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INHALE

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #2
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪



It had been five, long years since anyone aboard the Vitae had stepped foot on solid ground. With Earth and Mars reduced to ash, all they had left to call home were the claustrophobic and colorless halls of the Genesis Ark. For many, this was a difficult thing to adjust to. Earthers were used to fields of green stretching for miles upon miles in every direction. Martians found their comfort in the endless deserts of twisting dust storms and crimson rock. To know that they might never see land like that again...it tended to drive people mad.

Elijah was not one of those people. He had spent almost every day of his life in the cramped hull of many a lifeless warship. He had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of a purring engine. He was used to seeing nothing more than composite steel and blinking consoles for months on end. Yet still, though Ross was a career Serviceman, he had found the last five years surprisingly taxing. He no longer had a home to return to. There would be no crowd of friends and family awaiting him when he returned from a tour. There would be no quiet celebratory dinner with his aging parents, or night of drunken foolishness with his cousins. They, along with the rest of Mars, were gone. And that was something Ross still had trouble coping with.

Coming here helped.

Ross sat upon an old fashioned park bench made from wrought iron and painted sheer black. A breeze blew gently across his face, passing through the graying beard Elijah had neglected to remove. His mother had always detested facial hair, so he remained clean shaven for her sake. The gesture had lost it's meaning five years ago.

Eden reminded him of a park he used to visit back when he was a boy. He and his friends would race one another around the gardens in their motorbikes. The security officer would always yell at them whenever they got going too fast, but Elijah never listened. The grass was greener here than it was in the Martian park. The trees grew taller, too. Healthier trees and the cutting edge technology involved in keeping Eden running made the air all the sharper than it was back home.

The commander wished he could still enjoy it.

Elijah had always taken air for granted. Oxygen was something they had in abundance, after all; no one worried about breathing while they were young and healthy. Ross couldn't have known how much he missed being able to take a deep breath without a searing pain filling his side.

Almost as if on cue, Ross went to take a breath, only for a sputtering cough to follow. "Damn it." He rasped quietly. A reluctant hand reached up to tap a small button on his neck. The armored piece began to fold out, extending around his jawline and mouth until it snapped into place, both sides connecting to form the respirator that Elijah required to breathe. The mouthpiece itself was transparent, per Elijah's request- he hated how the machine obscured his features. Ross was not the kind of man to hide behind a mask.

The artificially enhanced air forced into his mouth with every puff on the respirator felt cold and hollow. It was as lifeless as the walls of any warship. Elijah despised not being able to breathe real air. He despised needing to be hooked up to some machine. He felt lesser for it. Yet all of all of the options presented to him, this was the only one Ross could take that didn't include dying. Elijah would never give up his pride as a Martian and as a man to force some unnatural cybernetic into his body. Some lab-grown pair of new lungs wouldn't do either. Even if his world was dead Elijah would never give up on it's beliefs. Ross would die before he betrayed Mars's memory.

Though Eden held a special place in Elijah's heart, he knew that it wouldn't for long. He came here because it gave him a reminder of what was. But Admiral Locke's call earlier that morning had changed that- or, it would soon, at any rate. Ross looked on at the tree before him, a smile forming underneath his respirator at the sight of it's blooming flowers. This particular tree was from Conglomerate territory on earth, if he had his facts right. It was gorgeous- probably the prettiest thing Nagasaki ever produced.

If Locke was right, this might be the last time Ross would ever need to visit Eden to be reminded of what land looked like. Elijah didn't believe his ears when he first heard the news. After five years of unending space travel, Elijah had resigned himself to it- he had expected to die never seeing anything other than a bulkhead and the blacks stretch of space ever again.

'A habitable world...'

It was the first of it's kind they had come across after heading through the Eye, and Ross had the privilege and the honor of gathering a suitable team for their first away mission off the Vitae. With the press of a button he opened the holographic display from his personal device, a list of names appearing before his eyes. This was his sacred duty. To humanity, to Mars- to himself.

N.O.A.H had prepared a list of candidates for Elijah, dividing it up by occupation and availability. There were close to fifteen thousand people awake, and this list only contained a fraction of them. Yet there were hundreds upon hundreds of names here. Almost all of them were qualified for this job. It was up to Ross to determine who was the best choice for this. "I suppose I should start with the science team." They needed them to work with the survey drones to determine just how habitable the world really was. "Let's see, here..." Ross muttered to himself, flicking through the various pages of names.

As he began to flag potentially suitable candidates, a funny little thought entered Eli's mind that made him smile.

'I wonder what the air tastes like down there..'
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The question of whether or not any of this was truly real was answered by the sound of an autocannon shot echoing throughout the blistering sands. Contact had been made- the enemy had opened fire on them first. One of the rear echelon's recon drones had been turned to slag. Bjornson felt a swelling in his chest. Some concoction of excitement and fear broiled inside of him at that thunderous sound of cannon fire. He held fast to his controls and listened to the orders dished out by Captain Hart. He was a part of the team advancing alongside the Captain, toward the enemy. They were meant to move slowly. Apparently, the drones had spotted out a particularly dangerous mech that would tear them apart in close quarters. It was up to the team's designated marksman to disable or destroy that mech to allow the rest of the team to move into range.

Han didn't like waiting, but he didn't particularly enjoy being blown up either, so he decided to do as he was ordered. He pulled back on his speed, changing the direction of his Wolfhound to avoid moving too closely. Han kept himself at an angle, slowly inching forward as his sensor array picked up more and more targets within the treeline. The pirates had many among their numbers, it seemed, and they were packing quite a bit of firepower. Most of it appeared to be close range in nature, however, so Bjornson wasn't too worried about receiving return fire as he moved into range for his ER Large Laser.

His assumption was proved incorrect when PPC fire nearly took Mattlov's head off.

"Shit." The nobleman cursed under his breath, searching for the origin point of the shot. Mattlov and the other Overwatch units had the cover of the mountain to aid them. But Bjornson and the rest of the advancing team were out in the open, and a well placed particle cannon shot could immobilize any one of them. "Anybody have eyes on that PPC shooter?!" Bjornson barked over the comms, his head on a swivel as he tried to identify where it came from- but he couldn't see any mechs with that loadout. He noticed Eichberg had turned on his radio, but all that came out was blabbered nonsense.

'Come on, little one- what did you see?' Eichberg wasn't like most pilots Bjornson had encountered. He was quiet and reserved, rarely showing confidence outside of direct battle. But he was also damn near a savant when it came to firing those guns of his. If anyone in the lance had seen where the shot originated, it'd be their own sniper.

Han held his breath, watching as Eichberg's comms once more flared to life. This time, though his voice sounded shaky, coordinates followed. Bjornson couldn't help the grin that spread across his lips as he flipped on his own comms. "Excellent work, Eichberg!" Though the boy wasn't Lyran, Han could not deny his usefulness. "A little faster on the draw next time would be appreciated, however." Praise could not come without criticism; for they were still students, and they could not be allowed to rest on their laurels.

They had identified where the fire was coming from- the river. A Panther was using jumpjets to fire at them from the safety of the curve in the terrain. Han knew he could take it out, but not with the Thunderbolt and Urbanmech standing within range. He changed his course to move in the direction of the Panther without getting close enough to be engaged by the other two mechs. "Rall," Han briefly considered referring to the rat by something less than savory, but chose not to; in the heat of the moment, he could not afford damaging team cohesion. Even if he did loathe the woman. "On me. We're going to deal with that pest in the river." If he was getting this close, Bjornson needed backup. If he failed to take down the Panther or if one of those Harassers appeared, he'd need the Wolverine to assist. It was up to their rifleman to take down the Urbie. Han could've provided support in dealing with the Thunderbolt, given his own range, however...

'If I fire now, I won't have the heat capacity to engage the Panther with everything I have.' Han wanted to take the other mech down in short order, if he could; it's weaponry was too deadly for him to allow it to remain in play for long. He had to hope that Eichberg could handle the pressure from those two on his own. 'Don't let me down, little one.' Bjornson prayed.

He watched the exchange on his map. Information poured in through his Neurohelmet on the battle that raged to his rear. Han kept himself moving straight at a little over half speed, his hand ready to twist to the right to make for the river the moment he was clear to engage. Sweat dribbled down his nose. Teeth clenched tight, Han waited with baited breath.

Then the report came in from Eichberg. He'd damaged the Urbie badly enough to drive it back into the trees. "Wunderbar! Well done." The Urbanmech was no longer in play, at least for the time being. That meant he was clear to advance. Though, the Thunderbolt would be an issue...such a massive mech would shrug off his lasers without much difficulty, and it's own arsenal could tear his own light mech apart. Still, even if it did present a danger, Bjornson couldn't hesitate. He turned his Wolfhound, beginning his approach toward the river as he rapidly increased his vehicle's footspeed.

"I'm moving in to take out that Panther, cover me!" It turned out that Han's request had been superfluous, seeing as how Wulfhart was already pouring fire onto the Thunderbolt. Missiles rained down like divine wrath from heaven, bombarding the heavy mech's position with burning pain. "You have my thanks, Wulf." With the Thunderbolt off balance and the pilot's attention on the Overwatch team, Bjornson was free to enter the riverbed without fear of instant reprisal.

Han felt the ground vanish from underneath him as he guided his Wolfhound to leap down into the slight gulch. It returned a second later as the entire cockpit vibrated violently, Bjornson's stomach turning at the impact. "Really, girl? Now?" He growled. Those shock absorbers were going to get him killed if they didn't pull themselves together. The Wolfhound turned to face down the river, spouting out the little bastard that had opened fire on Mattlov earlier. The Panther had spotted Han on his approach and had prepared by turning to face him.

A critical error that would result in the pilot's demise.

Before Bjornson had fully brought his Wolfhound to bear, a particle projector shot rang out. Echoing like thunder it exploded through the gulch, slamming against the front torso armor. It reverberated through the cockpit as Han clutched his controls until his knuckles were white, his eyes pressed shut as heat rushed into the compartment.

The particle cannon had hit like a runaway freight train, forcing the Wolfhound off it's center of balance. Han intentionally let the light mech fall down onto a knee to avoid falling over entirely. The earth shook with every movement from the massive mechanical nightmare. The shot had caused his armor to cave inward. Coolant was leaking from a damaged heat sink down the machine's side like vibrantly blue blood. A gargantuan palm pressed against the damaged armor, blocking up the wound to avoid further leakage for a short time.

Han responded by lifting up his Large Laser, turning the massive weapon on his brash foe. He lined the crosshairs over the Panther's right arm. Bjornson kept his breathing steady, his heart practically bursting through his chest as he took careful aim. "To hell with you." Han snarled, squeezing the trigger. A brilliant flash of light at the end of his gun shined as the thick laser cut through the air, the Panther's weapon awash in holy pyre.

Waves of unbearable heat assaulted Bjornson from every angle. His remaining nine single heat sinks worked to keep the mech's interior and exterior as cool as physically possible in the desert heat. Thankfully the river's waters would more than make up for the damaged sink, allowing Han to continue fighting without worrying about passing out in his cockpit just from firing his weapons.

The Panther wasn't finished. Though it's weapon was suffering from major overheating issues and a damaged barrel, it still pressed forward nonetheless. Han watched, his brow furrowing at the sight. 'Damn it, it has SRMs.' The pirate was looking to close in and let loose a volley of missiles. Bjornson brought up the ranges on the missiles on his HUD, reading them off quickly as he shifting his mech to stand back up. He had a one hundred meter advantage in range with his three medium lasers, though the Panther would do more damage if it managed to land all of it's rockets.

'Keep out of range, then.' Han prepped his medium lasers, the Wolfhound finally rising back to it's full, impressive height. The river was too tight for the Panther to perform any significant maneuvers; it was a sitting duck. Bjornson loosed a full volley from all three of his close range weapons, letting the trio of colorful beams slash along the front side of the Panther. It's chest armor glowed a vibrant orange as steel melted underneath the concentrated fire. Han started to back away, his feet stomping through the water as he waited for his weapons to cool down enough to allow a second shot from his Large laser.

"Come on then, you bastard! I know you've got more than that in you!"
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THE GOOD DOCTOR

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #3
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪



If there was one thing in the known universe that Elijah might hate more than the Devastators, it was paperwork. Though he hadn't used actual paper official documents in more than a decade and a half, the man still abhorred it. He understood the importance of what he was doing well- deciding who was best qualified to join them on the first expedition to a habitable world was a monumental task. And Ross was honored that he had been chosen for this duty. All of that said, however...

'Good God I hate this.'

It had to be the worst part about all of these promotions he'd earned over the years. Elijah appreciated the increased income and the better quality of life that came with it. And he appreciated, too, the weight of the tasks that came with his rank and title. There was nothing quite like the feeling of commanding a crew from the helm of a gargantuan warship in the midst of battle. It was altogether terrifying and exhilarating in the same breath. With those highs came the lows. And unfortunately for a man of his standing, the 'lows' constituted around eighty percent of what he did on any given day.

Paperwork. It was nothing but paperwork. Signing off on orders, reading over mechanical and troop inspection reports, dealing with requests from personnel and other departments, and any other host of poignantly mundane duties that came with a position of leadership. Elijah's mornings typically consisted of pouring a pot of copy and then looking at his datapad for a few hours. Then he would leave for Eden, and look at his datapad for a few hours. Then to lunch, more of the datapad, on to his office and more of the datapad (and, refreshingly, other viewscreens!) and finally he would return home for dinner and eventually bed...and more looking at a datapad.

If Eli was forced to remain in a single place to do all of this, he might've lost it awhile ago. As it was, he was quite thankful that places like Eden existed to offer some different scenery to his aging eyes. Eden was- pun totally intended- a breath of fresh air. It cut out a bit of the monotony of it all, in a way. Ross enjoyed the warm breeze brushing against his face. The sound of swaying trees broke up the maddening hum that came from the rest of the Vitae.

As his fingers traced across a barely tangible screen, Elijah heard a familiar voice play in his ear. The pad fell down against his knee, forgotten momentarily as the commander turned to face Rois Holt. "Doctor Holt." He greeted, his voice distorted by the mechanical breathing apparatus that dominated the lower half of his face. Elijah ran a finger up along his neck, pressing down on the button that caused the mask to retract. Ross held in a cough, letting his lungs adjust to the unfiltered air for a moment. Even if his doctors implored him to keep the mask on as often as he could, Elijah was adamant about speaking face to face. He was doing his body no favors, but a few minutes of unregulated breathing shouldn't kill him.

Ross rolled his shoulders, bracing himself for the upcoming strain as he went to stand. He suppressed a groan at the screeching ache within his right knee and upper thigh. A near silent mechanical whirring followed the action, the sophisticated brace adjusting to release the pressure on his wounded right leg.

"It is a good morning indeed." Elijah offered a warm smile to Holt, taking several steps to meet the Head of Hydroponics with an outstretched hand. It wasn't just a good morning. A good morning involved waking up feeling rested and eating a healthy amount of scrambled eggs and bacon. No, today was shaping up to be a great morning. Potentially even the best since he had entered the ark five years ago- paperwork aside.

Her question on whether he was in Eden for business or pleasure brought Elijah's hands together, to be clasped in front of him as his demeanor shifted slightly. "A little bit of both, actually." Ross said, his earlier joviality replaced with a dash of seriousness. "I meant to come speak with you personally later today about an...opportunity."

He glanced down at the datapad in his hand, remembering well the names of those qualified for the expedition. Among many others, Elijah had seen Doctor Holt's. "The admiral has me choosing a crew for a very...special assignment. I'm trying to bring together a small team of experts, and, well.." He started, picking his words carefully; he knew that the mission wasn't on the official record just yet, and letting that information slip early could very well stoke the fires of unrest that were already burning.

It was difficult for Elijah to keep from getting at least a little excited at the prospect. They were going to a new world! After five long years spent with nothing but dwindling hope, they had finally arrived at a world ripe for colonization. His attempt at remaining serious and keeping this all under wraps was broken by the slight grin that Ross wore as he spoke in a lowered voice. "...How would you feel about being a part of history, Doctor Holt?"

Rois was not a hard sell. She was their leading expert on plant life and agriculture- along with someone like Wolfe, Holt could determine just how 'habitable' this habitable world really was. "Now, nothing's finalized quite yet, so I can't get into the details until I've met with Locke-"

Ross's point was interrupted by an obnoxious beeping coming from the device he held within his fist. He turned it over, glancing down at the screen to see what all the fuss was about. "Ah. I let time get away from me." Elijah grumbled, switching off the alarm. "Speaking of meetings, I'm going to be late if I don't get moving to mine now. I'll have one of my aide's reach out to yours so we can schedule something." The commander implored, starting to turn away from Eden's caretaker. He really should've set that alarm for fifteen minutes earlier, all things considered, to give himself more time. But Elijah had a terrible habit of rushing to get on time to things. "Have a wonderful morning, Doctor Holt! Oh, and Eden was just superb!"
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Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]




The frozen breath of the wild brushed against Lethino's rosy cheeks as he stood in the courtyard, his boots soaked from marching across snow-caked cobblestone. "Gods be damned." The royal steward cursed, flinging his head about frantically. There was no one to be seen! He couldn't believe it- he was late. Terribly, horribly, awfully late. Frederick couldn't blame the adventurers for leaving; who would want to stand out in the cold for so long?! Lethino's failure was truly, unequivocally outrageous. So monumental was his floundering that the steward was sure the king would have his head.

Perhaps not his head. That was a little drastic, especially for King Astius II (long may he reign). But he'd certainly lose his position as head steward if he didn't find a way to remedy the horrors of this situation post-haste. "The first expedition of winter, ruined! What an ill omen this is!" He lamented.

If Lethino wanted to preserve his position in the royal court, his first course of action was finding those he had summoned to Praetor City. That was easier said than done, of course- they could've gone anywhere! Literally anywhere! The capital was far too large for the steward to search alone, which meant recruiting the help of others to his cause. Frederick spun about on his heel, rushing back toward the keep. He threw open the heavy oaken doors, raising his voice until it echoed like thunder. "GUARDS!" He cried. "I require your assistance immediately! This is of the utmost importance!" His voice drew the annoyed attention of several men who's duty it was to stand around the keep looking intimidating. They were drawn to him, like moths to a flame, though their slothfulness was less than appreciated.

Frederick was in a hurry! He had no time for dillying or dallying! The steward swiftly explained his predicament to the gathered host, before unleashing upon them orders most divine to seek out any who carried an official summons bearing the mark of the king. Anyone with that letter was to be brought back to the keep- inside this time.

One of the royal warriors raised his hand. He was a brutish looking fellow with an ugly birthmark on his cheek and several missing teeth. "Oi, there was some bleedin' moron come 'round here shoutin' about a quest from the king. Said he lost his summons, so we's threw him in the dungeon."

There was a pause from the balding steward, a look of disbelief plastered on his expression as he tried to find some words to explain how utterly ridiculous that was. "Just..." Lethino began, shaking his head. "Retrieve him." Even if the fellow was full of it, one more body on the mission couldn't hurt. Especially if the entire party had bailed on them, of no real fault of their own. "I will remain here, since...mine being somewhere else sort of caused this whole mess in the first place. But you all must hurry! Quickly, now! Find my adventurers!"




Garbed in coats of thick fur over their chain and gambesons, the keep's loyal defenders, six in total, set out into the streets with purpose in their step.

They came upon the first potential adventurers almost immediately. A man of a strange complexion and a questionable mental state was standing ramrod straight in the corner of the courtyard, covered in ice and snow and staring into the distance like an utter loon. A few mutters were shared between the soldiers as they tried to decide who was the unfortunate one among them that would have to go speak to the crazy man.

It was decided that the smallest and most junior of the crew had to go. With a huff, the young soldier started forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword on the off chance the snow dweller was violent. "'Scuse me, sir," the guardsman started, waving to get his attention. "You wouldn't happen to know where all thems adventure types went off to? The ones here to see the king?" It was a bit of a long shot, but the crazy fellow looked like he'd been standing around here for a good while. He might've seen where some of them went off to, or over heard some crucial chatter. If the man could suppress his urge to stare into the distance long enough to recall, he might actually prove helpful.

The others, meanwhile, continued onward, sharing a quiet snicker at the misfortune of the new recruit. They moved out toward the gatehouse, where they once again encountered a few figures. Two, to be precise. One was an rickety old peasant paid pennies to clear the entryway of snow, who looked like he was having a hell of a time with that broom of his. The other was a woman, if her slight build and height were anything to go off of. It was difficult to tell with the strange attire she wore. The group of five stopped and again discussed their course of action in low voices. It was decided that one of them would address the foreigner while another picked the brain of the servant. Surely they would be able to ascertain the location of their quarry with the help of three separate witnesses!

A man of aging years with many a harsh line upon his face and sunken shoulders stepped up toward the seated foreign woman. He was the eldest of the guardsmen present, and his senior rank afforded him slightly better winter clothing that wasn't so rugged. A polite smile on his lips, the guard deigned to lower his hood despite the weather out of a sign of respect. "Good day, madame." The veteran warrior greeted, nodding his head. "Would I be incorrect in assuming you're here on business with the king? I apologize for the wait; there was an error made on the steward's part. If you'd like to come inside, we can see about getting you something warm to drink."




It took a bit of effort, but eventually the royal guardsmen were able to determine- thanks to their witnesses- the location of the rest of the summoned treasure hunters. Now but five in number, the eldest choosing to stay behind and assist the steward in treating their found guests, they set off toward the nearby inn. Though the 'Lame Mule Inn' was near to the keep, it wasn't quite as popular as one might think. The owner was a lecherous old scoundrel that often attempted to bed his female guests. And his employees. And, at one point, a young stable boy he mistook for a woman. Most people didn't like the man very much, but he had been acquitted of any wrongdoing thanks to a few legal loopholes found by his Guild-provided lawyer.

The group of guardsmen entered the inn, throwing open the questionably stable doorway to move inside. It was surprisingly warm within, thanks to the roaring fire that looked like it might be a little too large for the fireplace it was in. They shrugged off the hoods of their coats, striding further inside through the hustle and bustle of activity within. Their impromptu leader, a bald headed and rough looking man who was actually quite fond of quilting, approached the barkeep. There were several people within that looked like they belonged to the crowd the soldiers sought. More than one wizard was present, and there was one particular giant of a man that looked like he could crush a Broken's skull between his thighs.

"Barkeep." The bald warrior called, tapping the surface of the counter. The keeper's eyes went wide with fear when he spotted the King's golden crest on the royal guard's tabard. That was the sort of look one gave when they owed someone money, the bald warrior figured. But he wasn't going to comment- the collectors could handle such petty crimes as tax evasion. "I'd like to buy a round. Colton's Whiskey." A surprised look was sent his way by his three friends, but no one argued at the prospect of free alcohol. He turned, his gaze tracing the occupants of the inn.

"One of you, head back outside. There may be more of them that need to be found." A groan came from the man at the back of the foursome. He knew neither of the other two would be willing to pass up on free whiskey, and his wife had recently ordered him to cut alcohol altogether. Begrudgingly he left, a grumble on his lips as he hit the snow-covered roads in search of more wandering adventurers.

"Attention!" He called out in a booming voice. "I come for those summoned by order of the king!" The warrior explained. "...And I wish to apologize to you all by buying you a drink. Come forward, produce your summons, and let's share a round!"
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A brief exchange of words between the Admiral's personal aide and Commander Ross were had before Elijah made his way inside the Commanding Officer's Quarters. He knew Locke's office well; in the five years they had spent on the Ark together, they'd held more than one meeting here. Ross had to confess that he was a little envious of the space provided to William. Martian vessels didn't offer lavish extravagances like 'space' and 'comfortable bedding' or other such superfluous luxuries to it's officers. Quarters were, for the most part, spartan and utilitarian in nature- as all things Martian were. Seeing as how the Ark was built and designed by more than just Martians engineers, however, the Feds and Conglomerate types decided to give the royal treatment to the Ark's commanding officer.

'Living like this is going to make Locke go soft.' Ross quietly joked to himself. He wouldn't have protested a room like this...much.

With heavy, uneven footfalls, he made his way inside the cabin. His officer's uniform was crisp and well kept as ever. Appearances were important to Ross. It was a fact he had learned far before he was ever inducted into military service. Back when he was just a school boy, Elijah had a teacher that refused to roll up his sleeves, loosen his tie or unbutton the top button on his shirt. The man ran the most disciplined class in the district. The presence he commanded when he entered the room was never forgotten, even when Elijah became a man. He had learned to emulate that teacher, and it had paid dividends in his military career.

"Sir." Elijah saluted, his arm snapping up into place so that his fingers touched his temple. It was quick and customary, but Ross insisted. Military tradition was a means of honoring the past that they had left behind- a way to keep from forgetting where they had come from.

Once he was given the go ahead, Ross found a place to sit. He wasn't exactly in any shape to remain standing for great lengths of time, given his leg, but Elijah wasn't going to break protocol just because his knee was a little sore. "Captain Lopez." The commander offered a nod of recognition to his equal from the Marine division.

"I have the list of names you asked me to compile. It should be connecting to your datapad in a moment." Ross was as quick as ever to dive into business. Locke and Lopez didn't have time for pleasantries, though Elijah had to confess that his time was a great deal less valuable than theirs. He didn't drill his men as strenuously as Lopez did. Flight simulations and emergency contingency practices could only be run so many times before it just started to feel tedious. And Locke being horrifically busy wasn't exactly a surprise, either, given his position. "None of them should be much of a surprise. They're all experts in their fields with up-to-date EVA training. Provided we're not walking into hell, they should do just fine."
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G R A V E S

• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •



The sound of music drifted to Graves's ear from behind him, barely a hopeful whisper over the howl of the furious wind. The frantic yet utterly precise playing of the strings from their bard caused magic to wash over the party, giving them a temporary boost in power that was much appreciated. Graves felt his limbs lighten, as if the weapon in his hands weighed half what it previously did. He could nary feel more than a dozen pounds of the steel armor clinging to his form. It gave him the added agility to avoid a leaping slime that aimed to wrap it's gelatinous form around his leg- disaster avoided by little more than the skin of his teeth.

Graves responded by lowering his halberd down the slime's center, the sharpened head executing the target like a falling guillotine. Or, it would have, if the target wasn't able to pull itself back together a few moments later.

'Damn it!' He sneered, taking a step back. He could feel the hot breath of Elian upon the back of his neck. Graves couldn't retreat any further without breaking their whole formation. That usually wouldn't be a problem for the tank; standing his ground was kind of in the title. Yet...'We're playing for keeps now.' He needed to trust his healer would keep him alive. Just like the supports needed to trust him to hold the line.

With a grimace, he took his place right next to Rael and Ochre once more. Their blind spots were being covered by the coiling, almost sentient chains from Tess. Graves could hear their disgusting little bodies crackling against the electrified perimeter she'd set. It sounded a hell of a lot like the sizzling the slimes to their front were doing when they ran into Ochre's minefield.

Her magic was incredible, but the mumblings that Graves couldn't make out over the sounds of battle made him worry. She had to hold it together. "Keep it together Tess!" The Blood Knight roared, his halberd singing like a banshee as it cut another enemy in twain. "You break and your little boyfriend's getting swarmed!" They'd all get swamped, but as far as Graves knew, flower boy was the only one Tess gave two shits about besides herself. A little motivation never hurt anybody, right?

His fight got a great deal easier when Landon lent his own unique form of support to the frontliners. Graves felt a slight 'ting' against his shoulder armor right before heat began to rush across his form. It washed over his body like an invisible, second layer of skin, and the cold suddenly became a great deal more bearable. The goosebumps on Graves's exposed pectorals began to fade, though that was far from the most impressive part of the spell.

That came when the Blood Knight cleaved another slime apart, fire flinging haphazardly with the swinging halberd as it cooked the creature alive from the inside. It died in a single cut. "Now that is what I'm talking about!" Adrenaline shot through the muscle-bound tank, filling him with a newfound strength and a confidence he hadn't been able to muster before. Graves began to advance, cutting, stabbing and cleaving away at every frosty creep that lay in front of him.

"Pipsqueak, flower boy!" Graves yelled out the names of the other melee fighters, hoping to draw their attention to him. "You think we can carve a path toward the front exit?!" He jabbed his weapon down into the center of a slime, letting the spear tip remain inside until it stopped struggling. "Put our backs to open air and just worry about letting them funnel in from one direction?!" That would make Sky all the deadlier, he assumed; let her flames move down a tight, single corridor and roast the entire lot of these things in one go. "Hell, we might even be able to force the door closed behind us!" It wasn't a great plan, but he didn't hear anyone else coming up with anything. And moving at all was better than sitting there and waiting to be overwhelmed.
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Title





Words.
person





Flavor text.


The Setting



More in-depth information about the setting.


OOC Information



Rules and stuff.
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Simply hit the RAW button and copy and paste the Template to use it! If you'd like to submit your own unique spin on it, go ahead, but I'd like the basic information I've asked for here to be present. Anything extra earns you a brownie point, though.
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Giants Without Names





"And the angels who did not stay within their own position of authority, but left their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains under gloomy darkness until the judgment of the great day—"
Jude 1:6




Space bent and folded, twisting in impossible ways as two points an incomprehensible distance from one another were forced together like the corners of a piece of parchment. Energy crackled through the inky void of space as a vessel tore through the projected wormhole. A gargantuan beast of metal emerged through the rip in space-time, exploding into the solar system from origins unknown.

"The Moloch has successfully crossed through. Closing tunnel." A mechanically tinged voice echoed quietly through the vessel's bridge. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the glow coming from the console before the unoccupied captain's seat. The image of an eye, unblinking, flickered across it.

Before the Moloch rose a great shape within the expanse of space. A sphere of bright blues and greens rested on the horizon, enticing the titanic ship toward it. It turned with great haste to make for the planet, it's engines glowing bright as it shot through the black.

A near silent whirring filled the bridge as minute adjustments were made to the controls by a seemingly invisible force. Switches flicked themselves and the yoke turned of it's own accord. "Approaching destination. Preparing for descent." The voice belonged to the ship's Artificial Intelligence, Ananke. She was young and newly installed aboard a ship of this kind, but the A.I was eager to prove herself, despite the nature of her...duties.

The more precise Descent Propulsion Systems began to slip out of their compartments on the exterior of the spacefaring vehicle. They were meant to guide the Moloch in the process of reentry in ways the more powerful yet equally cumbersome main engines could not. However, part way through the process, something went wrong. Something caused the panels to jam.

"Error." Ananke's airy voice took on an edge at the warning klaxons sounding within her logic processors. A living organism might call it fear. "D.P Systems not deploying. Searching for cause." The A.I sent it's many tendrils racing through the Moloch's software, looking for the source of the disturbance so that she might fix it.

Her logic processors spiked at the discovery of what was causing the issue.

"Anomalous signal detected. It is blocking my control of the engines." Ananke had lost all control over the Moloch's propulsion. She could not slow it's race toward the planet, nor could she guide it in a safe descent. "Signal source unknown. Counter-measures ineffective." What could do this? She was equipped with state of the art electronic warfare suites. Her sensors should've picked up the signal long before she was in range of it's affects. Yet Ananke hadn't known it was present until...

Until it was too late.

"Preparing emergency crash protocols."


The Setting



The crash caused severe damage to the Moloch, leaving several of it's systems offline and many more compromised. Electrical fires have sprouted throughout the interior, with some rooms near inaccessible due to being crushed under the weight of the ship's own bulkheads. Many of these systems are critical to the continued survival of the ship's inhabitants, and the survivors's first priority should be the repair of essential functions.

Aside from basic survival, however, other issues present themselves from the moment the survivors wake. They have no memory to speak of. Their pasts, their beliefs, even their names have been forgotten. This mysterious case of ship-wide amnesia cannot be rectified simply. Ananke's databanks were damaged during the crash, leaving whatever information they may contain about the passengers or crew an enigma. The only means of identifying themselves are the serial numbers printed on their uniforms.

Their duties, then, are thus: They must secure their immediate survival by bringing the ship's vital processes back online. Afterword, they must attempt by any and all means to learn of their purpose aboard the Moloch. Their memories must be restored. All the while, the survivors have to contend with whatever trials the very world itself has to offer them. 'Hope' is not in great supply for the crew, but the will to live oft spurs even the most unexpected men to greatness.



OOC Information



Welcome to Giants Without Names, a survival Sci-Fi story about a crashed spaceship and an alien crew knee-deep in the unknown. Before we begin our journey, I have a couple of things I'd like to lay out:

• This is an Advanced level Roleplay, as you might have guessed, and expectations mirror that. Posts should have a length of around three paragraphs in which either meaningful action is taken, or these are used to reflect on the nature of the character and his or her thoughts. You are expected to give your characters depth and a sense of realism, even if they are giants from outer-space. The flavor text above is a good indication of what I'm expecting.

• While we won't be proceeding into realms darker or more explicit than the site allows, it would be in your best interest to prepare yourself for adult themes to be explored in this Roleplay. Difficult times can bring out the worst in people.

• There will not be a hard cap of any sort on post times. However it is to be assumed that if you're signing up then you're planning to post once in a blue moon and you're in it for the long haul. If I can't get a hold of you and you haven't posted in some time, I'll do what I have to in order to keep the Roleplay progressing.

• As always, abide by the golden rule: treat others how you wish to be treated.
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A N D R E W /// G R A V E S



Personal Dossier

Name
Andrew Matthews Gray

Avatar
Graves

Age
23

Gender
Male

Visage
Andrew's defining trait is his height. Measuring in at six feet and four inches tall, he naturally draws in the eye with his towering height. His appearance is made all the more striking by just how thin his frame is. Gray can't count the number of times he's heard the 'how's the weather up there?' line, though he knows he gets it almost as much as the 'do you play basketball?' question. He finds his height to be obnoxious, more than anything- but the same can't be said for his weight. Lacking any muscle at all, Andrew's incredibly self conscious about just how thin he is. No one wants to appear weak.

That's where he and his avatar in Pariah differ.

While Graves and Andrew share equal height, his in-game persona possesses a far larger frame. A chest as broad as an ox and muscle like coiled iron, Graves is a force to be reckoned with. The imagined character was designed to compensate for it's designer's perceived flaws, granting Gray the physical strength he's only ever dreamed of wielding.

Other differences are more aesthetic in their reasoning. Andrew abandoned his painfully average dark hair in favor of a brighter, sleeker silver. It's equally as long, and often kept up in the same messy ponytail that Andrew has grown so accustomed to both in and out of game. His eyes remain the same shade of blue, though they're a great deal sharper and more confident when he's Graves, the legendary bounty hunter rather than Andrew, the gas station clerk.

Personality
Graves is everything that Andrew is not. Where Andrew is meek and quiet, Graves is confident and boisterous.

He is without inhibitions; unconstrained by societal norms or fear of reprisal from others. Graves does whatever he wishes and anyone that doesn't follow him can either get the hell out of his way or be ran over. Many consider this behavior to be destructive and backwards. His abrasive bluntness catches many off guard, and has on more than one occasion gotten Graves into a fight with someone who didn't wish to deal with his arrogance.

In his actual life, Andrew despises confrontation. In game, he thrives on it. Combat is visceral, and it allows him to live out every power fantasy he's ever craved. To be strong, to be confident, to have a place in the world. All of the pent up aggression and hostility that Gray has internalized for so long can be released in an act of savage violence.

He has little time to service others, caring for himself above all else. Graves doesn't waste time helping those who cannot offer him something in return. With an endless world of possibilities at his fingertips, there's far too much to do in Pariah to lose even an hour on something he cares little for. Someone else will come along to help; they always do.

One trait that Andrew shares with his counterpart is his love of solitude. Though Pariah is meant to be a shared experience, Graves spends much of it wandering the expansive environments alone. Companions slow him down. Party members falter and fail whenever Graves counts on them. When he's going solo, Graves doesn't have to worry about watching someone's back, and the blame for his failings can fall on his shoulders alone.

Background
Andrew was born in a little town in Ohio to two loving parents and eight siblings. He was unlucky enough to be one of the middle children, so it was no surprise when he was overshadowed by his more talented and capable siblings.

His town was small, and his high school even smaller- which meant finding friends and penetrating the normal clichés was quite difficult for someone that had gotten used to quietly observing. Gray wasn’t exactly an introvert. He could be loud, excitable and social- but he just…never got the chance to. He didn’t have many friends at all.

That is, until he had scrounged up enough cash for his first MMO. He used his low grade laptop to play the game at its lowest settings; it was choppy, constantly lagged and rather ugly…but he loved it. He loved everything about the game. Gray retreated from his less than stellar normal life into the world of a generic role playing game. He ignored his tanking grades, few acquaintances and boisterous family to play for hours on end.

He started off grinding on his own, as most do. But he chanced upon a party of likeminded individuals that needed a secondary tank. Andrew melded seamlessly into their company. They were all chill people, for the most part, and willing to help teach him how to play the game properly.

They continued to play together for months, the size of the group ever expanding as they built up a sizable guild of their own. Andrew became near addicted to raiding. Fighting bosses was the most visceral and exciting experience he’d ever had in a game.

Eventually Andrew was (somehow) able to graduate high school and purchase a real computer. All was well for him. His family only occasionally harassed him for being a bum. He had a steady job at a backwater gas station, making minimum wage for very little work. He had made a decent circle of friends for himself within the guild. Life was simple; it was good.

Things didn't stay that way forever.

It started off as something infinitesimally small. A couple of arguments over petty issues. Andrew tried not to get involved, most of the time; he just wanted to focus on playing the game and enjoying himself. But as time passed, the arguments grew in number. They got more serious. Issues between his friends grew; problems from a past that Andrew wasn't around for reared their ugly heads. All of it was stupid and inane, in his eyes. He did his best to act as a mediator when he could, but it rarely worked.

Things came to a head when a shouting match over voice comms ended with the guild's leader- and Andrew's closest personal friend- leaving the guild in the hand's of his second. Things fell apart from there as him stepping down only furthered the divides between the others. One by one, the original group Andrew had joined left. Contact became sparse, and then they all went radio silent. This thing that had consumed Andrew's life for the better part of a few years was now gone, and there was...a void.

Andrew hadn't felt this alone in a long time. He quietly retreated further into himself. Months passed with his life being little more than keeping to himself and working a dead end job with no future in sight. It wasn't until the local game store announced that they'd received a shipment of VR headsets and were planning to hold a giveaway to celebrate that things changed for him. Andrew entered the giveaway, and he won! A copy of one of the most hyped MMOs in history came with an equally desired piece of hardware worth obscene amounts of money. Andrew didn't waste any time throwing himself into the game.

Reputation
Attribues & Additional Information

Role
Tank

Affiliation
Sikth

Profession
Bounty Hunter

Weapon of Choice
A halberd he affectionately refers to as his 'pike'

Domain(s)
Water
Drain

Benchmarks (Physical)
Tough Skin: Graves is naturally more durable than other non-tank characters. He doesn't wear particularly heavy armor; however, his naturally high health pool allows him to take incredible amounts of damage for a character with relatively low defense gear. The trade of for this is he's weighs a hell of a lot more than other classes, and is thus slower and can be kited by ranged or agile enemies. He gained this trait through hundreds of hours of getting the shit kicked out of him without armor on, which has led to increased durability without the need for heavy armors.

Potion Addict: Graves has been relying on potions for his tanking abilities since he started playing Pariah. After chugging down countless elixirs, his physiology has an easier time adapting to the ingested liquids. Potions last longer and are more potent on Graves than others. A small side effect being that Graves can’t function very well without them in his system. He usually carries potions for lifesteal, iron skin and healing- to make him even harder to kill.

Blood In The Water: Much like a shark, Graves gets a sort of sixth 'sense' whenever a target is bleeding. It allows him to track them within twenty five meters (doubles if he was the one that made them bleed); it's less like echo location and more like a compass that points him in their general direction. It won't reveal the exact position of a hiding enemy, nor does it tell Graves if they are above or below him- simply where they would be on a two dimensional field. Dozens of hours of trying to hunt down that last monster for his bounty hunting quest has made the tank a decent enough tracker.

Enhanced Strength: The weapons and armor used by a tank are heavy. Graves is required to have above average physical strength if he wants to use them effectively. This also means he's able to carry more (when not impeded by his regular gear) and hits slightly harder with unarmed attacks.

Executioner: Graves tends to fight harder when his enemy his on the back foot. He pushes his advantage and attempts to go for killing blows as often as possible. A slew of decapitated and mutilated foes behind him, Graves has learned how to more effectively hurt enemies that are already wounded. Enemies very close to death's door take more damage from Graves' attacks, although he also heals less off of them and takes more damage from them- so he has to be careful with certain monster types or enemies with 'deathrattles.'

Benchmarks (Mental)
Monster Bestiary: Graves has studied the average field and dungeons mobs extensively. He has a fairly good grasp on what most common enemies are capable of, what their weaknesses are, ect. More rare beasts, especially those he isn't high enough level to be fighting anyway, wouldn't apply.

Boss Bestiary: Graves is a raider at heart. He loves MMOs for the massive, titanic battles between huge parties and giant bosses. It's his favorite part of Pariah. Thus, he's invested quite a bit of time into learning some of the boss enemies in the game. The tougher, higher end leviathans that require teamwork, determination and raw power to defeat. Knowledge is power in these sort of encounters, and Graves has made sure he knows about the general workings of the bosses he's likely to face.

Meditative Healing: Since Graves' combat stance is entirely based on healing, he figured he could use an out of combat healing ability too. Essentially, Graves can sit down and focus his magic on repairing his wounds. How long it takes depends on the severity of his injuries. The stance is extremely taxing, takes awhile to start and takes forever to finish if he's hurt- and it can't heal things like broken bones or eviscerated organs. He'll need a real healer for that.

Metalworking: Required field to get to Weapons' Repair. He uses this as a source of income, creating very basic items and selling them either on the market or to NPCs. He would much rather get money from killing mobs all day and pawning off legendary raid items, but sadly working the marketplace is the only real way to get a stable source of income.

Weapons' Repair: Graves likes his Pike. It's his favorite weapon. He isn't very good with much else, and doesn't have a backup for when it breaks. So, instead of constantly paying vendors and other players to fix it for him, he decided to spec into Weapons' Repair and do the damn thing himself.

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




The call for a free round never failed to garner the attention the guardsman sought. His worn visage was upturned in a light smile as several people were quick to bound forward. The veritable charge was led by the mountain of a man that the veteran guard had spotted earlier. He had a feeling someone of his demeanor was here on business of this sort. The leather-clad stranger carried himself like a warrior- it was a walk the old soldier was well acquainted with. It was one he had once walked as well in his younger years, before his body and temperament were weathered by too many winters.

"Ahh, don't you worry- the man'll get what's coming to him soon enough." He scornfully replied, knowing full well that the steward's punishment would be a light slap on the wrist compared to the hell any man of lesser status would be put through for such a short coming. "Pleasure to meet you, Blackwall. I'm Sergeant Howle of the Royal Guard." Howle held out one hand toward Blackwall, offering a shake, while the other reached behind to take the first of the whiskey brought up by the barkeep. Howle passed it right on to the warrior in exchange for his summons.

The two younger guards accompanying the sergeant were quick to snatch up drinks of their own. The darker haired and fairer skinned of the two lifted the harsh liquid up to his lips, only to pause before he could drink at the sight of the next to approach them. He launched a sharp elbow into the side of the companion with him, wordlessly bringing the other man's gaze to follow his own. The next to come forward was easily ousted as a wizard, given her attire and the company she'd kept. Their was suspicion in the first man's eyes- though it was not mirrored by his fellow. On the contrary, his second's gaze was filled with a captivated fascination. Magic, and those that wielded it, was an incredibly rare thing to behold. Praetor City was one of a handful of hubs of activity that saw wizards pass through at all. Many cities would consider the presence of one magic user an omen, and a moment to be recorded in the history books. For most in Dall, however, magicians just meant one thing:

Trouble.

Neither of the two flankers spoke up as Tegan introduced herself, though for entirely different reasons. They took a step away and allowed Howle the floor, letting him take a step forward to offer yet another handshake to yet another adventurer. "His highness King Astius-" The sergeant emphasized- "Surely appreciates your answering his call." Howle silently figured the exorbitant pay offered to types like these ones was thanks enough, but it wasn't his place to comment; especially not when he was meant to be convincing these people to take the job for his lordship. One summons in hand, he looked to the other magician accompanying Tegan. "I'm not made of coin, but if your friend has his summons, I'll see what I can do." Howle's smile faltered just a little, wincing as he totaled up the costs in his head. The Steward was going to have to reimburse the sergeant for all of this, or there'd be hell to pay. For Howle, more than likely- but he'd be very upset about it.

"You all have my apologies, but I'm afraid you'll need to drink and walk. We're pressed for time as it is." Howle nodded. He silently tore the drinks away from his two guardsmen, sliding them back across the bar. A protest nearly started from both guards and the barkeeper, but a single glare was enough to choke down any words they might have for him. He didn't doubt the bastard across the counter owed the king anyway, and the two with him knew the captain would whip them both on sight if he caught them drinking on duty. With that, the group had to be off, returning to the keep in due haste. Any questions could be answered along the way, or deferred to the steward upon arrival.




"I'll have a cup brewed for you immediately, then." He insisted with a slight forward nod of his head. The gray haired captain turned heel, leading the way for the single adventurer back toward the castle keep. His smile, already characteristically thin, drooped into a frown when he heard the calls for a 'drink at the tavern' from the guard stationed at the front. His nose was further stuck up when the woman he was escorting mentioned that she was married. The captain made a mental note to take the man aside later and explain in no small detail the etiquette expected of the king's own.

He had always been a strict man of chivalry and code, and he expected his men to follow in his stead. Those that did not rarely remained in his guard for very long.

A slight turn of his head to look back at the oddly dressed treasure hunter, the royal guardsman answered the questioned offered him with a wiggle of his thick, gray mustache. "The nearest inn is the Lame Mule. It's a short walk from the keep up the main road." He explained, his voice echoing in the pit of his gut like a drum of war. It was a short, factual explanation- his own ill-feelings about the lowly establishment kept to himself.

"I'd personally recommend an establishment in the eastern district. The Flightless Pegasus, it's called. The best drinks you can get in Praetor. More expensive and out of the way, but the woman that owns it is wonderful." The captain added after a moment of hesitation.

Before them the great wooden doors of the keep were thrown open, the freezing cold air plowing into the warm exterior. It's halls of grand marble and sapphire curtains weaved from the finest linens and silks were a sight to behold indeed. No place on earth could match it's splendor- according to the men of Dall, at least, who were known for being totally objective and not at all self-absorbed.

Inside the castle hall, a handful of unfamiliar faces could be found. An odd, weasel-looking man stood near an equally shifty-eyed woman bearing heavy iron shackles. And then there was the robed man with a distant look on his face that they'd seen outside before. The captain judged them all quite harshly, though the only sign of his disapproval was the creasing of his wrinkled visage.

He cleared his throat, stepping forward to hopefully get their collective attention. "You have my sincerest apologies for the delay." The captain began. "And I would like to thank you for your patience. Steward Lethino will be overseeing your departure. If you'd all follow me, I'll lead you to him." The guardsman waved, beginning to move through the sparkling hall with the hope that they'd all fall in at his rear.
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Sweat gathered at Yosef's brow. No matter how many times he would reach up to wipe it away, more would inevitably form. The humidity here was slowly draining all life from his body. Yosef Kaganavich was not accustomed to the heat. To try and compare the summers of Moscow to those here in India is to compare a campfire to a raging inferno. He had already rolled up the sleeves of his drab uniform and loosened the top few buttons, but it was yet not enough; Kaganavich wondered if he might catch fire if he stepped out into the bare sun for more than a few seconds.

"Why you would ever make any place so hot, I will never know." Yosef lamented quietly, a wry smile creeping over his hairy face. "Truly mysterious are your ways!"

Despite the unbearable heat, it wasn't all bad. This place was one of unimaginable beauty- like nothing Yosef had ever laid his eyes upon. Rolling hills of pure, unbroken green framed great swathes of towering trees. It was as if Yosef had stepped into another world entirely when the train passed through one of the Raj's cities. He tried to remember the details as best he could so that, when given the chance, he could paint a picture in a letter sent back to his mother and sister.

Dinah would've loved this place. She had more of a stomach for adventure than Yosef ever did. He could vividly imagine her dragging him by the hand from market stall to market stall, forcing him to eat strange foods who's names he could barely pronounce. Father would disapprove, of course- he'd worry that anything and everything served in a strange land would be non-kosher.

Yosef felt his heart ache. It was like a dagger driven straight through his chest; a burning, sharp pain that made the corners of his mouth fall heavy. He missed them all so dearly. He hadn't seen papa in nearly six years. The mail carrier had stopped bringing his letters ten months ago. It...had not been easy for Kaganavich without the guiding hand of Abram, but he'd managed to survive. He had focused on taking care of his family, and fulfilling the duty that his father left him. That, combined with the backbreaking work at the factory, had kept Yosef's mind occupied.

Things were different now. His brothers had been plucked up and forced to fight, and Yosef had been separated from his sister and mother. It had not been long since the fall of Moscow, and even less time had passed since he was forced to leave behind Dinah and Miriam, yet the impact was all the harsher. Yosef had no one to turn to anymore. No comfort to be found in the embrace of his momma- no duty in protecting his brothers and sister from the harshness of the world. He could not turn to his father for guidance.

For the first time in his life, Yosef was truly alone. He was alone and trapped on the other side of the world, so very far from home.

Then train came to a screeching halt, the shouts of officers and conscripts tearing him from his bleak thoughts. Yosef shook his head and wiped at his brow once more, rising from where he sat. He needed to get out and stretch his legs. Perhaps he could find something to do to distract himself from the burden of his own mind.

He descended from the train car, his boots smacking hard against the ground. It felt good to move on solid ground- Yosef had never been one for trains. He always felt a little sick whenever he spent too much time in one. The young man turned his gaze about the 'platform', eyeing the strangers gathered there. These were his fellow soldiers. Warriors of this 'Project' he had been assigned to. They were...an odd assortment, to be sure. They came from all over the world, with appearances and backgrounds as wide and varied as the flora he'd seen as they passed through the countryside. Many of those from Asian countries were almost alien to him- though Moscow was a large city full of all kinds of people, Yosef had never met someone from China or beyond. This would be a new experience for him.

It was equally exciting as it was frightening. The nervous recruit glanced from side to side, his hands clasping at the pockets on his trousers as he wondered how he might introduce himself to his fellows. He almost wished he had been called to help move the coal instead of being left to his own devices.

His standing about with that worried look on his face didn't last long, however, as he turned just in time to watch a particularly tall man slam his forehead against the top of the train door. Yosef couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. It reminded him of Elisha- always the clumsy sort who never looked where he was going. It was a reminder that set his heart at ease. He had to remember that these soldiers around him, despite their gruff appearances, were people all the same- they were to be his comrades in arms, so...it'd be best if he got to know them well. Perhaps he might find friends among them to fill the void in his heart.

Taking a few steps forward, Yosef approached the tall stranger. "This place is something else." He started, noticing how engrossed the man was with their surroundings. It was likely better to just ignore the man's earlier blunder, even if that was what brought Yosef over to him in the first place. "I didn't know the world could be so vibrant!" He brought a hand forward, offering it to the stranger. "I am Yosef. It is good to meet you."
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Water was flung in every direction with each step the titanic machines took. The river churned and bubble as continual laser fire caused the surface to boil. Rockets screeched through the air, dirt on the walls of the channel being knocked loose by the sheer force of the flying projectiles. An explosion rocked the already damaged Wolfhound mech, flames washing over the cockpit like the bellowed fury of hell. In response, the hound puffed out it's chest, great beams of light bursting forth from the trio of cannons positioned there. The Panther and the Wolf stared one another down with unflinching valor. They loosed blow after blow upon one another, tearing at armor and turning their surroundings into slag.

Han Bjornson's teeth clenched tightly together, his hands wrapped about the sweat-soaked controls of his mech. That mechwarrior, so young and brash, carried a grim look of determination upon his face. He had never faced down an opponent like this one before. Back at the Nagelring he had only sparred with students as inexperienced as himself. Han believed he was fighting the best of the best then. The Commonwealth's academy had to field the best; that was it's reputation. Yet here Han sat, staring down a warrior that fought less like a man and more like a beast.

The Panther's pilot pushed his machine ever forward, never slowing or faltering in his charge. Han was on the back foot, trying to remain at maximum range to avoid the punishing barrages of missile fire coming from his foe's SRMs. The Wolfhound was an incredibly quick machine, far faster than the Panther that stood opposed to it. Under normal circumstances, Han could've ran circles around this guy. Yet he had foolishly charged into the river channel, where his hound's speed was robbed by the rushing waters that clung around it's heavy legs. The Panther had no such troubles; it's jumpjets allowed it to explode forth from the depths, rushing through the air and closing the distance with a flurry of rocket fire.

Every blast beat against Han's mech with a rage he could barely stand. He held as strong as he could, but it was a fight just to remain upright. Many of his own return shots went wide because Bjornson was unable to steady himself.

"Damn it..." He breathed, his chest heaving. The heat was unbearably ferocious. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest, sweat dribbling down the contours of his face. His single heat sinks couldn't keep up with the pressure he was putting on the cabin with his own lasers. If Han didn't finish this fight quickly, or pull away, he'd end up blacking out. It was a terrifying thought, but he was forced to let it linger in the back of his mind- he could focus only on surviving.

He sunk his teeth into his lower lip hard enough for the harsh taste of iron to leak into his mouth. Han pushed forward on his controls, reversing the direction the Wolfhound was headed in. "Damn you!" He howled, though his faceless foe could not hear his words. Bjornson wondered what the pirate inside that hunk of metal was like. Was he an ugly, bloodthirsty beast? Or merely a man forced into a life as bleak as this one? Questions that would never be answered, Han knew; but ones he could not help but let pass before his mind as he let loose another volley.

His large laser and three medium lasers flew in unison. They slammed into the front of the Panther, turning it's chest into molten metal. He could see coolant liquid coalescing with the fiery steel. He'd managed to damage the heat sinks, then. Good. Perhaps his enemy would begin to feel the heat that Han was under. Bjornson felt a surge of confidence fill his heavy chest. He could tell he was doing significant damage to his foe. 'Looks like I've finally got you, cretin.' He thought, his grim frown twisting into a wicked grin.

Pride came before the fall. The PPC on the Panther's arm, though heavily damage, was still functional- Han felt his heart sink the moment he watched it charge up. There was no reaction to be had except shock when the weapon's barrel was consumed by electricity and a beam of pure, unbridled energy cut threw the air. It struck the Wolfhound's left shoulder, nearly tearing the arm from it's socket entirely. The probe embedded within the limb went haywire, sending feedback flooding into Han's cabin. He screamed in pain at the high pitched noise his damaged neurohelmet gave off. Moments later, the whole machine reacted.

The Wolfhound stumbled before falling, the large laser's barrel digging into the mud at the bottom of the river. The mech was upon it's knees, it's arm hanging precariously by a small piece of unbroken metal, but it was clear it had been made useless by the critical blast. Bjornson felt himself fall forward, the harnesses digging into his shoulders and chest. His hands, shaky and cold, reached up to throw the damaged helmet from his head. The screeching didn't stop when he'd gotten it off. He could still hear a terrible, piercing ringing bouncing around in his skull. Han covered his ears with his palms, trying to steady his breathing as he waited for the sound to stop on it's own.

While he recovered, the boy was utterly and totally vulnerable. Han knew he could lose his life at any moment.

Yet, the killing blow never came. He turned his eyes to the viewscreens, watching as the enemy Panther climbed up out of the river. Someone else had engaged it. 'Thank God.' Bjornson allowed himself a brief moment of relief amidst the terror and fear of the situation. Once his hearing had returned and the ringing was at a minimum, Han lowered his hands. He caught sight of blood on one of his gloves and his heart leapt up into his throat.

'D-did I rupture an eardrum?!' He wondered, his hand going back up to feel around that side of his head again. A sharp pain came when his covered fingers ran over his skull. A cut, likely from when he'd torn the neurohelmet off. Another sigh of relief. He'd gotten lucky. Extremely lucky. One wrong move, and...and...

'Don't.' He had to tell himself, taking in a deep breath. He couldn't have a panic attack in the middle of battle. Bjornson, as calmly as he could, bent down to retrieve the helm he'd thrown away. After making sure he wouldn't cut himself on any misplaced edges, he lowered it back over his head, letting the sounds of battle roar in his ears once more.

Information flooded his mind. He knew now that it was Mattlov that had driven the Panther away, and the captain who was now tearing it apart at range. He saw, too, that the enemy Urbanmech was down, and the Thunderbolt was taking a heavy beating. Yet...friendlies had been damaged, too. The Rifleman's signal was faint, and Wulfhart's Griffin had suffered heavy damage as well.

It was a cause for concern, but with all the bogeys either down or heavily damaged, Han figured they would be alright.

Then Mattlov called out that the Thunderbolt was getting back up.

'Shit. Shit. Shit!' Han forced his Wolfhound to rise, the gun plucked up from the depths covered in mud, drenched in water and decorated with a spattering of plants. He slowly climbed up out of the channel, his mech's broken arm hanging limply at it's side as it climbed. He appeared over the edge, finally getting a view of the greater battle that had waged in his wake. He saw now that leaving the boy alone with the Thunderbolt was a mistake. His mech had been utterly brutalized. If the enemy was able to get back on him...

"Wulfhart, get the boy out of there, now!" Han roared a warning. "That Thunderbolt will tear him to pieces!" He raised his Large Laser up, letting his own artillery loose upon the behemoth of steel and hate. Concentrated fire was their only hope of destroying it before the thing was able to get up and retaliate.
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For a brief moment, panic filled Kaganavich's chest when the stranger raised his fists- surely he didn't intend to strike Yosef?!

He hadn't the time to react before the tall man, realizing there was no danger, lowered his hands. Confusion was printed upon Yosef's face, his gaze tracing over the nervous features of his opposite. 'What in world..?' He wondered silently, trying his best to keep his misgivings from showing on his expression. He hadn't a clue why Victor would react so defensively. Easily frightened, is he?'

Thankfully the silence hung not long between them with the easily frightened and awkward soldier offering a grin and a hand for Yosef to shake. There was great strength in his grip, the Hebrew noted.

"Bah, no apology needed." Yosef waved it off, returning the grin with one of his own- wide and deep as the Red Sea. A mirthfulness played in his eyes and in his voice; the stranger's queer attitude gave Yosef no shortage of amusement. "I can understand it. I'm quite frightening!" He laughed, his hands falling down to rest on his hips as he continued with what he meant to say when he approached earlier.

Victor's size was quite intimidating at a glance, but it only took him opening his mouth for all of that to fall away. He was as nervous as a deer and jumpy as a rabbit. Perhaps it is the unfamiliar that frightens him. Yosef tried to pick it apart, attempting to understand it as best he could. I could not blame him. All of this...if I were not so excited, I'd be terrified.

Introductions were exchanged, and he was able to hear what another of his North-born comrades thought of this exotic land they'd traveled so far to get to. 'Victor...' It was not an uncommon name, and it confirmed Yosef's belief that this man had the Motherland flowing through his veins. While it would be awfully hypocritical of him to treat others of odd origins poorly, Yosef could not deny that he found more comfort in the familiar. At least he knew that Victor would understand him when he spoke! In a place as strange and far from home as Asia, he believed it important to embrace what he knew. And Victor reminded him of home in more ways than one.

Yosef's smile faltered at the mention of his home.

He was not given long to dwell on it, however, for Victor spoke up once more. Yet he did not address Yosef, as he expected; his words were pointed toward a woman wandering about not far from them. She looked awfully bored, finding conversation between her boot and the dirt rather than with any of the surrounding groups that had started to form.

Yosef was curious as to why Victor called out to her so. His words were innocent and friendly, yet it was his intentions that Yosef dwelt on. Silently he observed, hearing what each had to say and guessing at the meaning weaved in between them. Interestingly, the woman- Milena- responded first not to the content of Victor's greeting, but the phrasing. She took issue with his polite use of ma'am.

'Too formal for her, perhaps?' He wondered to himself, his own curious smile playing at the edges of his lips. 'She'd rather he use her name. To be more familiar; looking for friends and not comrades, I would wager.'

In Kaganavich's experience, people were a lot like machines. On the surface they were smooth, lacking many complicated parts. Easily understood by one who's familiarity with them was only in passing. That was a radio. This, an engine. Yet inside was a whole host of new and difficult to understand parts. Even in two separate engines everything could be entirely different; it was much the same with people. Everyone was made up differently within. Yosef had always loved taking things apart and trying to understand them. It was much the same with people.

His chance to observe was cut short when Milena turned and addressed him as well. Yosef's smile widened as he snapped back into the present. "Oh, much the same as everyone else, I'd guess. Terribly hot and tired." The Hebrew chuckled. He offered a hand to her, much the same as Victor had. "I am Yosef. A pleasure." He nodded emphatically, motioning with his palm toward the giant standing to his side. "And this here is Victor." He added, noticing that Victor hadn't given his own name quite yet, despite how eager he'd seemed to speak to Milena. Yosef had a feeling that he might know why, but he'd save his teasing for when he and his new friend were alone.

Milena went on to ask the lumbering titan about his prior...accident. She wished to know if he'd managed to injure himself on the door- it turned out that she was a medic! That caught Kaganavich's attention, his brow shooting up at the sight of her going to examine Victor's very...very large head. "Ah, so you're where I'll be getting my bandages from! Excellent!" Yosef didn't exactly have the steadiest hands, and working with things that could burn, electrocute and cut him if he slipped up...he tended to need a lot of bandages.

She was rather quick to point that out. He noted as he took a step to the side to get a better look at what Milena might be doing to their new mutual friend. Overly worried about his well-being? Or looking to prove herself? Kaganavich rarely received satisfactory answers to the unending questions he asked himself. It was more of a game to keep his mind ever occupied than any concrete analysis; Lord knows he'd proven to be wrong about many a person's supposed character before.

"We're much the same, then. Though I'm more a medic of rifles and radios." Yosef joked. "I wouldn't trust myself with fixing a person in a thousand years."

Though there was always more to say, and always more to see, time marched ever onward. They had a schedule to uphold and the officers with their obnoxious, shrill whistles knew it; the soldiers were called to return to the train so that they might continue on. "Ah. It is farewell then, at least for now. I'll see you both later- shalom, comrades!" Off Yosef went, joining the hordes in returning to their cars to prepare for the long journey that lay ahead. He had much to think on, though that was always the case. Yosef's mind was never quiet. Never satisfied.

They came upon their destination in the dead of night. Deeper into India, though the location wasn't know to Yosef as he dragged his heavy head up from the window. He'd done his best not to doze off earlier in the trip, knowing he'd have to sleep in an unfamiliar cot when they eventually arrived. Yet with the hours ticking by and no one to speak to, Kaganavich had caved, falling into a dreamless sleep.

He took his bag of meager belongings up, tossing it over his shoulder as he joined the masses. They departed the train, entering the warm night air for the first night of many more to come. Yosef looked around the crowd for Victor or Milena, hoping to speak further; yet he wasn't given time as he was pushed and pointed toward a large tent and ordered to get some rest. You don't need to tell me twice. He smiled to himself drowsily, marching toward the tent until he could collapse into some bug ridden, dirty bunk. Exhaustion would quickly take him, hopefully; Yosef did not envy those that spent the train ride resting.
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LAUNCH

CDR. ROSS
VITAE LOG #5
Morning, 2221
♪♪♪



The Nyx was abuzz with activity for the first time since the Vitae had launched. Engineers, scientists, aids and technicians were swarming the Nyx's relatively small bridge. Last minute systems checks were being run thrice over; though the Nyx was in tip-top shape as always, Command felt it necessary- she was carrying some of the most vital members of the Vitae's crew on it's most important mission yet, after all.

While Elijah couldn't exactly blame them for doing their due diligence, he very much wanted them all off of his bridge. It was too cramped to have twenty people all attempting to run analyses on it's every system, sub-system and process. The sensors were a particular source for concern for the dozen odd engineers pouring over it's mechanisms and fail-safes like their lives depended on it. Those sensors were going to give them their first close look at P4A-229. They were the machines that would determine if this planet was truly the home that humanity's last remnant sought; or if it nothing more than a forlorn attempt at ending their isolation among the stars.

He tried to block their voices out, focusing on what lay in front of him. He cast his eyes over the expanse of glass that dominated the front of the cockpit, his gaze tracing over the holographic displays that littered the window. All he saw beyond it were the titanic bay doors of the Vitae; soon, however, he would be met with the endless sea of black that they would sail upon to reach their fated destination. There were smaller consoles attached to his command chair's armrests that lay just above the Nyx's side stick controller and throttle that could be programmed to serve any number of functions. At the moment his engineering officer, Reyes, had the screens connected to Command and Control. They were waiting on the go-ahead from Locke before they could launch.

Almost as if on cue, the sound of the gargantuan gateway opening up in front of them roared out. It was joined by the moaning warning klaxons of the hangar bay, and the rasp of air being drained from the massive room. The Nyx was too large to be stored in the main hangar with all of the smaller escort vessels, so it had it's own dedicated sub-bay. While they took the final steps toward launch, Elijah's attention was drawn away from the hangar and toward Reyes.

"Incoming call from C&C." Reyes informed him.

Ross nodded, looking over toward the hologram projector just as Admiral Locke appeared. The admiral's comically small head hovered over the projector like that of a disembodied ghost. As Elijah had come to expect, the man didn't have a great deal to say; a brief reminder to stay in contact and to keep his men safe. William had never been one for grand speeches and pompous showmanship- Ross was thankful for that. He couldn't imagine how impossibly irritating it would be to be kept in this accursed hangar while the admiral droned on about 'the fate of humanity' and other such nonsense. Locke said what had to be said, and gave them the order to launch.

"Will do, sir. You can count on us." Ross briefly debated whether or not to add in a final, friendly jab, but decided against it; he had to remain professional, even if he was, admittedly, a little giddy. This was their first away mission in the five years since they'd left their home solar system behind.

Elijah wasn't the only one that was excited, either. He could practically feel the electricity in the air as the auxiliary crew finished the final checks behind him. He turned around in his seat, watching as the technicians and engineers hesitated to leave. Their eyes were cast out the bridge's main window.

Ross wasn't having any of that.

"Clear the bridge!" He snapped. "I'm trying to fly four hundred thousand tons of metal here, I don't need you distracting me." Even as the first three words left his mouth, the gaggle of workers had already started to make for the exit in record time. Ross waited until the last of them had thrown the door shut behind him before he turned back around, facing the unimpeded expanse of space for the first time in what felt like forever.

He felt an inkling of that same rush of emotion that had hit him the first time he sat down in the pilot's seat all those decades ago. Ross was overcome with eagerness and nearly crippled with terror in the same instance. Elijah had grown numb to the dark void in time, but the discovery of P4A-229 had caused them all to come rushing back to him again. His tongue lashed against his lips as he reached down and planted his respirator over his aging face. Air rushed into his lungs in the same moment he took hold of the controls, ushering the Nyx forward.

They entered space with the smoothness and ease of a paper boat gliding across the water. Almost as soon as he'd gotten them out of the Vitae, someone else wanted his attention.

"Captain Lopez in the passenger bay is calling up, sir." Reyes informed his commander dutifully. "All systems are green as well. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Thank you, Reyes." Ross flicked on his communicator. There was no holographic display this time; rather, the projector sent up a caller ID on the marine, displaying his name and rank beside a static image of his face. Lopez was eager to know when they'd arrive to P4A-229. Ross couldn't blame him. They all wanted to set their eyes on it as soon as possible.

"I'll have that information for you in a moment, captain." Elijah turned toward his navigation officer, Baines. "Do you have an ETA for us?"

Baines's fingers pranced across her console with practiced precision and grace as she uploaded their destination from the Vitae's navigation system to the Nyx's own. "We'll need to get a safe distance from the ark before we can activate our jump drive. Then we just have to wait for her to charge." Baines's voice was picked up by the commander's comm system, playing for Lopez so that he'd hear the answer as well. "Computer calculates around forty five minutes."

"Hope you brought a deck of cards, captain." Elijah grinned. "This'll take a little while."
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Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]



The procession was guided through the twisting halls of the keep by their astute guides. They were hurried along at a rather quick pace, never allowed to linger to take in the palace's many sights. The only time they ever stopped at all was when the captain moved by the kitchen and pilfered a hot cup of tea for the foreign adventurer- and anyone that wanted one for themselves. While they gathered, the captain and the guests were joined by the royal guard sergeant and the lone necromancer he escorted.

As they continued on their journey deeper into the palace, the procession was offered a glimpse of Dall's boundless coffers. Tapestries of ancient battles woven with colored silk and paintings of long dead monarchs decorated the marble walls. Incriminates of shining gold, splendorous and pure, were carved into the stone in intricate and beautiful designs. Luxury and lavishness defined the Dallish capital. No expense was spared, and the great wealth of it's merchant king was put on full display for all to see.

Passed room after room, hallway after hallway, the group finally came upon their destination. A doorway of heavy oak and iron. Much like the great gate of the keep, yet smaller and- apparent by it's worn handle- well used.

When it creaked open, the party was at once assaulted by a harsh breeze. The wind swept inside the keep like a river of ice, chilling all it encountered to the bone. They were led onto a frost covered portico just outside of the castle, where a great deal of activity could be seen.

Young boys and old men cloaked in heavy furs carried large trunks and bags upon their backs and shoulders, transporting them to and from a great storehouse adjacent to the keep. Several large horses lingered in the snow, packs being strapped down to the sides of their saddles. Each was fitted with a draping coat of padded linen; a means to keep them warm in Dall's unrelenting winter.

Standing on the portico just before the door was a short man wrapped tightly in a lavish-looking coat. His balding head was covered by a floppy cap, and his face protected under layers upon layers of thick white facial hair. The aging man turned when he turned the door opening, his thick spectacles nearly falling off his nose in the process. "Ah, there you are!" He nearly shouted. He started toward them, tucking the scroll of parchment under his arm as he gave a quick wave to the hired treasure hunters. "You have my sincerest apologies for all of this trouble. You have no idea how busy this time of year is for us. And the gods, so cruel! They brought on an early snow!" The odd fellow threw an arm out behind him, gesturing to the field of white that covered practically every inch of the outdoors, and to the flakes that seemed to never stop falling.

"I am Frederick Lethino, the king's royal steward. It's a pleasure to meet all of you." He smiled, nodding to them as he rapidly rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. "You should all know why the king has summoned you here- I was quite detailed in my summons, after all. But just in case, I'll give you a brief...refresher." Lethino cleared his throat, his hands coming together in front of his chest as he straightened his back. He'd changed his usual speech a little, hoping to add an extra bit of thematic flair to his delivery.

"By order of King Astius the Second, ruler of Dall, you are hereby granted the title of Royal Artificers. This temporary seal will allow you to pass through the guard station at Contritum, and enter into the sunken city of the ancients." Lethino explained, his voice grave and his delivery far too dramatic.

"As Royal Artificers, your duty is to secure still-operational artifacts. For every treasure you bring back with you, you will be rewarded with Dall silver. It is no exaggeration to say that this mission could make you quite rich. However, be warned: it is not without risk. We all know of the Broken. The monsters that stalk the cities of old- said to devour the very flesh of those still-living captives they take. The lucky ones die quickly. Broken are fierce, unpredictable, and above all: intelligent. I make this clear to you so that you know what you're going up against is not to be taken lightly. Though you are all proven warriors in your own right...It is not uncommon for whole teams of Artificers to never return."

Lethino pulled the parchment out from underneath his arm, unrolling it. "If you're having second thoughts, I won't blame you. But this is the last time you may back down. If you're still willing, each of you will be provided with a small sum for taking the job; the rest will be given when you return with the artifacts. Your deadline is one week. Seven days to get there, collect as much as you can, and then return back here to reap your reward. I'll be sending you with a small escort and a guide to ensure that you get to the city and back safely, but only the guide will be joining you in Contritum; the rest of the escort will wait at the outpost."

The Steward had one of his aides approach each of the Artificers caring a bag of coin. They were not insignificant in size, and just the beginning sum would be worth months of a working man's wages. "I will have each of you who take the sum sign this document with your name. This binds you to complete the kingdom's contract. If you do not return in seven days to fulfill it, you will be a fugitive of the law, and this money will be considered stolen. The penalty for stealing in Dall is enslavement until the debt is paid." Frederick handed the contract and a quill to whomever took their own bag of coin first.

"Those of you who sign may choose a horse from those standing behind me. They're the strongest bred in all of Dall, and are trained not to panic- even in the face of the Broken. They'll serve you better than any horse that isn't from the Plains. You'll all need to hurry. You have perhaps five hours of sunlight left, and the journey to Contritum will take four of those."
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G R A V E S

• Tʜᴇ Dᴜɴɢᴇᴏɴ •



The party rallied, tearing the initiative away from their attackers as they pressed forward for the first time since the battle begin. They had a plan of attack now; no longer were they simply reacting to the encroaching mob. Graves led the frontline forward, sweeping his halberd through the teeming mass of frozen gelatin. It's flaming ax-head made quick work of individual slimes. Yet for each one the tank cut down, it seemed like two more rose up to take it's place.

Graves felt like his muscles were on fire. He threw his strength behind every harrowing swing, his mind occupied only by the unflinching desire to get the hell out of that death trap. He knew what was at stake- they all did. Death here was no longer a simple inconvenience, but the end of everything. He could give no less than his all.

Even still, he could feel himself slowing. He made less progress with every step. His polearm swung with less and less force each time the digital warrior swept it forward. Muscles cramped and fatigue's deadly venom began to creep ever so slowly into his veins.

Luckily for the brutish tank, he was not alone in this fight.

Assistance came in a call of his name from the fiddle-wielding necrobard. Tiferet's magical music changed it's tune from the precise, elegant and swift Kronos to something...stranger. A swing band of all things began to echo from that damnable device of hers. Quick, powerful, yet utterly chaotic.

The buff hit Graves full-force like a baseball to the forehead.

Every inch of his body was shot full of a pulsating, electric energy. The strength that filled his taut muscles would've been appreciated, if not for the buckets upon buckets of itching powder he felt slipping in every pore, crack and crevice. "I do NOT like this song!" The giant howled.

He poured his irritation into every swing of his weapon that followed.

Energized hands spun the polearm about with surprising dexterity for a man of his size. He spun in his advance, dragging the ax along the sea of gushing slimes from side to side. Great, sweeping brushes preceded each forward step from the titan. Graves set the pace for the other frontliners to follow in the stead of his violent march.

All about him, the rest of the party worked to clear the path toward their chosen exit. Landon and Redsky's combined arms attack washed the enemy in searing malice, burning away a mass of gathered monsters on the ceiling as well as directly in front of them. That burning swath of dead made for an easy push for Graves, Ochre and Rael- they merely had to make sure the rest of the slimes didn't fill in the way in place of their dozens of dead.

"Move! Move!" Landon and Sky's opening wouldn't last long. They had done little to stem the overwhelming tide of creatures still filling the chamber, even with the stream of fallen they trod over; it would not be long before the frost slimes managed to overwhelm them if they did not escape in short order.

Graves reached the other end of the room, his shoulder slamming hard against the gate as he came to a sliding halt. The floor was horrifically slick from squashed slime corpses spilling their innards across the frosty stone. "Through the door, now! Fucking hurry!" From where he stood, the bloodied tank could see the ooze creatures massing at the back of the party. They were flooding forward like a singular, conjoined wave. It was a slow, sticky wave, mind you; but it wasn't something Graves would want to be caught under.

He remained outside the gate, half to keep the monsters back and half to catch anyone that might (understandably) fall thanks the messy ground.

Once the last person was through, Graves slipped in behind them, planting his feet on the stone. "Get this shit shut before they get through!" He barked, his halberd clattering to the floor as he lifted both of his palms up to the gate. Graves pushed with all of his might, forcing the creaking mass to move for likely the first time since it's creation. It took no small amount of effort, but the ooze slipping in between the two great doors was all the motivation the tank needed to continue.

Like a clap of thunder the doors were forced together, and the threshold closed off. A batch of slime attempting to wiggle through was cut in twain by the shutting of the gate, and silence fell over the creeping halls of the crypt once more.

Graves stumbled backward, his back hitting the wall as he slid down onto his rear with a loosed sigh. When he leaned back, the telltale shlick of something cool and sticky drew his eyes to the little beast still clinging unknowingly to his shoulder. "Fuckin' hate these things." He snarled, tearing it off and throwing it away. If it weren't for the stacking cold resistances thrown on him by his supporting allies, that creature might've taken an arm off if the bounty hunter's luck had continued the usual downward trend.

"Anybody dead yet?"
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Lucius Marco was a card shark, plain and simple.

He made his devil's money conning gamblers out of their hard-earned Thrones at any table he could squeeze in on. He robbed them all blind and then made a quick getaway before anyone figured out Marco was a dirty, stinking cheater.

It wasn't a profitable business, Lucius had to admit. He'd make thrice as much if he put down the cards and used that mind of his for more legitimate work.

Card sharking was incredibly dangerous work too. More than one cartel in Novem Mundos wanted Marco's head delivered to them on a platter for stealing from them. Lucius had gotten into more fistfights, shootouts and chases than he could count- an impressive thing, considering how good Marco'd gotten at counting in his years.

Yet for all of it's faults, Lucius would never, ever do anything else. There was no feeling in the world like the rush he got sticking someone else's Thrones in his pocket. Nothing could compare to that exhilaration that came with robbing criminals, barons and drunkards with nothing more than some sleight of hand.

He felt that same rush now as he slapped his hand of cards down on the butcher's cart in front of him. Lucius grinned his terrible grin, showing off his shark's fangs to the other eight men seated around the cart. A chorus of curses sounded, followed by several other hands slamming down on the rickety wagon in disgust.

"Thanks for playing, lads." Marco chuckled, reaching into the cooking pot to take his hard-earned Throne Gelts. He stuffed them into the pockets of his dust-covered flight jacket, his gaze slipping over his victims as they began to disperse. Only, not all of them were leaving.

Two men sat side-by-side remained, whispering to one another. Though Lucius couldn't tell what either man was saying, he could see the malice dripping from their faces. 'Uh oh.' The Shark thought, his grin growing ever wider as he started to step away from the cart.

"Fare thee well!" He waved, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he backpedaled away. He hoped he could get a fair distance away before those two finished their conversation. Before he could get too far, he heard both of the men's chairs screech against the ground as they rose up to their feet. 'Throne be damned.' The Gambler groaned, spinning around as he quickened his pace. Maybe he could disappear into the Square's crowds and lose those two.

"Oi!" One of the men barked, prancing around the cart with surprising grace given his size. "Get back 'ere!" His partner in crime was shorter, but even fast, quickly gaining on Lucius.

Any chance of escaping this without a busted lip and emptied pockets dropped away when Marco broke into a sprint in one last bid to escape. His pursuers gave quick chase, throwing themselves after Lucius. The Shark pushed and shoved his way through the square, weaving through volunteer soldier and mercenary alike.

The chase was brought to a quick end when Lucius took a wrong turn and found himself stopped by a solid wall. "Shit!" He shouted, spinning around just in time to see the two other men breaking from the crowd.

"You fookin' cheated!" The bigger, more outspoken of the pair spat, an accusatory finger thrown toward Lucius as he began to walk forward. The Gambler retreated, his back smacking up against the wall behind him as he searched for some way to talk himself out of this mess.

"Hey, man, just- just calm down." Lucius held his hands up in front of him, trying to dissuade the giant farmer with a neck twice the size of Lucius's from beating him into a pulp. "I didn't cheat, I swear. I swear by the Emperor."

That didn't seem to convince the fellow as he got right up in front of Marco, his big, meaty hands shoving him back against the wall. Pain shot up the man's back as he let out a near-silent groan. "Come on, we're on the same side! Soldiers of the Imperium! We shouldn't be fighting each oth-"

Before he could get the words out, a fist filled his mouth.

The card shark went down, his hands hitting the grass as blood poured down from his lip onto his scruff-covered chin. "We're doing this, then. Nice." Marco grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve as his other hand reached down into his pants. For a brief moment, he considered going for the auto-pistol tucked into his pants. But after deciding against it he chose to slide his hand over until he felt the familiar leather-wrapped hilt of his long knife.

It came screaming out of the sheathe like a bat out of hell, Lucius swinging it wildly toward the farmer's belly. He caught his shirt, tearing it and leaving behind a thin line of blood as the big guy lurched backward to avoid being gutted. "You little shit!" He roared, sending his boot forward to crash against the downed gambler's ribs.

Marco slashed the extended leg, forcing it backward so he could scramble up to his feet. By this time, the second unhappy customer was moving forward with his own fists raised. "Two against one, lads? I'm touched you care so much." Bringing his own fists up, the lanky man started bouncing between his feet to keep himself on his toes.

'Alright, Emperor, now's about the time you send one'a those guardian angels of yours to keep me from getting my ass beat.'
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