eyes the day she entered Kerenatam’s war camp.

Kussaz shook his head “Leave the politics for the great men” he thought, he had more important work to do.

“Eogan, come here.”

“Aye, sir?”

“I have a task for you. I need you to go around the tribes and find out anything you can that could help us.”

“Like what?” asked the young man impertinently. He was a personal sword in the service of the high warlord of the Rhead. While he was a good warrior, Kussaz assured Kerenatam that the boy was more use training to organize men from behind as opposed to lead them from the front.

“Harvests, freak storms, calves born with three heads, anything important to the common folks is important to us. Plus, anything a professional soldier like you deems important probably is. Here is some cash to pay for any expenses, stay sober enough to report tomorrow.”

The boy stopped long enough to process the request, but took the silver and went off without much of a fight. The chief’s steward gave him many errands to run and rarely explained until weeks later. However, this task loosely translated to “go get drunk and gossip” and he wouldn’t miss a chance to carry out such an order with diligence and promptness.

As the boy ran off Kussaz returned his gaze to the field where a boy assembled his families shelter. Among this chess match of retainers, chiefs, and holy men, these were their pawns.





Miles Alexander


[*]𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬(𝐞𝐬):
  • Miles, Alex.
  • Jackal
  • Bitters

[*]𝐀𝐠𝐞:
  • 27.

[*]𝐒𝐞𝐱:
  • Male

[*]𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲:
  • Stern. Ambitious. Entrepreneurial.
    Miles has never hesitated to shed blood in the name of the ‘mission’. Regardless of his mission.

[*]𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲:
  • Educated at Kings College, London. Miles studied geology and political science for three years before entering the Queens Navy in her Naval Intelligence Division . Lt. Miles provided strategic intelligence for the marines. After four years if service Lt. Miles was promoted and given a special assignment from top brass. Sense then Special Agent Miles Alexander was dishonorably discharged from NID and burned. Currently no public record exists of a Miles Alexander.

[*]𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬:



Miles Alexander

  • 𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬(𝐞𝐬):
    • Miles, Alex.
    • Jackal
    • Bitters
  • 𝐀𝐠𝐞:
    • 24.
  • 𝐒𝐞𝐱:
    • Male
  • 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲:
    • A good kid who never really had to try too hard to succeed. He believes in just trying your best and that given enough time everything will work itself out.
  • 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲:
    • Somehow his family not only survived, but profited off the war. Whatever his father does for a living, he must be good at it. Miles works for the government as a reclamations specialist. For most people his age that means diving straight into radiated hellholes for the sole purpose of telling others to not go into radiated hellholes. His ‘professional network’ allow him to mostly just sit behind a desk. Miles had been around zones his whole life. Every year father dearest would take him there on a family vacation. Not for pleasure, everyone was miserable, but for them. For the survivors.

      Miles was there for a chance to do what he spent years training for. It was ironic, the only way into a zone was through the very man who was working the hardest to keep him out of them.
  • 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬:
    • Weapon 1; N/A


It was nice, let's not do this again.


Rhydsar shoved the maid away when she came to dust him.

“My apologies sir---ma’am---I’m just not fond of mages. Not that I dislike you or anything. Just um...a bit afraid of people like you."

With good reason. Mages were the most efficient troop in any army. He had seen them at the war councils, positioned as tanks to counter entire battalions of men. He had seen sun mages melt the flesh off enemy soilders. He had seen the same mages sell out to the enemy and massacer his men. When people talk about the horrors of war it isn’t the swords or the screaming that gets to them, it’s your comrade after a mage gets to him. True horror isn’t a pile of bodies, it’s when you don’t have ne you can send home.

The expression on her face told him more than what she was about to say.

“I um...you’re a senior knight right? You know how things actually run around here? I’m gonna be honest, I’m new and I don’t really know what I’m doing yet.”

Rhydsar scratched the back of his head sheepishly, awaiting the knight's judgement.


Rhysdar looked at the man. “I wouldn’t know. It’s been quiet as long as I’ve been here.”

Rhydsar turned to his drinking companion waiting for the stout mercenary to chime in.
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