Dervish

Mass Effect: Renegade

<Snipped quote by Dervish>

You know the Salarians get a lot of shit for the genophage... but like the only reason they had to make it was because the Turians' "best army in the galaxy" couldn't handle a bunch of angry lizards on their own....

@Xanadu

It wasn't so much that we couldn't, but offering a turian a weapon of mass destruction on an enemy high so sure of its own invulnerability is literally under the turian definition of the term "satisfaction".

The krogans tossed a damned moon into one of our colonies; that just made us fight harder.

<Snipped quote by Xanadu>

get got you frilly headed wannabe dinosaurs

@Jarl Coolgruuf

Tough words coming from the entitled toddler race of the galaxy that whines until the Council gives them everything they want. Maybe one day you'll actually earn all the appeasement the asari and salarians shower you with.

Mass Effect: Renegade

<Snipped quote>



Please dont torture any krogans.

@Heat

Having to share a galaxy with Salarians is torture enough.

#leavetuchankaalone

Mass Effect: Renegade

Ardan

_{⟁ 41 ⟁ Male ⟁ Turian ⟁ Soldier}

_{A P P E A R A N C E}
________________________________________

Ardan is a powerfully built and burly turian who has been conditioned by a lifetime of military conditioning and his own drive to strive for peak physical fitness. Standing at 6’05” (182cm) and weighing around 208 pounds (94 kilograms), he maintains a strict military-style fitness regimen, situation permitting, and a mostly regulated diet that permits few luxuries. His carapace is indented and marked from scars from years of combat experience and entirely too many close calls with shrapnel, he’s fortunate to still possess all of his limbs and digits and both of his eyes.

His face is covered by one of the Oma Ker colony markings, a dark blue that sometimes gets lost in the pale grey tone of his carapace when in darkened conditions, a constant condition on Omega. The entirety of his fringes are coloured, and a singular symmetrical line runs down his face, just under his pronounced cheek plates and across the bottom of his chin, and the left and right sides of his rectangular, serrated nose are similarly coloured. Much like his personality, it can be subtle until you begin to notice it, then it becomes very difficult to ignore.

His eyes seem to compromise between his tone and markings in that they are a pleasant blue-grey that are narrow and skeptical, if not outright distrustful, of people outside of what little close circle of friends and acquaintances he has left. Were it not for his perpetual predisposition to sneering and otherwise being dour of disposition, he could possibly be poster material for the Hierarchy recruiting vids, but those days are long behind him.

_{B A C K G R O U N D}
________________________________________

Born on the turian colony of Oma Ker in 2138CE, Ardan Parvius was the second born son to Varvius and Octaana Parvius, a turian artillery officer with the 78th Artillery Regiment and a fighter pilot with the 16th Flotilla respectively, giving the Parvius family a rather distinguished military pedigree and yet another cemented piece in a storied family mosaic. From a young age, Ardan learned of his family’s legacy and place in turian society on both his parents’ knees and grew up knowing that his parents could perish any day answering the call of duty. Because their service often took them across Citadel Space, Ardan was constantly on the move and all but assured to follow in his parents’ footsteps in becoming a career military man.

While his older brother Casius would enter his mandatory 15 year public service position as a police officer on Palaven, Ardan joined the military in 2153CE and after basic training he was enlisted in the 105th Combat Engineering Corps due to his high scores in mathematics and sciences. Ardan had elected to pursue a career starting off in the enlisted ranks for what he saw as a more exciting and fulfilling career path; he had no interest in commanding regiments or fleets, but rather proving himself on an individual level with more hands-on skills and combat experience. Perhaps, with time and promotion, he would earn his commission, but he did not wish to pursue an officer's rank without first establishing himself under his parents' legacy. For that reason, he elected not to enlist in either of his parents' units; Ardan wanted to be his own man.

Keeping in touch with his parents’ units via Extranet packets on an allotted biweekly basis, Ardan’s career took him across Citadel space, joining in larger military exercises on turian colony worlds and joint exercises with allied asari and salarian units, leading to friendly rivalries with the 105th’s counterparts from the other Council militaries.

While most of his career was training and rising up the rank structure, reaching Corporal after 2 years of service, Ardan did see combat on remote worlds, engaging with pirates, turian separatists, and others operating outside of galactic law. His unit, being a combat engineer regiment, was largely responsible for establishing base camps, building defenses, and laying area denial weapons like landmines and turrets to deter the enemy. At the earliest opportunity, Ardan took Sapper and underwater demolitions training, wishing for an opportunity to bring the fight to the enemy.

These skills brought Ardan into specialized strike teams that acted in support of the infantry regiments and were used to destroy bunkers, breach buildings, and sabotage enemy infrastructure and vehicles. For his role in destroying an enemy artillery emplacement ahead of the main assault, Ardan was given the Banner of the 105th to carry on parade for the next month and several commendations from his superior officers. This would be the height of his career, as the next year was relatively peaceful without any major combat deployments until word came of an unknown alien race activating the dormant Relay 314. Soon, Ardan Parvius two months after his 19th birthday, would be deployed to Shanxi in what would be the largest military deployment of his career under Captain Orodis, a distinguished career officer with undeniable pedigre.

Ardan’s first meeting with humans ultimately ended up being a long-range firefight where him, his fellow sappers, and the infantry they were attached to spent hours shooting at distant muzzle flashes. The first time he saw a human up close was the corpses of the line they had overrun, and he found the humans to be unnervingly similar in appearance to asari. Thinking they were some distant cousin of the asari, Ardan spent most of the conflict paranoid about the humans having powerful biotic capabilities which they seemed to be holding back as some kind of strategic gambit to hit the turian forces should they overextend their supply lines. The human forces were quickly overrun and the planet was soon under turian control. A month long occupation followed, luring the turian garrisons into a false sense of security.

When the 2nd Fleet broke through and hit the turian positions, the once dominant turians found themselves on the defense and constantly losing ground to the fresh and vengeful human forces. Ardan fought hard and scored kills against human armour, including two Grizzly and three Mako tanks, before being ordered to retreat. Very nearly defying orders, Ardan and his unit reluctantly left the planet to regroup with the fleet.

When they found out that turian casualties at that point were higher than the humans, Ardan demanded his commanding officer convince his superiors to organize a strike force against the human supply lines and disorganize their forces before they could regroup and dig in to prepare for another invasion. Although rebuked for his insubordination, Captain Orodis nonetheless began to coordinate and organize an advance strike force with the Fleet with the blessing of high command. However, before the turians could counter-attack, a ceasefire was called and it came known that the Council was negotiating with the humans, the asari leading the efforts, further lending credence to Ardan’s suspicion that humans might be their distant cousins. Furious with the resolution of the conflict and how the turians, the most powerful military force in the galaxy, was forced into a treaty with the humans after suffering heavier losses was a scar that was, in Ardan’s eyes, an unforgivable embarrassment.

For the first time in the sapper’s career, Ardan started to think that maybe the turian Hierarchy had grown soft and would not be prepared to meet its peacekeeping mandate if its response to future threats was equally flaccid and spineless. Were the turians not the ones who had single handedly stopped the krogans during the Krogan Rebellions? Ardan asked the Spirits for guidance, the spirit of the Hierarchy, of his Regiment, of his family, and he found no answers or comfort. Finding out his mother had lost a leg after being shot down in the conflict did little to steel Ardan’s resolve, and after watching the televised treaty being signed between human and turian representatives, most insultingly of all the Hierarchy agreeing to pay war reparations, was too much for Ardan. After 4 years of service, well short of the mandatory 15 years of public service turian culture demands of all citizens, Ardan deserted from the military, disappearing from the public eye for some time.

It was an easy enough break for the turian; quietly arranging transportation weeks ahead of his next leave and not offering any overt signs of his true intentions, Ardan spent his next leave traveling to the very edge of Council space under the pretext of wanting to see "the frontier of civilized space", Ardan's grand escape into the Terminus Systems and out of the reach of the Hierarchy was a salarian-run freighter that didn't ask many questions as long as a large enough sum of credits was dangled in front of their noses.

The next time anyone from the Parvius family heard from Ardan was when his brother Casius received an Extranet packet from an unknown source that turned out to be Ardan letting him know he was safe and in the Terminus Systems some three years later, putting as much space between him, humanity, and the Hierarchy as possible. Ardan managed to get a few more messages back and forth with Casius, who was now serving as a hastatim, and now acting as an emissary between Ardan and his parents. The former soldier disappeared for quite some time, only trying to contact his family once every few months.

Casius, understandably disappointed with his brother's recklessness and willing destruction of his career, was livid with Ardan, but found it impossible to stay entirely angry with his brother. After all, they had always been close in their younger years, and despite their family often having long periods of time between contact thanks to their separate careers, they were still close. Ardan didn't want to try and face his parents, and so Casius acted like something of a messenger for him. The brothers drifted apart given the time and space between them, and one of their final transmissions came with a simple warning; "You cannot come home, or I will be legally obligated to bring you in, Ardan."

The last time Ardan tried contacting his family in over ten years, where his message went unanswered.

Ardan didn't take long to arrive at Omega after his departure, hoping to make a new life for himself far from what her perceived was a corrupt and ineffectual galactic government.

The next three years had not treated Ardan kindly, as trying to adjust to life on the largely lawless station was far outside of the orderly and lawful existence he had lead up until his departure from the military. He took up work with a building firm that needed someone with expertise in blasting rock, or tearing down old buildings, and for a while, Ardan found a humble calling that brought in enough pay to support a small one bedroom apartment in a mostly turian district, a mostly out of the way place with few amenities and beneath the notice of the gang warfare that seemed to sweep across the asteroid colony like clockwork. And so for years, Ardan somehow avoided making any meaningful social connections as his life was a routine and regimented cycle of work, exercise and training, and preparing to do it over again.

He had a few belongings to his name, including a small crate of things he’d managed to grab from Oma Ker before his defection, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that he needed more than his old service pistol for defense. Coming from a society where violent separatist groups were an expected part of life, living somewhere that was owned and run by street gangs was enough to make the turian realize that the quiet times wouldn’t last forever. His fears were validated when his company began to mine a new section of rock to expand a commercial district and discovered a strain of rare metals.

Knowing that it wouldn’t be quiet for long, Ardan quickly answered the call for a citizen militia to form by one of the more proactive members of the community, Regalus Vendaris, one of the community’s security officers, and immediately the community banded together and began running drills and training in anticipation for what came next. Within the week, a gang called the Crimson Fist arrived with a force of 30 men, who upon arrival declared that they were there to provide security for the new discovery. Anyone who had been on Omega for longer than a week know what that particular amount of double speak amounted to.

The gang was allowed into the community, uncontested, and unaware of the trap that was lying in wait for them. When the Crimson Fist arrived at the gates to the dig site, they were held up at the security gates and that’s when a firestorm erupted around them from the concealed militia; a section’s worth of ordinance was unleashed from the capable hands of military-trained turians who made short work of the Crimson Fist group, and from their bodies pried military-grade weaponry and technology to supplement their civilian and surplus arms, and the more pragmatic in the militia made arrangements with ethically-flexible doctors who needed the bodies for organs and testing purposes.

Ardan found a spark he’d been missing in his life for a few years; he’d missed the combat, the fighting alongside a fireteam. It felt good, he felt the pride and dignity seep back into his bones.

He blasted rocks for three more years.

Granted, he trained constantly with the militia and with the new influx of credits from the mining operation and the growing population of their humble community he could afford new weapons and arms that could even make gangs with mechs and armoured support hesitate to press their luck, but a few of the dumber or more risk-loving ones took their shots, and the results weren’t much better than the Crimson Fists three years prior. Ardan found himself away from the community more and more, taking side jobs as a gun for hire or to pick up needed supplies, and it was on these excursions that Ardan began to frequent a strip club at neighbouring Rhytheia District, the Blue Oasis, and it was there he met his first, and only, wife.

In a whirlwind romance, if one could call it that, Veetsha D’alyt, an asari, and Ardan got married a week after they met in a sketchy registration office and moved into a new apartment in Rhytheia District shortly after Ardan left his job with the company and the militia behind. His quality of life was better, and he found a more martial application for his skills, and they were seemingly happy for about three months when Veetsha up and left with most of their meager belongings. Ardan was left with little more than a recliner, the coffee table (sans seat), the built in vidscreen in the living room wall, and his collection of sidearms and the stuffed Volus plush toy he’d deemed worth saving as a memento of his home and life back on Oma Ker.

It was difficult for Ardan to come to terms with the reality of the situation; Veetsha never truly loved him, and their romance (if it could ever truly been called that) was a sham based on the exploitative personality of an asari stripper who had subscribed to Ardan's boasts and dreams of moving up in the hired gun game to financial success; when that success did not materialize quickly enough for Veetsha, she made plans to take what little Ardan had when he was away on his "big break", using the meager belongings and wealth he'd accumulated to pay her way to a better part of the station.

Perhaps it had started with genuine intentions, and perhaps somewhere deep down, Veetsha actually liked the down on his luck turian mercenary and his genuine affection for her, but the truth of the matter was he was likely nothing more than a client who had gotten too close to her and learned a harsh lesson about life on Omega and thinking that a romance that grew from financial exchange and entirely too much alcohol was built to last and genuine. As it turned out, the lawlessness of Omega was a bit more pervasive than Ardan had initially thought; his marriage wasn't legally binding and it was entirely possible Veetsha wasn't actually her real name; it would be impossible to track her down.

Ardan, not being one to flex his convictions, was back as a regular of the Blue Oasis a week later. This time, he tipped a bit less.

Without much else in the way of options, Ardan became a freelancer, often taking jobs that involved taking down smaller gangs and criminals with outfits that required a replacement set of hands, Ardan spent decades building up a name for himself as a man who could get things done to the point where he could start commanding a price. From clearing vorcha out from undercities to smuggling jobs to commando-style raids that called upon his expertise with explosives, Ardan was contented with his corner of Omega and more often than not, the turian wasn’t hard pressed to find someone who wanted to buy him a drink and offer him a side gig. When news came of his old community being overrun and Regalus dying heroically in a last stand, Ardan simply raised a glass for an old fallen comrade. Such was life on Omega.

It was around the time of the Skyllian Blitz and the subsequent assault on Torfan that Ardan came across the name and associated reputation of Kolya and the Achilles, which Ardan learned was named after a legendary human warrior whose apparent legacy was being slang for having terrible ankles and weaknesses. Despite his misgivings towards the young captain's species in general, any mercenary worth their carapace in the Terminus had to be able to set aside prejudices for lucrative jobs and keeping your name on people's minds as someone who is reliable and doesn't complicate missions due to their personal egos.

Deciding that Kolya's current focus of targeting pirates and other criminal elements that made a living preying on defenseless civilians, the turian reached out to Kolya to see if the captain had use for someone who was capable of single handedly taking down a frigate.

As it turns out that is a particularly transferable skill on Omega.

_{S K I L L S}
________________________________________

There's no military training more through and no culture with a deeply engrained sense of honour and duty instilled into its populace as you will find among the turians. Ardan is a product of strict turian societal obligations, an unwavering sense of duty, and years of armed service that despite his decades as a freelancer on his own terms has left him with an unrivaled sense of discipline and bearing that have lent themselves well in the numbers of skirmishes and battles he's found himself in over the years. Unflinching under fire and capable of carrying on with a calm and collected disposition, Ardan has found himself greatly at an advantage over less-experienced or trained enemies who strain under combat conditions. You can take a turian out of the military, but you cannot take the military out of a turian.

As such, Ardan's proficient and qualified with most every classification of small arm that you can find; if he hasn't seen it before, it only takes a matter of minutes before he's familiar enough with its inner workings to use it effectively, or service it. Qualified on service pistol, rifle, shotgun, and heavy ordinance, Ardan is a remarkably consistent shot with steady hands, thanks to his methodical approach to combat. While he isn't much of an assault trooper or a force recon specialist, Ardan makes up the backbone of any fireteam with precise suppressing fire and the ability to accurately launch a grenade through a head-sized hole at several hundred meters, a mixture of his own talent with such weapons and his targeting visor.

Additionally, Ardan is an exceptional demolitions expert. Much of his loadout for many missions is comprised of various forms of explosive devices from mines to plastic explosives, giving Ardan tactical flexibility to complete missions. Hot breaching is a favorite of his, as well as infrastructure sabotage. There are a number of buildings, structures, and material across the Terminus System that became little more than scrap after a visit from Ardan and whatever team he happened to be a part of at the time.

A large part of Ardan's training included emergency first aid, Extra Vehicular Activity, diving, driving, and survival. While he's likely not the best on any given team at more specialist tasks, he is more than capable of filling in voids in team composition and ensuring mission success, even if he has to improvise on the fly.

_{E Q U I P M E N T}
________________________________________

• Elanus Risk Control Services M-100 Grenade Launcher
  
  
  
  A force-multiplier that keeps even krogan and biotics alike humble, Ardan's proficiency with the M-100 is nothing short of awe-inspiring. There are few things Ardan loves more than a cluster of hostiles who forgot the meaning of the word "spacing", and his trusty grenade launcher is the tool he uses to teach said hostiles a particularly harsh and final lesson. While limited by the bulk of the rounds he can carry on his person or in a tactical pack, this is a weapon for "special" occasions, particularly when a fireteam is outnumbered or dealing with particularly tough opposing forces.
• Kassa Fabrication M37 Falcon
  
• Omni-blade attachment, improved heat sink, optical sight
  
  Despite his profound dislike for the Systems Alliance in general, Ardan is agnostic in his opinions when it comes to military hardware. After acquiring the Kassa Fabrication M37, Ardan quickly fell in love with the portable 25mm micro-grenade launcher due to its versatility and accuracy. Capable of destroying soft-cover, opening doors, breaking armour, and disabling light vehicles and mechs alike, the M37 is Ardan's go-to weapon. Even a pack of Vorcha think twice about rushing a man who can calmly blast limbs off and fill body cavities with shrapnel from several hundred meters.
• Elanus Risk Control Services M-3 Predator
  
• Hammerhead rounds, improved heat sink
  
  Ardan's old service pistol, well-used and well-loved. Despite his vast collection of handguns, this is the one that he brings into battle and it is the weapon he is most familiar with. From room clearing to VIP escort, Ardan turns to his heavy pistol when explosives are ill-advised.
• Elanus Risk Control Services Medium Guardian Armour
  
  
  
  
  "'Parvius, you're a demolitions expert. Why don't you wear heavy armour?' they ask. To that I say you carry 24 heavy grenades, a micro fabricator, 12 bricks of plastique, 3 heavy anti-vehicle mines, your service weapon, rations and medical supplies, and mission-specific gear into a combat zone. Now, go set a 30-second fuse and run out of the blast radius and tell me how you feel. I can do my damn job easier if I'm not weighed down by a bunch of armour that won't stop my organs from getting pulped if an explosion occurs next to my person anyways. Besides, ERCS actually understands turian physiology and how we move; you don't need to soak up incoming rounds if you can get to cover without exhausting yourself."
• Ariake Technologies Stalwart-class Head's Up Display in his visor
  
  Although human-designed, it's been widely accepted that Ariake is among the best when it comes to HUDs and targeting algorithms on the market. Ardan's visor is linked with his omni-tool and his weapons' computer systems, offering visual ballistic arcs of grenades and crosshairs for his Predator. Once linked, his squadmates' locations, vitals, and weapon diagnostics are visible to him, and speech to text interfaces are available when in the middle of a deafening firefight where communication needs to be crystal clear. Before operations, Ardan downloads maps where possible, and he has incorporated a real-time marking function where whatever he has in his crosshairs will be illuminated to squadmembers and himself.
• Ariake Technologies Logic Arrest Omni-tool
  
  A reliable omnitool that does much of the computing and information processing in Ardan's visor, he uses mainly commercial programs with affordable encryption, nothing particularly tech-savvy or customized. It works when he turns it on and doesn't act up, and that's good enough for him.

_{A B I L I T I E S}
________________________________________

Fortification
Proximity Mine
Fragmentation Grenade
Concussive Shot

_{PSYCH PROFILE}
________________________________________

Ardan Parvius is a classic example of a man whose entire life and beliefs were shaken to the core and responding in a less than ideal manner. Where he was once assured of the Hierarchy's supremacy and how it was a turian’s duty to fight until the enemy could no longer do so or there were no more turians left to fight, the fact that the humans breached galactic law and had put the turian military to shame during the Relay 314 Incident and the subsequent coddling the Council gave humans eroded the once ironclad faith Ardan carried in the Hierarchy. Now aimless and unsure of where his place is in the galaxy after coming from a strictly regimented society where all facets of life are assured, Ardan has had a degree of difficulty adapting to his new circumstances as a gun for hire on Omega. As a result, he is a bitter, sarcastic, and largely apathetic individual who lacks the direction or purpose that once defined him.

This has led to several career changes, an ill-advised and doomed marriage and little, if any, friends. While he is still boastful and confident to people he meets, several aspects of Ardan's personality are like a puzzle that has been dropped; several pieces don't fit where they should and the whole package isn't quite coming together. Nonetheless, he is still an extremely capable individual with several decades of combined military and mercenary experience and a talent for getting the job done. While his personality might put him at odds with his comrades, having some form of structure and leadership in his life may be exactly what he needs to get himself back on track and reclaim some sense of the purpose he had once had.

Adran is also a compulsive snacker, and a bag of nuts or other salted treats are never long away from his person. He enjoys collecting handguns and military paraphernalia as they remind him of a simpler, much happier time. A childhood toy, a stuffed volus, is one of his most cherished and sentimental belongings that now sits on a shelf in his apartment along with several other personal effects.

He possesses a degree of animosity and resentment towards Citadel Space and he harbours a lingering prejudice towards humans for being unwelcome newcomers to the galactic stage that demand far more than their station would permit, krogan for being warmongering savages that would try to conquer the galaxy the moment the genophage is lifted, quarians for being nomadic freeloaders who were more than capable of finding a new homeworld or colony in their 300 years of exile, and batarians for being utterly hostile to innocent lives and their practices in slavery and torture. However, as an operative, Ardan is capable of looking past his prejudices and working with members of most species in the galaxy and he has an easier time seeing individuals as exceptions to the rather unfortunate rule.

Despite his more self-centered approach to life and apathetic nature, Ardan still believes in order and the duties a turian must perform, and a lot of that means sticking up for people who cannot stick up for themselves and to preserve innocent lives. He has on numerous occasions risked his life to protect a non-combatant, regardless of species. While he is very much a typical product of Omega, he still adheres to a personal code of conduct.

_{T R A I T S}
________________________________________

Positive Traits

Disciplined
Reliable
Ethical

Negative Traits

Arrogant
Prejudiced
Belligerent

_{V I C E S}
________________________________________

Gambling

Ardan finds it hard to resist a strategically located Quasar machine; out of all of the gambling options, he finds Quasar statistically the most likely to cash out for him and there have been more than a few regrettable nights and lost pay to one of the cursed machines, which Ardan looks at with the same concentration as when he's defusing or arming some kind of high explosive device. He's ahead in earnings, but not by much; it's just enough for him to delude himself into thinking he's almost got the system figured out to his benefit.

Strip Clubs

Or; How I Met Your Mother.

Ardan's first an only wife was a stripper, which was a doomed relationship from the start. Any relationship starting off with a financial transaction and copious amounts of alcohol are already an uphill battle, and Ardan's normally meticulous personality didn't see the red flags until his wife cleared him out. This set back didn't change his habits, however, and he frequents such establishments between missions, perhaps to offer himself the illusion he's likeable and charming, or to forget his loneliness and isolation brought upon by his impulsive self-exile from his friends, family, and unit.

Military Surplus Markets

The nice part of the Terminus Systems is old military shipments and equipment find themselves scattered around virtually everywhere without regulations. Almost without fail, Ardan will scour the various kiosks and shops looking for peripheral or storied handguns that he is searching for to complete his collection. He might tell you he really needs a cold-forged entrenching tool, the personal handgun of an obscure admiral, a signed poster Blasto sent to the troops, and a three-century old banner from a storied combat regiment, but he doesn't. He really doesn't.

Claw Games

The bane of his childhood and an ongoing fixation well into his middle-age, Ardan has spent more credits than he'll ever admit trying to win a stupid prize from one of these contraptions. Ever since he won his prized stuffed Volus, Ardan has been trying for a stuffed Elcor and Hanar to join the Volus without any such luck. Usually his sense of pride will keep him from attempting something he knows will likely be rigged, but get a few drinks into him and the nostalgia goggles come out.

_{H A U N T}
________________________________________

The Armoury

Comfortable enough lurking aboard a turian-made vessel (clearly, the captain has excellent tastes in craftsmanship and capability), Ardan was never a naval crewman and as such, the inner workings of anything without a gun bore and a targeting system is outside of his wheelhouse. However, as a veteran of both the Relay 314 Incident and a number of hired gun contracts, Ardan knows his way around most small arms and heavy weapons that are commonly flooding Omega's markets and finds himself rather indispensable as something of an authority on maintaining and operating just about anything a crew mate brings to "The Pit", where he serves as the de facto armourer between missions.

Being the mission demolition expert and someone who fusses over his gear like a teenager fusses over their first skycar, Ardan is loathed to think of anyone handling his expensive and immaculate combat inventory without his presence and as such has entrusted himself to give similar attention to detail to whatever weapons the mercenaries have at their disposal. Between optimization, calibration, cleaning and other small performance tweaks and refinements, Ardan is a big reason that a gun goes bang every time the trigger is pulled and old and neglected bits of hardware don't get jammed mid-deployment.

His prized Volus plushie and signed Blasto poster adorn this work space, and he has a drawer dedicated to whatever snacks he can pick up on shore leave.

_{D R I V E}
________________________________________

Ardan has struggled to accept that the galaxy is changing with the introduction of humanity, and being unable to accept that his people's place in the galaxy has changed somewhat has haunted him ever since he was young. He was raised to believe that the turians were the stalwart guardians of the galaxy, and in his eyes the failure at the Relay 314 incident and the subsequent acceptance of humanity into the Citadel changed everything for him. Thinking his government as foolish, and the council as orchestrating the biggest shame in its history, Ardan's entire mercenary career and a life in the Terminus System has left him bitter and without purpose.

Ardan wants to feel the same sense of belonging and purpose that had once defined him and his convictions that he doesn't know why he clings to, but being surrounded by cutthroats and scum without a code of ethics and conduct have left him jaded and believing that the galaxy is rotten to the core. Regardless, he stands up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, and knowing that his individual actions can change the lives of even a few people is filling a part of that void that has dominated his spirit for years now.

He knows he will never be able to go back to his home or family, but he still feels this lingering sense of longing for simpler times and companionship that has eluded him. Despite his misgivings and personal faults, he holds onto his convictions and presses forward, holding out hope that some day he'll be able to look in the mirror and see someone he can be proud of.

Mass Effect: Renegade

Turian WIP in the oven.

Won't be able to get a real good start at for a couple days, but heyo.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Calm Night at Sea

Hank and Dervs Scribblings
Sunrise, 14th of Sun’s Height, 4E208
Southern Druadach Mountains, West of Falkreath Hold

---

Thunk. Thunk.

The tree had seen better days, and not because of the pair of twin axes now buried a quarter of the blade into them. Age, disease, insects, and inclimate weather had taken their toll on the ancient thing, its branches largely devoid of needles, and the few that remained had few green holding on defiantly in a miniature forest of brown decay. Zaveed felt a sort of kinship with the tree; he knew what it was like to hold on when life seemed all but forfeit. It seemed the only reason some lumberjack hadn’t come to harvest the damned thing was because of its location; the nearest river quite ways away and if Skyrim had an abundance of something that wasn’t cold rock, it was trees.

At least I don’t have allergies, the Cathay thought, stepping over to his axes, placing a boot against the trunk of the tree while gripping the handles and pulling the axes loose, his arms and leg working in concert to push them free. He admired the Dwemeri craftsmanship for many reasons; for one, it never seemed to lose its edge, and scratches barely found a way to marr the coppery finish of the alloy.

On the other hand, the axes were damned heavy compared to the steel and wood axes he’d trained with and he’d once been able to throw those axes with the precision to split a man’s head at 20 yards. Now, with these Dwemeri axes, they came down like hammers and broke through most defenses and cut through damned near anything, but they were exhausting to use for long and while he was able to do the modest accomplishment of hitting the fucking tree trunk, they seldom landed close to one another. In this case, they were half a meter off of where he’d been aiming each. Too high, too low. All from ten paces away.

His ear pivoted and he looked over to the source that had caught his attention. “If there’s one thing about your current condition that is worth commending, you’re much quieter now than you were in life.” Zaveed observed, stepping back to the pair of stones he’d placed to mark his throwing line. The first axe sailed, landing only inches from the last throw. “Shit.” he muttered.

Zaveed spoke the truth; Gregor's approach across the forest floor had been like an owl's flight. He had come to a halt some yards away from the axe-throwing Khajiit and watched him practice, the faintest hint of his glowing eyes visible behind the visor of his helm in the gloom of the early morning. Pine needles still covered his cloak, which hung draped around his shoulders. His clothes had dried overnight and were now merely wrinkled and dirty. Gregor looked like he'd walked straight out of a woodland folk legend.

"You're not satisfied?" Gregor asked when he heard Zaveed mutter a curse. "That looked like a fine throw to me."

Zaveed scoffed. “Give a child half a day of practice and they can hit a tree. I’ve been doing this for damn near three decades and I’d put a javelin thrower to shame.” as if to prove his point, he tossed the other axe. It actually landed close to his target, somewhat lower than the first axe. “The weight on these things are just atrocious. Imagine trying to joust with a poleaxe.” he shrugged, turning to face Gregor, his hands instinctively reaching down to rest on the axes that weren’t there.

Instead of admitting to doing something embarrassing, his thumbs found their way into the hoops and he crooked his head. “So, how many I be of service? I presume my little practice session here isn’t of particular interest to one of your proclivities.”

Gregor didn't answer immediately. He clasped his own hands behind his back and straightened up. "I came to express my gratitude for what you did in the prison. You saved me from your own brother. It doesn't matter to me why you did it, what matters is that you did. So… thank you," the lich said and inclined his head in respect.

"And I think it's high time I offer you an apology. What I… tried to do to you, and what you had to witness in the prison… it's unnatural. Horrible. I'm sorry." Gregor fell silent after that and waited for Zaveed's response, his eyes fixed on the Cathay's.

“We were allies, were we not?” Zaveed asked neutrally. “I’ve told people time and time again I don’t dwell on the past and let it dictate my present actions. We had been enemies before, but that day we had a common cause. It’s not exactly uncommon in my line of work to befriend enemies and to fight your friends. The lines get pretty blurry sometimes… it can be tiresome.” Zaveed admitted with a shrug.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You used the tools at your disposal to survive, and we were pitted against one another due to our opposing allegiances. I hunted and harmed your companions and lover, why would I begrudge you for hating me for it?” The Khajiit asked. A wry smile suddenly crossed his lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m rather grateful you failed in that endeavor and I still have nightmares about the whole thing and what came after, but much like I honed my skills with my axes, you honed yours on another craft.

“Unlike others, I don’t really hold it against you. I couldn’t tell you if soul trapping me would have been worse than the fate that Naamira has in store for one such as myself, so it’s not quite as ghastly for me as it might be for another.” he remarked casually, as if discussing sports bets run afoul.

It was hard for a man like Gregor, who had never been any good at letting things go, to understand someone like Zaveed. He digested what the pirate had said in silence.

"Are you sure? If you have nightmares about what happened, it stands to reason that seeing it done to someone else in the prison might have been… tough," Gregor said at length. He wasn't sure how to phrase what he wanted to say next. "That wouldn't be a sign of weakness."

“I was weak… once. I decided never again.” Zaveed said vaguely, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “If you’re asking if I think you’re the same as that Dwemer necromancer, then not quite. Not everyone who wields a blade becomes an assassin or highwayman, for instance. You never struck me as the sort who had an assembly line of victims, you had a peculiar sort of code.” the privateer said, walking over to his axes on the tree and pulling them free with a grunt. He paused, studying his blade.

“What happened in the prison was uncomfortable, certainly, but so’s seeing the guts of someone you’ve known for years spread across the deck of a ship after they didn’t get out of the way of a boarding axe. You don’t let it stop you from doing what needs to be done, and Sevari shooting you could have subjected him to what you did to me, or losing Sirine, or failing to fulfill my promise to her of rescuing her brother.” he shook his head, returning to the line. “People might perceive me to be a monster, but my word is sacrosanct.”

Gregor nodded. "I thought you were irredeemable scum," he admitted, and then hastened to add: "But not anymore. I see a lot things differently now." It was a strange feeling to finally say those words out loud, after the absolute vigor that Gregor had hated Zaveed with before. The truth was undeniable, however. He simply didn’t hate Zaveed anymore. The way the Khajiit had stuck to his promise to Sirine to rescue her brother was… admirable, even.

“I suppose redeemable scum is a bit of an upgrade.” Zaveed replied with a grin and a wink, setting himself back up on the throwing line.

A moment of silence passed between them and Gregor looked up to see a flock of migrating birds traveling overhead, their calls to each other echoing faintly through the valley. It was good to be back in the north. "What does Namira want with you?" Gregor asked and returned his gaze to Zaveed, his curiosity getting the better of him now that the matters he had wanted to discuss were resolved unexpectedly quickly.

“Another soulless Dro-M’athra for her personal army, I suppose. Who can know the will of Daedra?” Zaveed replied after a moment’s consideration, his tone terse as he threw the axe hard enough and without enough care it missed the tree entirely. “Bent cats, Dark Behind the World. It’s what happens when your soul is rotten enough to not be touched by Jode’s light and you have a dark spirit. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never been pious, or because I’ve been a rotten bastard, but after our little dance, I faded in and out of consciousness as I struggled to stay alive. Forms that look like Khajiit that are blacker than the dark of the moons with pale blue eyes that glow like fireflies reached out to me, trying to pull me into the Dark Behind the World.”

The axe slipped down his hand until the head hit the ground with a think, his hand holding the very end of the haft. Zaveed’s head was bowed, a frown across his countenance. “It is a dark, cold place where all of the spirits look and act alike. It’s the death of an individual and the birth of yet another faceless drone that barely resembles the person they once were.” he barked a laugh, worry etched into his eyes. “As if something like that would ever be able to domesticate me! Namiira would spit me out; the so-called ‘Great Darkness’ cannot extinguish a fire so bright, no?”

The afterlives of the Khajiit were a mystery to Gregor and he frowned at this revelation. He had seen Zaveed like this only once before -- when he was about to die at the edge of Gregor’s claymore. It was a sobering sight to see the normally so cocksure Cathay afraid, and defiant in his fear, of the fate that awaited him beyond the veil. “It almost sounds like the Soul Cairn would be a better place for you,” the lich said somberly. “We all have gods to judge us. The Divines no longer answer my call at their temples and their shrines. I know what that means, what Arkay has in store for me. That is one of the reasons why I did… this. I understand your fear.”

Gregor followed the trail the thrown axe had followed after Zaveed had missed entirely with his eyes while his thoughts worked. “Perhaps that is the point of the second chance Raelynn gave you. You are not old yet. There is time to repent, to avoid that fate,” he said and cast his glance back at Zaveed. “Defy the Great Darkness.”

“To be clear, that’s not an invitation to finish the job in my sleep.” Zaveed said half-jokingly, the faintest of upturns to the side of his lip. “Maybe I’ll take up late-life Daedra worship if it all doesn’t pan out. I figure I still have many years to go even more grey to go. I’ve heard I am remarkably hard to kill.”

The axe was kicked back up into his hand fluidly, the blade curled over his shoulder like it belonged there. “I’d like to think I’ve done well so far since Raelynn’s gift. I’ll admit it’s given me some perspective. I’ve risen a friend out of servitude, saved a life, at least attempted to make amends with those I once called enemies. Not bad for a few weeks’ worth of effort, if I do say so myself.”

“I agree,” the Imperial said. He, too, had learned recently what it was like to be surrounded by people he had a lot to make up to. Zaveed had taken to it remarkably well. Gregor shifted his weight on his other foot and crossed his arms over his chest, unsure of what Zaveed’s reaction to his proposal was going to be. The thought had come to him while he watched the Khajiit throw his axes.

“There is something you could do for me, actually. Maybe it’s wrong of me to ask and I won’t blame you if you tell me to fuck off, but… I need to learn how to fight again.” Gregor let the words hang in the air for a bit before he continued. “You’re the only one among us that’s ever fought me. That means you know my style better than anyone else. And if it weren’t for my magic, you would have won. My body is different now. Slower than before, but stronger too. I’m hoping that by sparring with you, we can create a new style for me. What do you say?”

"Hmm." Zaveed uttered, retrieving both of his axes as he pondered it over. It was an oddly reasonable request and strangely polite coming from what had been not long ago a rather belligerent bastard with egomaniacal tendencies.

It would seem both men had been tempered in such a short time, unspeakable experiences and a shared trauma chipping away at edges that had once been seen as protective rather than merely obstructive. He returned to Gregor, his weapons held by the haft, just under the head, and he studied Gregor's eyes through his helm's eye slit.

"I will help you train." He decided. "I might be the only one who seems to think this misadventure of yours has been for the better of your temperament. Gather your weapon, we'll make the most of that clearing over there." Zaveed said, pointing with his weapon and nodding his head.

"Let's see what you can do."

[Hr]

"Alright. Before we get into the fun stuff, picture a foe standing before you, some conjuration of your imagination. Show me how you move, swing your sword, block. In sequence; advance, attack, block, retreat. I want you to repeat that using different angles of attack each time." Zaveed instructed, standing off to the side.

Gregor smiled at that. Zaveed’s instructions reminded him of the sort of things his father used to say. Gregor pulled the great claymore free from its clasp on his back and grabbed the hilt firmly with both hands before doing as Zaveed had asked; he advanced, slow and steady, his stance a little wide and a little low, before swinging the blade in a diagonal slash in front of him. Like Gregor had said, the attack wasn’t as fast as he had been able to muster before, but the heavy steel whistled through the air with satisfying power. Gregor lifted his hands and angled the blade down, a position from which he could parry and deflect incoming strikes, before retreating back to his starting position.

The lich cycled through the same pattern, dutifully picking a different angle from which to attack and changing his defensive grip to cover alternate angles while defending. After doing so four times, Gregor began to glance sidelong at Zaveed, wondering when the Khajiit was going to say he’d seen enough.

"Inquiry; do you tire in your current state?" Zaveed asked, approaching. "Your form is predictably perfect, just a bit on the slow side as you said. Observe."

He stepped back and angled himself away from Gregor, doing the same sort of exercise he had Gregor commit to, admirably without fuss; the difference was Zaveed was impressively quick and fluid and his weapons changed angles and directions without much of a discernible pattern; his obvious overhead swings were joined by subtle low angles, his retreats a mixture of feints and parries.

A few times he demonstrated the power behind a joined pair of heavy strikes, and a deliberate dance of footwork and moving axes to ward off what Zaveed imagined as a determined spearman. He stopped, breathing heavier.

"And perhaps that's where you might have fault; you need to be able to be unpredictable with your movements, and in your case you need to be aware of openings with that huge fucking sword. Every time it is away from you is an opening. How would you defend against someone like me?" The Khajiit asked.

Seeing Zaveed demonstrate his skills brought back memories of their fight and Gregor could almost feel the agonizing bite of the axe-blades in his collarbone after a particularly heavy swing. “Keep my distance,” Gregor said after a moment’s deliberation, but his voice betrayed his uncertainty. “Capitalize on the range advantage of my sword, punish you when you overextend.”

He laughed quietly and shook his head. “We both know that’s not what I did when we fought, though. And no, I don’t tire. The magic that binds me seems to be infallible.”

Zaveed smiled. "I want you to try something. See how everything around us is open?" He asked, turning in place with his arms held wide. "Nothing to get your sword caught up on. If you don't tire, why should you ever lose momentum on your sword?" Zaveed asked, stepping back. He put one of his axes back in it's hoop and began to move through a range of motions around him.

"The thing with an axe or a mace is all the weight is at the front; it's hard to stop so to reset yourself, you follow through and keep the weapon moving." He said, rhythmically starting and stopping the momentum when he finished a rotation, alternating between wide swings and simple wrist rotations.

"Your greatest asset is the sword's range and your formidable strength; if you keep your weapon's momentum going, it doesn't matter as much if you can't swing it as fast since it's already moving. For many foes, it's going to be incredibly hard to find an opening if you never tire and your sword can suddenly come down with power mid swing." Zaveed explained. "It's also going to make you terrifying on the advance."

He retrieved his second axe and held them both at the ready. "I'm going to try to find an opening, when I make a move, I want you to parry the axes. Ready?"

It was a novel idea and one that Gregor certainly wouldn’t have come up with by himself. He nodded tentatively but he held up a hand first. “Let me have a go at it by myself,” he said. After finding proper support in the earth by digging his heels in, Gregor began his attempts to replicate the swirling, rotating motions that Zaveed had demonstrated with the axes. It was relatively easy to bend his wrists and move his arms so that the heavy claymore moved around him in vertical circles, but Gregor’s fingers fumbled when he tried to switch to a non-dominant hand grip to cover his left side and the sword fell to the forest floor.

“Not as easy as you made it look,” Gregor commented with a chuckle and retrieved the blade from the ground. He tried again and maintained the motions this time -- slow and not particularly powerful, but Zaveed was right that the momentum would make the sword hit hard if Gregor turned the circular motions into a strike mid-swing. “Alright,” he said and nodded with more confidence. “Come at me.”

Zaveed watched the greatsword with a concentrated frown; his back still had phantom pains thinking of the last time he encountered it on the opposite side of their duel. He held his axes low, his posture crouched, predatory; he would be able to pick a direction and move at full speed once he saw his opening. The problem was, however, that finding an opening was damn hard when the sword kept its own rhythm, like an irregular pendulum that occasionally changed frequency and direction without much of a regularity to it. But Gregor was like most creatures of habit, and eventually a faint pattern emerged, a distinct cadence in a sea of noise. It took years of training for Zaveed to learn how to subconsciously mix up his movements and do away with predictability, but there weren’t many men like him.

“As you wish.” he said.

Zaveed was after Gregor like a shot, his axes twirling in his hands as he made to bring one down high while the off-hand, lower axe was angled high, aimed for Gregor’s guts. Suddenly, the blade of the claymore was brought up, catching under the head of the high axe and Zaveed felt his momentum shift as the force of the blow ripped the axe out of his hand, forcing him to scramble to block the sword’s circular momentum as it went up and over Gregor’s head and then horizontal, a perfect trajectory to taking a man’s head. Zaveed managed to stop this strike, barely, with both hands. His feet dug into the earth; it felt more like stopping a charging animal than blocking a sword.

“Well, this is embarrassing.” Zaveed muttered, collecting himself and rolling his neck with a couple of pops while he went to fetch his wayward weapon. “Did you realize you were that strong?” he asked, kicking the wet sand off of his axe after fetching it from the dirt.

Gregor had blinked in surprise at how easy it felt to yank Zaveed’s weapon out of his grip. “No,” he admitted in all honesty. “I guess I could have known. Fjolte had me climb a large rock back in the desert and that wasn’t very difficult either.” He lowered his claymore by his side and smiled inside his helmet at Zaveed’s embarrassment. “I, for one, think it’s encouraging. Your ideas are proving very useful,” the lich said, his voice betraying nothing of his small moment of amusement.

“Again?” he asked and moved to grab the sword with both hands once more.

“I’m just thankful we aren’t trying to kill each other anymore.” Zaveed smiled tersely. “I think you have some pretty solid foundations on the defense; let’s see how you do on the attack.” the Khajiit said, clanging the sides of his axes together in a ring. “What will you do when the enemy is forcing you to come to them?” he asked, weapons at the ready as he began to step backwards.

That was a good question. Gregor raised the claymore back up and began swirling it around himself in circular motions once more but instead of waiting for Zaveed to attack him, he approached the retreating Khajiit. Every time the irregular pattern of the blade’s movements swung towards Zaveed, like a razor-sharp pendulum, Gregor put more force and weight behind the steel and turned it into a slash to test his defenses. Bizarrely, Gregor was reminded of a circle saw blade bearing down on a log of wood. Improvising, Gregor took a few steps forward as fast as his feet allowed and pivoted on the spot, the momentum of the sword becoming a wide, horizontal strike as Gregor stretched his arms out. The blade sang through the air and in that instant Gregor knew it was not an attack that Zaveed should try to parry.

The privateer came to the same conclusion, instead using agile footwork to keep ahead of the deadly man-scythe coming to harvest his precious internals, and between ducking and weaving and a healthy dose of back peddling, Zaveed managed to keep ahead of the blade, which despite moving slower than he would have expected, the raw power behind it was enough to turn a friendly spar and training session into a tragic shower of gore that Zaveed was entirely confident was outside of Raelynn’s particular expertise to mend.

It took all of Zaveed’s concentration to keep ahead of the blade and not trip on anything behind him until he backed into a copse of trees, where the greatsword suddenly didn’t have range of motion. Not wasting any time, Zaveed went on the offensive, turning around a tree suddenly and coming around with the swing of one of his axe towards Gregor’s flank.

That was unexpected. Gregor tried to maneuver the claymore so that he could deflect the axe, but the rippled steel of the flame-bladed sword caught on the bark of a tree and Gregor was forced to back away and out of Zaveed’s range instead. This wasn’t going to work. He kept the tree between himself and Zaveed as he drew his silver longswsord, a one-handed and more agile weapon, instead of the claymore. But how well would it serve him? He had lost against Zaveed when he had been forced to use the longsword during their fight in Gilane and now he was even slower. Gregor clenched his jaw behind his helmet and advanced on Zaveed again, attacking with a series of strikes that his father had taught him all those years ago; well-practiced but painfully predictable. There was no space for the momentum-based style and the longsword wasn’t heavy enough to make it effective either way.

Zaveed managed to parry these blows much more effortlessly, almost as if he were warming up. He waited until Gregor made a thrust, where he easily sidestepped it, reaching out and catching the crossguard with the nook of his axe while the other stopped inches from Gregor’s neck. Relaxing, Zaveed pulled his weapons away and slipped them back into their hoops with a nod. “Your boat oar of a sword is definitely fine, but we both knew that. For now, you’re going to want to save the longsword for pests and vermin without any particular skill or recognition of what a blade is; until you adjust to this new body and truly understand your limits, you should think of yourself like a tower.” Zaveed said, reaching for a water skin on his belt and unscrewing the cap and taking a sip to ease his dried mouth.

“You need to let the enemy come to you; pursuits won’t do you any favours, especially if you’re trying to protect someone or something. If someone lures you out, you won’t be able to get back in time, and you will always need to take every advantage you can to fight a skirmish on your terms, not theirs.” the Khajiit pointed out, gesturing for them to leave the woodlands as he swatted at a mosquito. “The one thing you have going for you now that’s more important than your endurance unending is what’s going on in here.” he tapped a finger against his temple, stopping to face Gregor head on.

“When we first fought, you were ruled by emotions, you let me goad you into the alley where I knew your sword would be clumsy and hindered. Had it not been for your necromancy, you would have died there and I might have still been an agent of the Dwemer and not my own man… Raelynn wouldn’t have made me realize I was on the wrong path, and I would have never have met Sirine. You probably don’t hear this much, but you almost killing me was one of the best things that could have happened to me.” he extended a hand. “Thank you, for being the catalyst that I needed to kill Captain Greywake and remember that young boy from Senchal that should have never gotten on that ship.”

Gregor looked at the offered hand and hesitated before he accepted it and the two of them shook on it. His indecision hidden behind his helmet, Gregor opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, unsure of what to say. He bought himself some time by sheathing his longsword first and making sure his armor was still properly fitted in place.

“Strange,” the lich said eventually, “that divine intervention should happen in a fight between two godless killers. I just wish...” Gregor sighed and shook his head. “Nevermind. Continue to prove Raelynn right and I shall be glad that things turned out the way they did for you.”

Zaveed smiled, without sarcasm or distaste on his countenance, but rather genuine warmth emanating from his features. “It means a lot to hear you say I’m proving her right. I’m still figuring things out, but being here, now, and trying to walk a different path feels right.” he chuckled suddenly, his smile breaking into a grin.

“I’m not sure if I’d credit dear Nadeen with being divine, because that would mean she’s better than all of us. But speak your mind when you’re ready; I’m not your foe, and I just might be one of the few people left who doesn’t seem to think you’ve become a monster.” he shrugged, looking back at the camp and his eyes settled on the rest of the camp. “I should probably get back soon and return to my duties. And what of you?”

The idea of Zaveed becoming a confidant was so strange Gregor couldn’t help but laugh quietly. It didn’t feel wrong, however. Perhaps there was a way for the pirate and the necromancer to become friends after all. “There are other people I should talk to,” he said, the tone of his voice betraying his mixture of apprehension and newfound confidence. “Other people deserving of an apology. After that I shall continue to keep an eye out for trouble.”

Zaveed nodded, placing a hand on Gregor’s shoulder in a show of solidarity. “Believe me when I say I know what that’s like. With these very people, in fact. Just remain sincere and the storm will eventually pass, I think. I’m hardly well-regarded with this lot, but I don’t think I’m quite the monster they had all conjured in their hearts when we first met.” He paused in contemplation, before he nodded, having said what he needed to. It was going to be a difficult journey for Gregor, but hopefully he didn’t feel so isolated anymore.

The Khajiit knew a bit too well what that was like. Eventually defiance gave way to defeated resignation, no matter how unwavering one’s convictions.

“Well, I won’t hold you. Farewell, Gregor; I won’t be far.” Zaveed promised, stepping away with a single wave of the hand. He managed a few steps before suddenly stopping, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, and Gregor? The armour suits you.” he said with a grin and a wink before finally departing.

Mass Effect: Renegade

@Xanadu I just might chip in for this, depending on my schedule! I love me a Mass Effect merc RP.

Limited slots?

Just outline the OOC standards and stuff like that and explain what you're after. Maybe setting the game to Jump-In and explain that a character sheet needs to be approved is best?

Limited slots?

Keep in mind the character tab might not be representing active characters; the post with the sheet will still be there regardless if a player is still active or dropped out.

It mainly comes down to how a GM wants to run their RP. Some, like myself, focus more on character driven plots and player engagement so having massive quantities of active players would be a nightmare to manage. Other times, the story itself calls for a very limited number of characters (a rough example off the top of my head, a RWBY RP where canonically teams are 4 people), and so on.

So yeah, it's common, but there's always a reason for it.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

6:30pm, 13th Sun’s Height 4E208, Southern Druadach Mountains, West of Falkreath Hold…

The heat of the desert was behind them.

The climb had been long and arduous, even taking into account that this was a low pass through the Druadach Mountains many leagues South of Markarth. It was a passage that was used for generations by hunters and nomads, farmers and creatures of the wilderness alike. It was also a particularly popular place for bandits, the farmer had warned who had charged the party’s path through the mountains on their maps to wish them safe passage. The Alik’r and villagers along the way helped provide proper clothing and supplies for the journey, and nearly a week of scaling rough terrain with increasingly sparse vegetation, watching the temperate climate give way to a cool and rainy alpine climate, the absence of Dwemer patrols became a stark contrast to the past two months of their near-constant presence. One could be forgiven for being out in this remote region and thinking that the world was always as it had been, and that the troubles in the cities were from a different time and place.

For many, the absence of contact with the outside world was trying, and tensions grew and faded between various members of the party with infrequent arguments or debates, but it was at least a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that had dominated their lives for so long that what their lives had been before were daydreams belonging to the strangers they had been a few short months ago. Although supplies were dwindling and their rations were supplemented by hunting and gathering, there was a beautiful simplicity to the journey that was in a way liberating. Nights were spent around fires, and while some days left them hungry or miserable in the rain, time was passed with stories and song and it was easy to forget the troubles they all faced on the selfless mission they all agreed to take on. They all knew reality would set back in before too long, so it was worth appreciating the merits of a somewhat cleansing journey.

They had crested the worst of the range on the night of the 13th, heading down the Eastward slope into the Reach proper. The rain clouds that had hounded the group for two days at that juncture began to part and to the Southeast, far towards the Jerall Mountains way in the distance, and a sickly green glow filled the sky like a perverse and unnatural thunderstorm. Had any experienced the Oblivion Crisis, it would have contained a pervasive feeling of dread for those who understood what they were looking at. Daro’Vasora, clad in the red and brown Nordic-style leather armour she had acquired from traders, stepped ahead, her eyes narrowed and ears pulled back. “This is where it all began.” she said, a thousand memories rushing back. She recalled the expedition camp, marked now where the green light was emanating from like a pyre, how many dozens of lives lost? The Khajiit’s fist was clenched tightly. It was a decision that had cost far too many lives, and she shouldered her share of the blame.

“One day, people will look back in the history books and see this as just another obscure footnote in history, much like I have done so many times before. Never before have I considered what it must have been like for those who had their lives destroyed by the events that enraptured me as a young girl, and even now as a grown woman. Those stories only tell of the heroes and those who survived to make their mark in history, not the countless innocents whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She said, looking down at her clenched fist before turning to the others.

“I was where that light was on the fateful day that changed all of our lives, one of Rhea’s chosen for an expedition that shouldn’t have been different from the many I have done before, as were many of you. It’s hard for me to not look at all of your faces and think that you weren’t there in the beginning, and I remind myself daily that for many of you, it wasn’t your decisions that led to the Dwemer returning and destroying your lives and so many others.” Daro’Vasora said, her eyes meeting Shakti’s for a moment with a furrowed brow and a frown. “I can never find the words that would ever make up for the mistake that cost you everything, but for standing here today, as resolved as those who were there in the beginning, you have my undying gratitude and humility; may my actions prove my resolve in setting this all right again, and ending that.” she said, pointing behind her towards the green pillar of light.

She sighed, crossing her arms and disturbing the dirt beneath her feet. “It’s going to be dark soon, this looks to be a good enough spot to set up camp. I’m going to help pitch tents and get the fire going. If any of you have strength to spare, see if you can gather up some food in the wilderness.” she paused, nodding to herself. “Alright, let’s get to it. At least it’s an interesting view.” she said, stepping away from the group to go unload the horses.

---

“You’re from here.” Latro heard Sevari say. The two of them had filled the spaces between them only with the sound of their horses’ hooves in the dirt and awkward glances. Latro couldn’t say he held much scorn for the Khajiit, and it looked as if the man had taken it upon himself to do that for him. He scratched at the short, black beard his jaw decided to give him in the wake of a razor’s absence and the energy to use it.

For whatever reason, Latro couldn’t see the reason for Sevari’s hesitating. He shrugged, working at Faolan’s saddle straps. “Aye.”

More silence. Just the sound of buckles and leather, Sevari grunting as he hefted the saddle from his horse and set it down beside Stranger. He groaned as he sat on his new seat. Latro payed it no mind, or at least tried to. The constant stilted interactions between them was starting to grate him. “Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

“I don’t know.” Sevari said, “We haven’t even spoken much since we met back on the roads with the stagecoach. The last time we spoke was…”

Again with the forlorn head-hanging and dropping shoulders. It was starting to get old. How a man like this was rumored to be the bloodiest outlaw and most feared assassin in Southern Tamriel with an attitude like this was beyond him. But taking a look inward made Latro feel too much the same. He’d killed twenty-four men here. Exactly twenty-four. He kept count. And for all that fearsome reputation he’d made for himself all he did with it was try to make like he didn’t have it. “The last time we spoke was an argument.” Latro cleared his throat, “Where I threatened to kill you and Jaraleet.”

“Mm.” Sevari grunted, nodding his head but not sharing a gaze with Latro as he spoke. “You weren’t you. It was the stress, and the news, and everything.”

Sevari finally looked him in the eye and sighed, “I know how it feels.”

Latro thought back to the argument. He thought back to how it felt like he wasn’t even there. But to fool himself into thinking that Finnen Pale-Feather of the Crow-Wife Clan wasn’t the one to be blamed for taking his axe and breaking apart Nord heads and poisoning men was an affront to the dead. “You think you do.” Latro said, growling as he picked Faolan’s saddle off of his back and dropping it to the ground, “But you really don’t.”

Latro turned and left Sevari, keeping his eyes on the dirt underfoot and not even glancing at the trees and rocks around. The foolish notion that if he ignored the Reach it would be like they weren’t there. Until he agreed with himself that it was stupid and looked out at the horizon. That green pillar like a headstone, a monument to the great mistake shone against the gray iron of the clouds as they pressed down on him with the same weight. There was no rest to be had for him. No stop for the reminders of what his life had wrought.

Not until he was dead.

But thoughts like that would do him nothing. He slipped his shirt off and draped it over one of his shoulders, letting his skin feel the cold mountain air. As much as he did not want to remember what happened here, his soul would always yearn for home. He indulged himself in the cold at least, reveling in something that wasn’t a scorching sun and nothing but rolling dunes as far as the eye could see like a dead sea. As he strolled about to find Sora he locked eyes with someone he very much did not want to.

But as much as regretting the past would do him no good, neither would trading glares with their newest comers. Zaveed of Wherever the Fuck stood opposite him and instead of bearing his teeth or scowling, or any other sort of useless and petty posturing, he nodded. He took a few tentative steps closer like an animal at the edge of the fire’s light until he put some confidence in his steps. He stood opposite the Khajiit now. He was once a faceless bogeyman and then a sneering enemy. Now though…

He offered his hand out. “No ill will.” Latro said, though his voice held no warmth, “How’s that?”

Zaveed had looked up from plucking the materials from his pack to see Latro approaching, the memory of the Reachman’s face in the Gilane crowds forming nebulously in his mind. Back then, it had felt like such a triumph to see the despair, the anguish, the resignation upon Latro’s fair features. He’d been an enemy, simply another target to bring down on the hard climb to freedom, and now things were so much different. The two had avoided one another for weeks, doubtless fueled by the many unsavory actions and stories that had built something of a wall between the two of them, and this group at large.

And now, Latro approached, the offered hand like a crack in a dam.

He smiled, not snidefully or with any lingering animosity and took the offered hand, giving it a brisk shake and helping tear the crack asunder.

“No ill will.” Zaveed agreed, nodding his head. His ear still ached somewhat from the golden piercing he’d acquired from the Alik’r before they’d left for the journey East, nestled on the opposite lobe of the Dwemeri metal one he’d gotten in Gilane. He still wore his customary sleeveless armour, the pistol strapped to his chest and the axes on his hips. If the cooler weather bothered him, he didn’t show it; he’d weathered worse storms than mere cold mountain air.

“I know my presence among you is a point of contention for all of you, Latro, and there is precious little I can say that will make amends for the things I’ve visited upon you, but I do sincerely hope that my actions since then have proven my intentions are just.” the Khajiit said, coiling the thin rope around his spare hand that would act as a snare for some rabbit. He considered the many things he wished to say like a catalog in his mind before deciding to go forth without much hesitation for the consequences.

“I’d like to think that men such as us, men of violence and action, often make the choices or have the choices made for us that could just as easily turn the people we meet into friends or foes.” Zaveed said, pausing as he met Latro’s gaze. “While I regret we met as foes, I will not apologize for what I have done. Am I wrong in thinking that perhaps you had been in a situation such as mine, where those set before you were enemies when under other circumstances they might have been friends?” he asked conversationally, addressing Latro as if he were someone he’d known for some time under much more pleasant circumstances.

Latro bristled, however briefly, at Zaveed’s mention of never apologizing. But he knew his words held truth in them. He never knew why foreigners took up arms in the Dwemer name, but he tossed that aside for the now. He nodded, “I won’t fault you.” He sighed, “This was my land once. My home, and the things I did to fight for it would make me a monster in these peoples’ eyes that we have with us.”

He glanced back to Sevari sitting alone and maintaining his array of weapons before turning back to Zaveed, “We do monstrous things for noble reasons.” He nodded, slow, “No forgiveness needed, no apologies needed.”

Latro frowned at Zaveed, though not in anger, just curiosity. “Why?” He asked, looking the Khajiit over. He seemed no more a monster than himself. “You three could’ve gone anywhere after the prison. You killed probably as many Dwemer as myself back there when at first you stood with them and did their dirty work. Why’d you stay?”

“The Dwemer took everything from me.” Zaveed replied simply, resting his wrists upon his axe heads. “I was a privateer of some renown in the Dominion’s service, Captain Greywake. I had a mighty vessel and a crew of 50 who were my family because my whore of a mother sure wasn’t much of a parental figure when she abandoned my sister and I onto the streets of Senchal when we were two, and the bastards who abused me when I took to their ship that would one day become my own sure weren’t very inspiring role models before I decided to kill them to give myself a good night’s sleep.” the Cathay shrugged. “What came after, however, was the best time of my life. A warm place to sleep, building fame and reputation, never going hungry again. The Wrath was my home.”

Zaveed’s gaze turned to the pillar of green energy with a frown. “It was a storm, and unfamiliar waters for a job taken out of obligation to blood rather than the substantial coin that came with it that unraveled my entire life like a torn thread. My ship went down, most of my crew lost at sea.

“The rest of us who managed to make it to Hammerfell’s shores were quickly set upon by Dwemer patrols. I was given a choice; become their knife in the dark and maybe, just maybe, I could earn my freedom and a comfortable position in their new empire. Refusing meant dying in some fighting pit for the dear Governor’s amusement. I have learned that one should never rue the cards they are dealt, but rather play their hands the best they can.”

He sighed, returning his attention fully to Latro. “Apologies for the lengthy tale of woe that I have served you, but I figured it would give some context as to why Sevari and I came into your lives the way we did, and that when I say that life dealt me another hand after Raelynn saved my life, I decided that my honour depended on how I used that gift going forward.”

Zaveed smiled. “I got my brother back after not seeing one another for over two decades, I found my sister once more, and I found someone who saw me as I was and not a near mythical figure and decided I was worth helping. So, it became a rather simple choice; we were going to that prison to retrieve Sirine’s brother whether or not fate put our two groups together again or not. We served each other’s interests, and after that it seems Sevari’s taken a soft spot to you in particular. He’s not particularly well versed in the art of friendship, so you’ll have to forgive him for calling you one.”

“We beat each other to shit in a warehouse.” Latro shrugged, “What came after… he saved my life. I helped him in Al-Aqqiya, saw him kill his own brother.”

Latro sighed, shaking his head, “It’d just feel wrong not saying we’re friends after all of that. No matter how much of a dour, violent prick he is, anyways.” He crossed his arms, “Maybe we’re not that different, like you say. There was a time when I was death in these mountains, Forsworn. A time when I was a whore in Wayrest, and a time,” he looked at the green light in the endless distance, “when I pretended I was never any of those. I forgot in the process what kept me free and alive.”

“I played the hand I was dealt the best I could, like you.” He smiled something that had a twinkle of cruelty, “I killed the men who thought they owned me and the men who raped me. Burned the brothel and a good part of the docks down with them. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I like the way you think.”

Latro rubbed his jaw full of dark, long stubble and pointed at Zaveed’s own with his chin, “How was it, by the way?”

Zaveed tilted his head, gazing back at the light. “I’d never allowed myself to forget what I was. The reason I introduce myself as Zaveed of Senchal is not so much to give myself a pompous title, but to rather remind myself of what I have pulled myself out of. I wish I could say I do not understand what it means to be passed from man to man, and sometimes woman, for grotesque gratification, but it’s a pain I know all too well.” His eyes darkened and a scowl crossed his features.

“It is an indignity I vowed I’d never suffer again, and I would not permit any under my influence devolve to such depravity. So one night, after how many weeks of never sleeping the whole night through before some creature I was supposed to call a crewmate gagged me and tied me so I could not claw their fucking eyes out, I took an axe and opened their throats while they slept. The last one I left it there, splitting his skull on an angle, like so,” he explained, tracing the path with a claw down his temple, between his eyes, and across the dimple on the far side. “And then I went back to my hammock, and I slept soundly for the first time in as long as I could remember, knowing full well I could die the next day.”

The Khajiit sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe, in another life, it would have felt satisfying, but I was so fucking weary of it all. I came to the ship to escape starvation and disease and found myself the plaything of things worse than a boy who was barely a teen could understand.

“And instead of being given death for murdering half a dozen of Dar’Narra’s prized sailors, he gave me back my axe and forced me to fight every single day against everyone else. If he didn’t think I fought hard enough, or suffered enough, I wouldn’t eat that day. Instead of withering away and accepting death, I fought, I grew stronger and more ruthless. Eventually, it gained me respect. The dagger at my back is my prize for surviving all of that and looking fate in the eye and spitting in it.”

“Every day I live as a free man is my prize.” Latro nodded, remembering what it was like being trained by his father to kill with axe and knife. It wasn’t dissimilar to Zaveed. “The Reach loves its children in its own way, and Hircunnen, or Hircine in the Empire tongue accepts no prayers. Everything you need is already in yourself. Pray for mercy and he’ll grant you death.”

“The Reachtribes breed wolves of men.” He frowned, “And on the night I shrugged off my slave’s chains and whore’s silks, they learned it. I tied the man who payed for me and the man who owned me to a wagon. I dragged them behind me, made them do what they did to me to each other.”

“And then did what I wanted with them.” He mimicked tapping a nail with a hammer, “Ever since then, I’m remembering what it was like to gain my freedom back. No pretending to be a prissy Breton ponce. Not a whore anymore, not a slave, not Forsworn. Finnen.”

He looked around himself, at the foothills and the mountains. At the river valley far, far away. At the pale green pillar of light. “I’m home now.” He nodded, “I’m back.”

He looked the Khajiit over once more, “We’ll have to talk more sometime, Zaveed of Senchal.”

“Finnen.” Zaveed repeated the name, as if testing the waters with a raised brow. “And indeed we shall. Is that the name I shall call you?” he asked, before nodding towards Daro’Vasora. “Or perhaps what she calls you? You’ll have to tell me the story of how a hardened killer of the Reach won the heart of someone like her; you two are from quite different worlds.”

“Finnen.” The Reachman nodded, “Finnen Pale-Feather.”

And then he too looked at Sora, going about her work. The cruelty of remembering Wayrest lightened at the sight of her. “It’s something to do with that,” He nodded at the towering light, “And this.” He patted the lute on his back. His easy smile was there. “Well, work to be done.” And Finnen nodded to Zaveed and went his own way.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep