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DIDN'T WORK OUT
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"I'd rather ya toss me into the ocean with nothin' but a piece of driftwood to cling to than make me live in a fookin' cave. I hate caves."




✶ P R O F I L E
BIRTHNAME:
Gashin Kazor

OTHER NAMES:
Captain, Gash, Sea Hound

AGE:
34

GENDER:
Male

RACE:
Half Human, half Dwarf

BIRTHPLACE:
Ryth, Amorynthia

RELIGION:
Worships Zorion, God of Freedom and Will



✶ P H Y S I C A L I T Y
HEIGHT:
4'11 ft

WEIGHT:
123 lbs

APPEARANCE:
Captain Gashin Kazor is a short man, as one might expect. His stature is nearly a foot higher than the average dwarf, though several inches shorter than most men. Gash's origins are clear to anyone who give him a cursory glance. From his brawny, short form to his scraggly facial hair, to his strong accent and even stronger desire for pipeweed and alcohol, Kazor screams dwarf. Yet another look might cause the mind to doubt, for he's too tall to be a dwarf, his beard is horribly short and- strangest of all- he wears the badge of the Amorynthian Navy upon his breast.

Apart from his heritage, the captain's appearance is markedly similar to that of most men of his occupation. Gash's flesh is tanned and leathery from years spent out under the beating sun on the deck of his ship. On his head, the captain wears golden bandanna and a black tricorn hat. On his feet, a pair of dusty old boots. And on his hip, the sheathe for his reliable cutlass. A white, low cut shirt, a golden vest adorned with runes of ages past and a sash of crimson tie together the sailor's attire.

Several scars from boarding hatchet and cutlass adorn his arms and chest; the gnarliest of which rests right over his heart. His hands, calloused and worn by the sea, have several cuts across their dark surface.

Tattoos, too, mar his flesh alongside those wounds of old. A sea serpent coils about his left arm from wrist to shoulder. An anchor, with a mermaid hanging from it's hook, sits in the center of his broad chest. Most important to him, however, are the letters lined upon each finger. Put together they read the name of Kazor's vessel: Saint Leona.

SKILLS, STRENGTHS & TALENTS:

Captain Gashin Kazor, of the Royal Navy's Saint Leona, is a sailor without equal. None commands the high seas with the same tenacity, skill, or vigor of the half dwarf captain. He particularly specializes in Caravels, such as the Saint leona herself, preferring speed and maneuverability to size and bulk. Gashin is a pirate hunter. He chases down the rogues and bandits of the sea with ruthless efficiency, carving out a safe haven for Amorynthia's merchant fleets. Anyone who dares to fly the black flag knows the name Gashin Kazor, and of his damnable vessel, and fears him; those that wish to survive more than a fortnight on his ocean, anyway.

Though ship to ship combat is where Kazor is best known, the Sea Hound of Valdez excels in all aspects of sailing. He can guide a vessel through the sharpest rocks and the narrowest of paths, barely scraping by areas that any other captain would say was impassible. When Gashin must travel across the open ocean in long, drawn out voyages to far away lands, he can reliably guide the Saint Leona using the stars. Kazor rarely gets lost anymore, his knowledge of the heavens allowing him to get his bearings without the need for maps or landmarks.

A sailor first, and a navigator second, Captain Gashin is far from completely helpless when not manning his ship. While he's no master swordsman who dedicated his life to learning the ways of the blade, Kazor wields a cutlass well enough to skewer most who dare lift up a weapon against him in a duel. His training as a marine of the Royal Navy allows him to stand toe to toe against most foes he could expect to face. Alongside his curved blade, Gashin typically carries a boarding axe as a secondary weapon. It works well in tandem with a sword, and as a last resort if his primary armament was damaged or lost. Other weapons Kazor has some experience with are pikes, throwing axes and clubs.

Learned skills and talents are not all that Kazor has at his disposal. The blood of the dwarves runs through his veins, offering him a sturdy form and strapping muscles. He's naturally stronger than the average man, making the half dwarf a frightening wrestler in hand to hand. Alongside his dwarvish heritage, Gash is partially human. This gives him the advantage of height, reach, and agility over a full blooded dwarf.

WEAKNESSES & DRAWBACKS:

The Sea Hound of Amorynthia is at his best on the deck of a ship. His ship, specifically. Taking him from that and putting him down in another place takes Gashin out of his comfort zone. Ships larger or smaller than the Saint Leona are alien to him; Kazor can count the number of times he's had to captain another ship for any extended amount of time on one hand. This is not to say he'd be useless, far from it. But a lack of familiarity with his vessel makes the captain less effective in the whole. Other environments- such as forests, deserts and caves- are similarly out of Gashin's area of expertise.

Physically, Kazor's blood is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage to him. While Gashin might be stronger than a man, he's almost always weaker than a dwarf. He may be more agile than a dwarf, but Gashin's slower than a human. His half breed status means that the captain lacks the all-in strength of either race, while still possessing the weaknesses of each.

Being a half breed is more a curse than a gift in the eyes of society as a whole. Men look down on him for his Dwarvish heritage, throwing him in the same class as the disenfranchised race of stocky slaves and craftsmen. His peers in the Navy view Kazor as a stain on their prestigious institution. More than one concerted effort has been made to force Gashin into an early retirement, though the half dwarf has never given in to the pressure of his fellow soldiers. He has few friends in Amorynthia, but even fewer among the Dwarves. Acting as an agent of the king responsible for the Dwarven Exploitation marks Gashin as a traitor to his own people.


✶ B E L O N G I N G S
ATTIRE:
The attire donned by the Sea Hound is an unmodified uniform of the Royal Navy, marking Gashin as an officer in service of the Crown. A white waistcoat and a puffed shirt of the same color, accented by golden stripes and facings, protected the captain's chest from the rough conditions of the sea. Trousers matching Kazor's long jacket in color and material keeps his lower half warm and himself decent. More lavish is the long jacket that Gashin wears over everything else. Buttons of gold and dark blue linen mark it as a high quality product, though years at sea have sullied it's appearance significantly. Epaulettes, medals, and tassels can be added to the coat for ceremonial purposes, though Kazor's idea of a party involves more grog and fiddles than the a ballroom dance in the capital. The most treasured of his uniform is the old tricorn hat and bandana he wears on his head.

WEAPONS:
Wielded by sailors of all classes, ranks, races and creeds, the cutlass is as synonymous with the men of the sea as their ships. Gashin's cutlass is twenty nine inches long and a little under a pound in weight. A basket hilt embroidered with gold protects the captain's hand. The blade was forged with tempered steel by the venerable smiths of the Amorynthian military, and enchanted to be sturdier and sharper for longer. Named after a young maiden that Gashin courted in his youth, Betsy is a fearsome sword to cross indeed.

Alongside the mighty Betsy is a far less exciting boarding axe. Unenchanted though usually well crafted, Kazor has gone through more than a dozen over his career as a sailor. He has a habit of losing or breaking them, so Gashin likes to carry several on him at once. On occasion, if the situation calls for it, Gashin can use his axe as a ranged weapon.

TOOLS:
Any number of navigation tools are carried in Gashin's pack. A sextant, spyglass, a pocket watch, maps and various charting tools, and Kazor's trusty compass are all kept on his person when he travels anywhere. A short working knife, rope, bandages, rations, a lighter, and a bedroll were included in his equipment when he set off on the king's expedition.

PERSONAL ITEMS:
Golden earrings and a single iron band marked with the symbol of the king are all the jewelry worn by Captain Gash. One of the only personal items Kazor keeps with him is a worn copy of A Kraken's Tale; an old novel about a captain obsessed with killing a sea monster that destroyed his first ship. Gashin has read the book more times than he can count, though he never tires of the narrative and likes to come back to it whenever he has nothing else to do.



✶ H I S T O R Y
Use this space to tell us your character's story so far, from birth to the present day. Write to your best standard, as this section will also be used to assess the quality of your work. This section should also show us what your character's personality is like, and how they became that way.

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For the briefest interval of time, tensions reached a crescendo. Two of the blindly faithful Guardsmen did indeed lift up rifles, though they chose to turn them upon their saviors. A man of gaunt features and of unshakable loyalty to a broken system led the mutiny, 'demanding' of the Major evidence to prove himself a speaker of truth. His insanity was backed up by the woman who deigned to call all who lifted a las-gun traitors. It was preposterous, in the eyes of Steiner, for these two to choose to side with the Inquisition. They hadn't a clue what was actually going on, only the barest knowledge possible;- all of which was provided by the men they called traitors.

"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.

Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.

If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.

Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."

Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.

What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.
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G R A V E S

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Tension laced Graves's form. His every digital muscle was taut with stress and anxiety. Ready to strike out the instant another monster deigned to show it's ugly mug. Tight, cramped corridors, with his back all but pressed against the party member behind him, wreaked havoc on his fortitude. Blood still dripped from the head of his halberd's ax from the last scout that Graves had managed to catch. Others fell to the chains of Tessa, or the arrows of their ranger- several, though, were too quick for any to catch. The monsters were watching them. It was the only explanation for it. Since when were monsters programmed to perform reconnaissance? They knew exactly where their party was. An ambush could've been waiting around the corner. Or maybe it'd just come right from underneath them.

This...this didn't feel like a game anymore. Not with their lives hanging on the tip of a needle. Not with the creatures of the dungeon acting the way they were. Graves was a wreck. His heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The relative silence of their march made things all the worse. Graves found himself glancing backward to check on everyone else- making sure they were alright, and that they were still with him. At the very least, the Blood Knight could say he was lucky that he had others around to make him feel secure when the warning came from the devs. He didn't want to imagine what it'd be like to be in this kind of situation alone. Knowing his usual playstyle, it was a miracle that hadn't happened to him.

Thankfully the labyrinth of tunnels ended, at least for a short while, as they came upon a cavernous room. A ceiling so high that sunlight could be seen peeking through the grates at the top. Far...far out of reach. Chains hung from above like vines, thick and metallic. And there were odd channels dug into the floor around the room, where a thick, sapphire liquid flowed. What was most apparent between the heavy pillars and chains, though, were the three doors, one that led in each direction.

Graves tore his gaze away from the tiny speckles of sunlight that leaked down into the darkness, his eyes shifting over toward the first of the crew to really speak up in the last twenty minutes. Tif had her humor about her, somehow. Graves hadn't the heart to draw up a smile, his lips still twisted down into an uncomfortable frown. "Well, we're not splitting up, so nobody even fuckin' suggest it." There was no way Graves was letting any of these idiots out of his sight. The second they took a few steps away from him, they'd end up dead; and really, Graves didn't want to have to live with that on his conscience.

The more he looked around, the more uneasy the tank felt. This room had the looks of a boss room. And though this dungeon shared little in common with other games, or even the rest of Pariah, Graves couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to be dealing with an attack imminently. It kept his grip on his polearm tight, and head on a swivel. He didn't really care what direction they decided to take. They were going to end up backtracking anyway, more than likely; so it wasn't too important. "Everybody holdin' up okay?"
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One shot. One kill. That was my motto as a hunter. As a collector of prized pelts, from the red nosed reindeer to the ever elusive horned kangaroo. I never missed, never in my life, it was always a fatal shot. The lungs, the kidneys, a leg, if I wanted to bleed it out. If I intended to eat the prey, I would put it down painlessly. The meat was tender, filled with the ripe juices of the prey, rather than being tense and filled with the chemical cocktail that the prey's brain unleashed when under attack. That was supposed to be the case with this animal, a simple job, a reward for its skin and a warm meal in my belly. Fuck, how long has it been since I've had anything so delicious? Weeks, I thought to myself, possibly longer. I had survived in the savanna off of scraps, calorie bars and even the dung of an elephant - not my proudest moment. But now, I could see, clear as day, the prey in sight. It was an afront to God himself and all that was holy. No, I'm not a religious man, but even I can see how unnatural this thing is. Walking on two legs with an oddly human face, distorted into a smug expression, as if acknowledging it's abhorrent existence and stubbornly refusing to die. The hunter knew its tell tale phrase, it was rote in his brain after studying this mysterious beast for weeks. "You're too slow." It antagonized the lions. "Come on, step it up." To the giraffe. No one cared for this beast.

The hunter could see why, plainly.

I lick my lips, thankful that I was downwind of this speedy prey item. With a cock of my rifle, one that I never missed with, if you remember, I stared down the scope. It was. . Walking. Its gait slow, conservative. Nervous. Could it sense my presence, or did it just know that this would be the day of reckoning? I had no idea, this was a new item for me to add to my wall. With a steady breath, wiping the generous sweat collecting atop my brow, I teased the trigger. Gritting my teeth, I fired.

The hedgehog went down.

I missed the killing blow.

The mewling, pitiful and desperate, could be heard for miles, I had no doubt. Lions and hyenas would pick up on it soon. A curse, I jump from my perch and dash out for the monstrosity. Upon reaching it, I quickly observed its state. Laying in a poll of its own blood, a hole right on the leg. It would bleed out, the hunter assured himself. But the meat. . It would lose flavor. He couldn't have this. "Oi!" I say, false horror in my eyes. "Blimey! I didn't mean ta hitya, it's my bad me bud." My thick, South African accent spreading over the item of my interest. It looked on, confused and hopeful. I did not hesitate to take the beast home. It was a short walk to my jeep, a shorter drive to my shack, on a large hill clear of the elephant grass that flooded the plains. The despair in my dinner faded, as did consciousness. I was glad, having to keep up the facade of being an ally would grow tiresome. Patching the wound proved to test my knowledge of anthropromophic demons anatomy, but I saved its life.

For an hour, maybe two, I debated my goal. The peaceful snoring of the hedgehog greeted my ears, soothing me. . I had spent so long on the hunt, away from the comforts of home and a warm body. I sigh, looking at the round buttocks. "No." He tell myself. "I cannot do this." While the demon slept, trying to regain its strength, I eyed the knife between us. Without any hesitation, I grabbed it. "Sorry bloke." I whispered, a hand moving to carress the piney-hair of the beast. "Nothin' personal." And with a determined slash, the animal's throat was slashed. Eyes opened, panic and confusion, before the bliss of death took the suffering hedgehog into its arms. With a sigh, I laid my body against it, the blood gushing from its throat, spraying me profusely. "Bettah get the pot." I'd need to skin it first, debone the dinner item before I could even begin to think of my rumbling tummy. Shutting the confused, bewildered eyes that the dead beast gave me, I stood, looking around the cabin for the needed tools.

It wasn't a hard hunt. Not for this master tracker, but it tested his heart. It tested his manhood.

_________________________________________________________

Did I make it?
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REGISTERY OF THE AMORYNTHIAN ROYAL NAVAL ACADEMY



MILITARY SERVICE RECORD ARCHIVE, LISTED UNDER PUBLIC INFORMATION BY ORDER OF KING VALDEZ II




NAME: Kazor, Gashin SEX: MALE RACE: MIXED, HUMAN / DWARF

P.O.B (PLACE OF BIRTH): GARD, AMORYNTHIA P.O.R (PLACE OF RESIDENCE): DRAY, AMORYNTHIA

MOTHER: Kazor, Vilea (age 64, registered blind) FATHER: Kazor, Deon (deceased) SIBLINGS: Kazor, Laeya (age 9, craftsman assistant)

ENLISTMENT: Dray Recruitment Office (age 17) RANK: Captain DEPLOYMENT: Saint Leona




FIRST TOUR:
Gashin Kazor first served under the original captain of the Saint Leona, the late BOARSON, WILLIAM. Patrolled the coast of Tumeken as ordered by the king, under the Valdez-Setsiput Treaty in the courts of Ryth earlier that year. Engaged in ship to ship combat with pirate raiders, and assisted the Tumeken Army in clearing out bandits in Fool's Mistake.

NOTE: Following first tour of duty, 50% of earnings were sent back home to family in Gard.


SECOND TOUR:
Assisting in the transport of engineers and resources to Wizard's Tower for construction purposes. Saint Leona was tasked with protecting unarmed transports from northern pirates and keeping forest bandits in the foothills away from the construction site. During a battle with pirates, a Boatswain was shot and killed via a crossbow bolt to the skull. Gashin, being the most experienced deckhand present, was elected to take his position. Captain Boarson received a good deal of harsh criticism from command and his peers for promoting a dwarf man of Gashin's inexperience to the position of junior officer.

NOTE: 65% of earnings sent back to Gard. Father is diagnosed with unknown heart disease, and Laeya is born. Kazor heads to the Royal Naval Academy for training as a naval officer, under the orders of Captain Boarson.


THIRD TOUR:
Admiral [REDACTED]'s campaign to eradicate the pirate threat living on Rat's Nest island included a number of veteran pirate hunting ships. The Saint Leona was on the short list to join the fleet due to it's recent clashes with pirates in the north and along the Tumeken Coast. The fighting was incredibly fierce, resulting in several Royal Navy ships being severely damaged while others were sunk. Captain Boarson's first mate was slain in combat. Due to the courage he had shown during the campaign and his last two tours, Boarson elected to promote Kazor to the position. Mutiny was considered inevitable; that is, until the Saint Leona came under direct attack by several pirate ships. The captain was wounded, taking an arrow to the shoulder, and Gashin was forced to take the wheel. Showing considerable ability, Kazor directed the crew and successfully evaded their pursuers, earning the begrudging respect of the Saint's crew.

NOTE: 80% of earnings sent back to family. Deon passed away in his sleep, and Kazor returned home on leave to help his family with funeral arrangements. The Kazors, using the money Gashin received from his recent promotion, moved to Dray.


FOURTH TOUR:
Following the failed Rat's Nest campaign, the Saint Leona takes on low-stress cargo transport defense patrols. Captain Boarson's condition continues to deteriorate; the blow struck to him during the previous tour has, unbeknownst to him, become infected. While out at sea, William passes away, and Kazor finishes military duties until they can return to port. He is then unanimously recommended to take the position of captain by the crew. A letter written by Boarson on his deathbed confirms that these are his wishes, and command chooses to promote Kazor after eight months immediately.


FIFTH TOUR:
Gashin serves as captain of the Saint Leona for a number of years, acting as a pirate hunter in the seas near Rat's Nest. Fighting is intense and often, though Kazor shows a significant degree of skill at the helm of his ship. He receives several accolades for successfully capturing or sinking a number of vessels, having a direct impact on the region's frighteningly high population of pirates and criminals.

NOTE: As of very recently, Gashin has been pulled from duty and asked to accompany a special envoy by the king. His dwarven heritage, loyalty to the crown and navigational skills make Kazor a reliable asset for the mission his highness has planned.
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Clark Davis - Chief Warrant Officer, Black, Graduated University with a bachelor's degree in Mechanical Engineering. Works aboard the Haven.

Gary Wells - Chief Petty Officer, Caucasian, assists as a nurse and navy corpsman aboard Haven.

Deborah "Debbie" Graham - Seaman, Caucasian, acts as a cook on the Haven.

Warren Marks - Lieutenant Commander, Caucasian, marine officer on the Purgatory.

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G R A V E S

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A bone chilling breeze swept in from above, rattling the chains that hung down from the vaulted ceiling. Bits of frost gently clung to the darkest corners of the cavernous room as that accursed howling of the wind sent a tingle down the warrior's spine. Graves hadn't noticed just how cold it was in here until he'd stopped moving. He swore it was getting colder with each passing second, too. An irritating fact, considering his character typically neglected to wear a shirt.

Pushing passed the inconsequential fact, he turned his attention to finding a way forward. The longer the party tarried here, the greater the risk of another ambush befalling them. Everyone was of a similar mind: this room felt far too empty for comfort. It was the largest they had encountered thus far by a good margin, and they hadn't encountered significant resistance since the floor burst out from underneath them earlier. This was the perfect place for an attack, so it followed that everyone would be on edge.

Some of them were a little too on edge, with Tessa sounding like she was somewhere between hyperventilating and having an outright panic attack. Graves turned to look in the control mage's direction just in time to witness her snapping one of her ethereal chains like a bullwhip. Her massive, coiling steel slammed harshly against stone all around them, sending forth a cacophonous roar that echoed through the halls for an uncomfortably long time.

Graves froze, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he waited, and listened. He expected to hear her crash followed by a chorus of goblin bellows and ogreish howls and the rushing of feet, yet nothing of the sort came. A disturbing silence was all that followed. The tank glared in Tessa's direction, debating whether or not they would lose anything of value if he beat her into unconsciousness. "Nice." He hissed under his breath, his teeth gnashing together as he held back a torrent of curses and shouts.

While the rest of the party was close to losing it, one member decided to break away from the main contingent. Ochre approached the stream of strange liquid that ran throughout the crypt, that curious spark in his eye. He could see that the channel flowed with a strange consistency. It was not as liquid as it appeared from a distance. Whatever odd concoction filled the trench stuck together like glue, churning like a living body but not quite flowing. The closer he got to the stuff, the colder the air about Ochre became, up until his breath was visible beside it.

The ogre's tooth touched the blue substance, and immediately became stuck within it. Frost rapidly crept up the enamel, approaching Ochre's fingers with frozen intent and a frightening speed. If he didn't remove his hand from the tooth, Ochre would quickly find his fingers encased in several layers of ice so cold that it burned flesh.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature plummeted as the wind picked up, it's ghostly howl violently shaking and rattling the chains throughout the cavern. Before them, that river of an unknown concoction began to dance. It shook and grew as the liquid almost seemed to come alive with activity. The slimy substance lurched out of the trench, grabbing forth at cool stone as it dragged itself from the channel.

Frost slimes split apart, forming individual entities numbering well into the dozens. Each voluminous blob stood at roughly two feet in height and less than half that in width. They climbed from their resting place, clinging to the floor as they started to crawl toward the nearest living things. Compelled to snuff out the heat in their warm bodies, those icy demons came at them from all sides.

Some clung to the pillars and walls, ascending into the air so that they could leap at the party from above. Others formed grotesque, makeshift limbs from their opaque bodies, using them tear off their own liquid flesh and using those slime balls as projectiles. Wherever they roamed, the slimes left a trail of frost and ice in their wake. Ice that seemed to be spreading independent of the slimes' movements, covering the floor in a slippery obstacle that made moving in certain areas quite difficult for those intrepid heroes.

"Everybody form up!" Graves screamed above the roar of the wind, his throat raw as his heart pounded in his bared chest. They were surrounded on all sides by enemies that would be an absolute bitch to fight with physical attacks. The amount of maneuverable space was quickly drying up as ice formed throughout the room. Worst of all, however, was the frigid air clinging to his pants. "Back to back, make a circle! And for Christ sake, Red, start frying these assholes!"
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H E L V E T E


The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD


Dry lungs that had not tasted the noxious air in decades were suddenly and violently filled. Desperate intakes of the putrid atmosphere pumped into that ragged body, dragging it kicking and screaming back into the violated world of the living. Rebirth was not a gentle thing for Helvete Solon. It was not the spawning of a new life but rather the rejection of one's peace in the afterlife, forcing it back into a damned plane of existence that it did not wish to live in.

Helvete's bloodshot eyes snapped open as he took in another deep, choking breath. There was a pressure on top of him. Something keeping him from drawing in a full breath that made Helvete panic. In that brief moment of terror, Solon let out a horrific, bestial roar. A sound so ferocious and inhuman that one would never expect it left the lips of a man. He thrashed against the carcasses of long dead man-things, rolling one over his grim-caked face so that it's broken body was dashed against a nearby flesh mound. Solon struggled against his lifeless adversaries, fighting tooth and nail to free himself from that prison of corpses that pinned him down.

In that brief rage, Solon felt the visceral phantom pain of his final moments. That strike of a spear in his heart played within his soul and within his gut. Like some psychotic theater production of the mind, Helvete saw the flames that consumed him right down to the seared marrow. The bodies piled atop him brought back brutal memories of chains and ropes pulling down on his limbs, pinning him in place as an awful play was acted out on his ravaged form.

These memories appeared for but a few, precious seconds. They faded when Helvete managed to wriggle himself free, his lungs allowed to suck in panic-ridden breaths once again. The blessing of freedom allowed Solon to calm his raging heart. Helvete rose into a crouch, his fingers grasping at a rotting woman's hair for support. No longer in danger of suffocating, he could finally take note of his surroundings.

This...this was not his home.

There were no trees. No grass, no fields, no animals. No chirping of the song bird and no lapping of river waters over cool stones. Fields of colorful flowers and rolling hills were replaced by crucified bodies and piles of the dead that reached into the sky. High walls of stone surrounded Solon on every side. Solon immediately felt a rush of anxiety and claustrophobia. The stench of excrement and rotting flesh made Helvete's guts churn, and he felt a distinct desire to vomit. No food rose up in his throat to join the hot, acidic bile that Helvete choked back down.

"What is this place-space?" The druid whispered, his voice cracking.

Other sounds reverberated off the walls and knolls of mortal remains. More voices, much like his own. Solon was not the only thing alive in that hellscape. Instead of a rush of joy at this revelation, all he felt was fear and terror. It was a deeply rooted instinct. "Man-things." He muttered quietly. Deciding it was best to retreat, Solon slowly climbed down the pile of corpses he had awoken on. Nearly slipping several times, it took the crouching forest dweller some time to reach a more stable ground. The 'floor' of more tightly packed dead was easier to traverse.

There, at the bottom of his mountain of carcasses, Helvete found something strangely familiar. A pulsating light, hidden underneath a blown out torso. Swiftly he reached down into the pooled blood, grasping the source of the light. It was sharp and hard, like a jagged rock. Solon tugged at it and found that it was firmly stuck in place. The energy that radiated through his hand on contact with it only enhanced Helvete's curiosity. Glancing about in search of dreaded man-things, Solon began to dig. He drug away bodies and broke at flesh and bone until he had cleared away the surrounding rubbish from his desired object.

It was a dull green gemstone, broken and dirtied, and it looked to be attached to something. Helvete pulled the object from the ground, wrestling free a long, wooden staff. Seven feet in length and with a shaft darkened and seared by flames, Solon felt an odd comfort with it in his hands. A comfort, and...a power. Strength that his aged arms did not know filled his body. A singular word played in his mind as he looked down at the tool. "Oakheart..." The staff's name, perhaps? An incantation of some sort? Or was that his name? Solon was entirely unsure.

His gaze drifted back to the pit he had dug out. Another object had been knocked free from the tightly packed sea of cadavers. Helvete inspected the satchel. The leather was worn and stained with blood, and several holes dotted it's surface. Rummaging through the pack, he found shards of broken glass and- oddly enough- birdseed scattered about inside of it. Two vials of the seed remained intact, though the rest must've been shattered or lost.

As he began to empty the bag of useless things, Helvete discovered another item that piqued his interest. An amulet of silver, rusted and grimy, with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. Solon could make out what appeared to be letters upon it's surface, though they were too scratched and damaged to be made out. This item, like the staff before it, carried traces of power. It was far, far fainter within the necklace, however. Helvete drapped the satchel over his shoulder and the amulet about his neck, happy with his findings.

Now he needed to get out of here.

Helvete attempted to sneak around toward the exterior of the well, planning to search for an exit. His awkward, doubled over gait made for a slow and quiet crawl through the fields of fallen men. Fate's hand was as cruel as ever, however; for on his way forward, Solon found himself face to face with one of those man-things he had heard earlier.

He reacted quickly, bringing the pilfered staff around so that he could hold it defensively before him. "Stay away-back!" Solon hissed. "No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt bad, very bad."
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H E L V E T E


The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD


It was soon made clear that many of the man-things had survived whatever massacre took place here. In a graveyard of unrelenting death there still stood a few too resilient to die. Helvete found little comfort in the appearance of several man-things, however. He knew not why, but merely to look upon them made his guts churn. Flickering embers in his belly flared red hot for reasons unfathomable to the druid. They could not be trusted. Nothing could- not in this blood-soaked pit of madness.

Helvete's pleas for nonviolence were answered by the tender, shaken voice of a younger woman. Her words offered some meager comfort in an otherwise terrifying situation. Surrounded by strange man-things and standing in a mass grave was enough to set anyone on edge, with Helvete's amnesia only compounding the bleakness of it all.

A terrible scar about her neck drew his agitated gaze, piquing a small bit of curiosity in him. 'Strange-weird,' Helvete quietly wondered,'Would kill most man-things. Would kill this thing, too, yes-yes. How strange-weird indeed.'

"Ah...yes-yes..." He spoke in a slow drawl, still working to process all that was happening. "Very good. No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt very bad." He was glad to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from the people around him, at least. Someone had still tossed him into this place, and killed all of those man-things. Someone very bad.

As Solon was just managing to calm himself down, a mighty bellow slammed against his ears. A woman more akin to an angry oxen was screeching furiously from atop a mound of broken bodies. The angry cries of the obvious warrior caused Helvete to scamper backward in a low crouch, his body kept close to the ground as he brought his staff about before him. A wordless hiss was his only verbal response to the berserker's screams for answers. Not only because he found her dreadfully terrifying, but because the druid had no answers to give.

More man-things descended from the hills of corpses, all of them as confused as the last. No one seemed to have any idea where they were or why they were here. Five man-things and Helvete still breathed among the many hundreds of fallen.

Many questions, no answers; that was all they had.

A few had a determination to act, however. The only man man-thing that had joined them spoke rather strongly of escaping this dreaded pit of despair. Helvete was inclined to agree. The longer they spent here, the more likely they were to run into whatever monster-beast had tossed them in here.

The young woman with the scar about her neck wasn't so keen to leave right away, however. She wished to stay and search for more survivors among the dead. Solon was of a split mind on that one. On one hand, Helvete felt a strong desire to agree with her. Staying and searching for at least a short while sounded like the right thing to do. Yet, on the other hand, Solon was afraid of what they might encounter if they lingered here for too long. It was not an easy choice to make, so he stayed quiet, allowing the rest to speak their minds first.

Before that discussion came, however, another spoke up. The one that Helvete had seen conversing with the neck scar woman before he had scampered into view. She thought it wise for them to introduce themselves before they continued. Knowing the names of his temporary companions sounded like a good idea. It would make it simpler to address them, when the need arose.

"You don't remember-recall either, man-thing?" His brow shot up as Syrenia mentioned that she was suffering from the same amnesia that afflicted Helvete. "Strange-odd. Very strange-odd indeed." The old man muttered to himself, a hand letting up off the floor to run through his stark white beard. "This thing is Helvete." He shifted his hand down to beat against his chest. "I am one with the Wood. Very good-great with Forest magic, yes-yes." Solon proudly proclaimed. That was something he had felt the moment his fingers wrapped about Oakheart. It was a part of him. He could feel it's presence radiating through his very marrow, filling him with power.
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GENESIS PROJECT PERSONNEL DATABASE



MILITARY PERSONNEL RECORD ARCHIVE, LISTED UNDER PUBLIC INFORMATION BY ORDER OF THE UNITED EARTH COUNCIL

ACCESSING...
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NAME: ROSS, ELIJAH SEX: MALE D.O.B (DATE OF BIRTH): 10/10/2176 ETHNICITY: MIXED, CAUCASIAN-LATIN

P.O.B (PLACE OF BIRTH): ARCADIA, MARS P.O.R (PLACE OF RESIDENCE): ULROP STATION, EARTH ORBIT

MOTHER: ROSS, MELINDA (deceased) FATHER: ROSS, DANIEL (deceased) SIBLINGS: ROSS, LAUREL (age 38, botanist)

ENLISTMENT: ARCADIA CONSCRIPTION OFFICE (age 17) RANK: COMMANDER DEPLOYMENT: VITAE

LICENSES: FOR PILOTING CRUISER AND GUNSHIP CLASS VEHICLES




WARNING - THE DATA YOU ARE TRYING TO ACCESS IS RESTRICTED. ONLY THOSE WITH A VALID PASSCODE MAY ACCESS THIS PART OF THE FILE. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSCODE NOW.


INPUT PASSCODE:
***********

PASSCODE ACCEPTED


ACCESSING...
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The thunderous footfalls of the Wolfhound's iron boots reverberated within the cockpit. Each stomp shook the interior, jostling it's pilot in his seat as he held fast to the controls. "Damned shock absorbers are acting up again." Han Bjornson grumbled to himself, his guttural accent betraying the frustrations he felt.

When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.

Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.

Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.

Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."

Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.

Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.

His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.

Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.

Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.

Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.

His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...

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Sticks And Stones





I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
Albert Enstein



Science Fantasy - Post-Apocalypse - Adventure - Political Intrigue



Crumbling towers of rusted steel and broken glass reach high into the heavens, standing as stark sentinels of a bygone age. Chariots with wheels of rubber and chassis of broken iron fill unwalked roads, and cities of impossible construction stretch for miles upon miles- empty of any signs of life. Save, of course, for the Broken. Those terrible creatures of fang and claw that crawl in the darkest corners of the old world, their hives nestled in the tall towers and under the bridges of stone. Only the bravest knights or the most desperate adventurers would dare to invade the lands of the Broken, and a scarce few of them ever return.

No one remembers what destroyed the world. Perhaps it was a war that encompassed every nation and every people, where weapons of incredible destructive power were unleashed, and everything was wiped out. Perhaps disease, unknowable and incurable, spread about the land and wrought the hand of death on all that drew breath. Or perhaps it was the arrival of the Broken that claimed the lives of the Before Men. Or maybe it was none of these things. By some awful chance, it could be a combination of all of them. No one knows for sure. Even the eldest scribes and the most traveled storytellers only know tiny pieces of what the old world was like. Wild tales of fantasy had intermingled with the truth down the ages, deluding what was known with stories of ancient powers and cruel gods.

It's rebirth is similarly surrounded in a veil of mystery. It is known that all life came to an end, but something...something brought it back. Some unknown force reached down into the radiation-ridden muck of the earth and dragged forth the next generation of men. It pressed into their unbeating chests the power that would forever change the world: Magic. A gift barely understood by those that wield it, magic was the only thing that kept man alive. It cut through the darkness, drove off the beasts that nipped at man's heels, gathered people together and allowed them to climb out from the pits of hell that their ancestors had damned them to so long ago.

As man rose up, no longer concerned with monsters and beasts, it turned on itself. Tribes wrestled for dominance over their fellow man. They fought with club and rock, spear and arrow. They made war over resources as simple as food, water and land. It was a time of darkness as brother turned against brother. But through death, through conflict, came life. From the fires of hate came out a race forged stalwart and unbreakable. Mankind was able to recreate, to rebuild what was lost so long ago. War had forced them to erect palisades around their camps. Tents were replaced by permanent structures. In the never ending search for better tools to destroy other tribes, they had rediscovered metalworking and masonry. And as the years passed, permanent settlements began to dot the land once more. They became cities. Soon cities and tribes interwove, putting down sword and spear in favor of trade and friendship- and nations were formed. And from those early nations rose up kingdoms that would stand the test of time.




OOC Information





Welcome to Sticks And Stones, a far future Science Fantasy Roleplay set in what was once the United States. I will be your guide in your travels across this strange land wrought with danger, mystery and adventure. Here are a few things you should know about Sticks and Stones before we continue:

-If I were to give this RP a level, it'd be somewhere around High Casual.

-I'm looking for at least four adventurers to take up this quest, though I won't be putting a cap on the number of applicants unless things get absurd. My usual rule of thumb is the more the merrier, and I will more than likely keep the RP open even after we have started. It may be difficult to join in at certain points, but I will do my best to work everyone in.

-I'd like applicants to be in it for the long haul. Posts may come slower than in some other RPs since things like school, work, or other real life obligations can get in the way of writing. Anyone coming in should be prepared for that, and patience for your fellow writers is necessary. With that said, I'd like that we at least stay in contact so that everyone knows we're all still in the game. I ask that a weekly update is given, either in the form of a post or informing us that you won't be able to post this week. How we'll proceed when someone drops or if they have a long absence will be discussed when we come to it, though if you can't be active for a long amount of time your character may be skipped over so that the story can continue moving. A postless RP quickly becomes a dead one, after all.

-Length isn't too important to be, but substance is. All posts should offer something that others can react to or work off of. If your last post could be deleted and it wouldn't affect the scene in the slightest, something's gone wrong. In general one-liners or very short posts that offer little in the way of substance are frowned upon. Don't feel the need to rush out a short post. You've got at least a week to write one, after all!

-When we start out, everyone will be allowed one character. As things move forward this may change, but I would like for us to keep things small and laser focused when we first begin.

-General rules for the site and Roleplaying in general apply, obviously. Basically: smut/+18 situations are mandatory fade to black, treat everyone else involved in the game well, and don't power/meta/god game, and all that jazz. The RP will touch on mature themes like violence, and may go into detail, so just keep that in mind before applying.

-The beginning premise of Sticks And Stones is that we are a party of adventurers brought together by special order of the king. We will be sent into the remains of the city of Dallas in search of still-working artifacts from the old world.




The Setting/Worldbuilding











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LONG LIVE MARS

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #1
21st April, 2216
♪♪♪



This was the end.

It had been a long time coming. Years of blood, sweat and tears had been poured into every inch of the twelve massive arks that now embodied the last hope of all of humanity. The whole time, man had kept an eye to the heavens, praying that the enemy did not come. Praying that they would be able to finish the Genesis Project before they arrived. Their prayers fell on the ears of a deaf god, for Devastation was upon them. Riding in chariots of living flesh, that spewed nuclear hellfire from their gaping maws, came the enemy. Some believed them to be demons. Monstrous creatures from beyond the veil of the natural world, coming to reap the souls of men. Others thought they were a force of the divine. They believed that man had committed a grave sin when it first sparked to life the wormholes that brought the Devastators upon them. This was, supposedly, their punishment.

Total and complete extermination.

The enemy had gathered at their gates. Ships of impossible design numbering in the thousands were descending on Mars even then. Even as Commander Elijah Ross waited with baited breath for the Vitae to launch, they came. Holographic view screens floated in the air before the commander, drawing his gaze between them.

Each one showed something different. A Federation news cast detailing the launch of the Arks was playing to his far left. On it, a beautiful looking young woman was trying to deliver her script between her broken sobs. Opposite that was a live feed from Mars orbit. Every last military vessel humanity had to offer had joined together above Ross's home. Millions of sailors and Corpsmen manned thousands of warships, waiting with hate in their hearts and fear in their souls for the monsters that would tear them all to shreds.

Directly in front of Elijah was a cast of High Admiral Constantine and the twelve Ark commanders as he delivered the last words any of them would hear from the man. A hero in every sense of the word, Roland was the perfect choice to lead the fight against the Devastators. He was the only choice. Men would die in the millions for him. As Ross sat in the bridge of the Nyx, he couldn't help but think he should be one of those men. He should've been sitting at the helm of a frigate alongside the rest of the Martian Unity fleet.

Elijah should be dying to protect his home.

He took in a sharp inhale, air rushing into his lungs through the respirator he wore. The heavy duty appliance was modulated to the Prometheus exoskeleton he wore. Elijah's shoulders shuddered with each breath. The weight of his assisted breathing device only compounding with the heavy sense of guilt he felt for abandoning his people. His planet would die. Billions along with it. 'What gives me the right?' Ross kept asking himself. 'Why in God's name do I get to live while everyone else...'

He could only imagine how many more deserving people there were that were trapped on his homeworld. He could practically see them in his mind. Millions of children with terror in their eyes as they clung to their mothers and fathers in Martian disaster bunkers, wondering what will become of them. There were billions of others who could be sitting where he was. Younger men with families of their own who were healthier and stronger than he. Why couldn't Ross take the place of some other captain in the fleet? Some bright eyed, hopeful commander who would live for sixty more years to lead the remnants of humanity.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. They were all going to fucking die. Every last person on Earth, Mars and beyond that wasn't on one of the arks was going to be slaughtered.

The holographic screens before him were sent away with a swipe of his hand. Elijah motioned, bringing up a televised feed on Arcadia. He had grown up in those streets. He had played on them, worked on them. And now, years later, they'd be filled with the bodies of good Martian men and women who deserved better. "God damn it." Ross rasped, his hands clutched together in his lap. They were clammy with sweat. Every inch of his body ached with an overwhelming desire to act. Elijah wanted to command his crew to disengage the locks, to force open the hangar so that they could fly out and join the fight. It was a stupid desire. Ross had his duty, and he could not- would not- abandon his post. To do so would be to spit in the face of every other man that had been doomed to die and not even given the chance to climb aboard the arks.

No, Elijah had to go through with this. He had to give this mission his all. Thus was his duty to mankind. His duty to the Martian Unity.

Thus, was his duty to Mars.

With how large the Vitae was, Elijah could barely feel the engines kick-starting. He was only made aware when his engineering officer called it out. The man's voice had shaken as he spoke those few words. Everyone else on the bridge remained dead silent, save for the quiet sobbing of one of the petty officers. Her family had been denied a place aboard the Arks. There just wasn't enough room.

What Elijah wouldn't give for that officer's husband to be standing in his place.

Ross kept his eyes on the view screen. He watched an empty Arcadia, listening to the klaxons play through the dusty streets for no one but him to hear. Everyone had been move down to the shelters. It only offered the illusion of safety. The enemy wouldn't be stopped by a few hundred feet of rock. No underground bunker would help stop this. This was the end for them.

The Engineering Officer pulled something up on the main screen. Ross tore his eyes away from his home, looking up to the stars. He had brought up the feed pointed toward the Eye of Thea. That was their last hope. A portal to God knows where. Behind that swirling eye lay an unknown host of obstacles that stood between them and survival. A long journey lay ahead of them. It was entirely possible that each and every Genesis Ark would be destroyed before they found a suitable planet for colonization. This voyage could very well be the last effort to touch the sky for a species that was being dragged kicking and screaming into the mouth of hell.

With tears in his eyes, the old war dog looked back to Arcadia. Barren, empty, and facing it's end. Ross flipped the screen back to the fleet in orbit, watching a squadron of fighters flash by the camera as they made their way to the front. "Give 'em hell, boys." Elijah growled. Those were the final words he spoke as he shut down his personal screens. His gaze moved back up to the Eye of Thea.

Though this was the end for his home, it was also the beginning of their journey. The beginning of hope.

"Long live Mars."
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Beads of sweat trickled down Han's forehead, flowing like tiny rivers down the curvature of his cheeks and jaw. Bjornson's Wolfhound was operating at minimal heat levels; he hadn't even so much as touched his weapon systems. Yet still heat bore down upon the Nobleman. It assaulted his bare flesh and drenched his golden locks in sweat. Training in Mechs back on Tharkad, Han only ever worked up this kind of a sweat during an intense firefight. He was usually sitting in the center of a laser boat- it only made sense that the cockpit would turn into a veritable sauna.

But Steelton was different. Han didn't need to be in combat to work up a sweat. All it took was the residual heat of the sun beating down upon his Mech for Bjornson's cockpit to reach such temperatures that he was sure he was going to be fried alive. This was what he hated most about the joint training exercises with the FedSuns from the NAIS: the heat. They dragged Han out into the middle of some backwater dust world and expected him to adapt to the environment. It was the polar opposite of home. Snow and ice were replaced by sand and burning stone. The twisted rock formations looming overhead were a poor substitute for the towers of Tharkad City that kissed the very heavens in all of their splendor.

And in the place of the regal and proud noblemen he called his peers, he had Mechwarriors like Rall.

Han could hear the poorly contained mocking in her voice as she sent a laser comm to his Wolfhound. There was a bitter twisting of his lips downward at the insult offered to his name. Bjornson debated simply ignoring her. She had been insufferable the last few weeks and continued to be so even now. Brushing off the remarks of an ignorant should've been a simple thing. Han had endured far, far worse treatment at the hands of the Nagelring's more bigoted students. However, the nobleman had little else to do at the moment except stare ahead at seemingly endless stretches of dust and rock. Against his better judgment, the Lyran let his digit slip down to the comms panel.

"Oh, yes. Hilarious as always." Han dryly retorted. "What ever would I need a book for when I have a Canopian hora constantly screeching in my ear? It's like I have my own personal jester."

Letting his thumb slip off the comms switch, Hand returned his hand to the piping hot accelerator. For a moment, he wondered if he was too harsh with the rat. Han assumed Rall was just trying to get on his nerves with her prattle, but he couldn't be totally sure. The Periphery was a strange place, and it's customs were wholly alien to someone like Bjornson.

'It's possible the rat was...how do they put it in English...Ribbing?'

Trying to juggle two languages was difficult enough, but the Nagelring had been pushing the tongue of the FedSuns on him since he was accepted into the student body. Han was still getting a handle on it, admittedly; but he ha committed himself to learning it. If Bjornson wanted to succeed as a Mechwarrior and a nobleman, he would need to be able to communicate with the FedSun pilots effectively. To that end, Han had committed to speaking in English alone. He had broken that personal rule only to mock the rat's use of a German insult against him. 'Presumptuous little thing.'

Before the boredom of the assignment could truly set in, Han's attention was arrested by a warning klaxon playing in his ear. He turned toward the source of the sound in his cockpit, the bulky neurohelmet making it difficult to do so but he managed. "The probe...?" He muttered to himself, flicking a few switches. It had to be a mistake. The sensors must've been acting up. There wasn't any way these readings were accurate. Han forced a reset on the sensor suite, yet that didn't stop the warning bells.

"Holy shit." Bjornson cursed, fumbling for the main radio. "Captain, I'm picking up seismic activity!" These readings...It could only mean one thing. Han thought it impossible before, but there was no denying what the instruments were telling him. "We have multiple contacts two clicks ahead of us. Range from twenty to fifty five tons. They have mechs."

Was this part of the training, somehow? An ambush by the Star Guard would certainly make for an exciting change of pace from a dreary escort, yet...they had loaded live-fire weapons before heading out. A mock battle couldn't be fought with real weapons. Han hesitated, his hands hovering on his controls. 'Is this real?' He pulled back on the accelerator, commanding his titanic steed to slow it's trot. Standard procedure dictated that the lead unit slow and allow the rest of the lance to catch up. Moving forward alone in a real combat situation was damn near suicidal.

Mattlov confirmed the contacts that the Wolfhound had picked up as being genuine, as well as confirming visual on a dropship of some kind. 'A dropship, out here?'

Finally the voice of the Captain returned over the tactical comms, confirming the dropship and the contacts to be hostile. He wanted Bjornson, Eichberg and Rall to move ahead with him while the other units sought out a fire support position. That meant Han was going to be meeting the enemy head on.

This was real, then. Someone was attacking them and Han would actually be in a fight. Grim determination set in on his expression. If he were totally honest with himself, Bjorson didn't know how he felt. He was terrified of the concept of being shot at for real for the first time and exhilarated at the prospect of engaging proper opponents all at once. It was a rush of adrenaline that caused his fight-or-flight instincts to kick into overdrive. "Are they pirates, sir?" Han could only assume so. The sector was supposedly crawling with them. But what madness had overcome them that a group of poorly equipped brigands would think they'd stand a chance against Steelton's garrison? The Star Guard alone could wipe the floor with any rogue unit. And it wasn't like Steelton was some treasure trove of riches to be taken...So what were they doing here?

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Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]




Dark clouds filled the sky like a gloomy afterthought. Weak rays of sunlight peaked through the breaks in the gray, filling the frozen streets of Praetor City with a much needed light. Ice clung to the numerous high towers that loomed overhead, the chilling wrath of some unseen god wrapping tightly about them. Flakes of ice crystals were carried down on the biting wind, joining the layers of white that covered every inch of the city proper. Though the constant foot traffic on the busier streets had managed to carve a rough path through the inches-deep snow, travel was still made obnoxiously difficult by winter's frost.

Despite the weather, Praetor was as active as ever. It's markets were filled to the brim with citizens wrapped in their warmest cloaks, rushing to purchase what food and goods they could to survive the early winter. Merchants still packed their wagons full of furs, winter wheat and other trade goods, planning to ride from Praetor City to the nearby villages that so desperately needed their wares. And even in the winter the local drunks and ne'er-do-wells needed to piss away what little coin they had on cheap beer, stale pastries and other, less savory forms of pleasure.

Far from the dirty and grimy masses of serfs, a near panic had set in at the king's palace. Behind it's smooth walls of glistening granite and it's towers that touched the very heavens, officials and knights were rushing about between it's golden halls to complete their own tasks. With the unexpected coming of an early winter came many a duty that needed to be fulfilled. Defenses needed to be shored up, messages needed to be sent off, the supplies needed to be checked and double-checked to make sure they would last until the coming of summer. And, most importantly, the artifact hunts needed to be arranged.

Hidden away in a tiny study stuffed full of useless trinkets and piles upon piles of scrolls, the castle steward frantically attempted to finish the final touches on his fiftieth summons of the day. Frederick Lethino's quill glided across the parchment like a ship across the sea, a trail of black ink left behind with every precise mark, jot and tittle. Lethino finished the final line, a sigh escaping his thin lips as he returned the quill to it's stand. 'At last.' He thought. Dark bags hung like men at the gallows underneath his uninteresting eyes. The words on the page were all but blending together after staring at paper after paper after paper. It was only through sheer force of will that the steward had managed to complete this final one.

Spindly, wrinkled fingers reached for the stamp sat on the desktop before him. Lethino planted the seal of the king on the scroll, finalizing it's authenticity. Now it was ready to be rolled up and sent away with one of the messenger boys. Frederick rose from his chair, his movements sluggish and slow. Even indoors, the coolness of the winter air were hell upon his bones. Taking up the scroll, the steward shuffled forth from his office. Massive windows that reached greater heights than some of the buildings in the city allowed the fleeting rays of the sun to filter into the gold-wrapped and pearly white hallways of the palace. It was a welcome difference from the low candle light that Lethino was used to working in. 'I must hurry. They await my arrival.' He reminded himself, moving faster to his destination. First he had to drop off the scroll at the messenger's office, then he could be on his way toward his real appointment. Frederick would be cutting it close; he only hoped that the hunters would behave themselves while they waited.

After several minutes, Lethino eventually reached the bottom floor of the castle. He pressed through the grandiose entrance hall, the guards allowing him to pass without hassle- that balding head and frizzled beard were all the identification they needed for the king's royal steward. He stopped before the heavy oaken doors that shielded the keep from invader and starving commoner alike. 'Alright, Lethino. You have done this many times before.' He reminded himself, as he had every time prior to this one.

Lethino couldn't help that nervous tickle in his rib cage before little things like this- that intangible worry that he would flub his delivery, or that they would be unreceptive to his words. He swallowed it down, clearing his throat as he placed his hands upon the iron handles of the gateway. Frederick threw them open, their great weight causing his meager arms to yearn for respite. The frozen wind immediately tasted his rosy cheeks, that force assisting in throwing the doors open the rest of the way.

Frederick took a single step out of the threshold, his arms thrown wide in a bombastic display. "Welcome to Praetor Keep, mighty adventurers!" Lethino shouted, a wily smile on his face as he turned to look at the host of treasure hunters and noble knights that were-

"Wait." Lethino's face fell in confusion. "W-where the devil are they?!" He spun his head about, moving further out into the courtyard. It was empty! Not a single soul stood out in the blistering wind or frozen, icy snow. "Oh, gods..." Frederick stepped back into the hall, his panicked gaze searching for the first of the guardsmen that he could find. "You there, soldier!" The royal steward called out. The guard looked quizzically over at the nobleman. "How many bells have sounded?"

He stood quietly for a moment, a metal-encased hand moving up to touch the bottom of his chin. "Uh..'bout three, I reckon."

"Three?!" Lethino screamed. He thought his heart was going to burst. "By the gods, I'm late! I was late!" He had worked right through the meeting and hadn't even heard the third bell sound. How long had it been since then? He must've left them out in the cold for so long that they all just left! The steward tied up his cloak and threw the hood over his head, rushing back out into the cold. He raced through the courtyard and shout through the raised gate, his feet sliding to a halt in the open street.

"Has anyone seen my adventurers?!"

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