A Moment's Respite, Newcomers and Questions Abound.
Finally, they were getting clear of their initial holding cells, though the fact their rescuer was capable of reanimating the abomination that they had so recently slain was disconcerting, at best. He kept an eye on the man who took the longsword though, at least he seemed better qualified to wield it than Jericho was. Now, Jericho could certainly have handled it, but he was better off with a hand free, or at least a separate weapon in each hand, instead of committing both hands to one weapon. Too easy for one arm to get crippled, and leave you less than capable in comparison to someone who needed only one hand for their weapon of choice. Then again, it had its strengths, so he left it to personal choice. They got moving though, eventually coming into a sort of bunk room of sorts, though it reeked of blood. Like a slaughterhouse, or some of the torture dens that certain groups had run back in Istvargrad. However, before he could give it more thought, two more former prisoners caught up with them, one complaining about being forgotten and the other, bird masked thing barely catching up under his own power, begging to be brought along. Tin lass jumped in to help the barely moving man, and the one bird woman suggested taking a moment to catch their breath and try to wait for whatever was suppressing their powers to wear off some. Well, if Jericho had any unnatural powers to lay claim to, maybe, but it did give them time to sniff around and figure things out.
The one winged lass wondered about them not being possibly the only ones taken, further curious if others from Ferrivell, assuming that was her home, were taken to. "Cells look deep 'nough bird lass, hold entire ways o' life down 'ere. Real question, why? E'en as trophies, lot o' work and resources in maintainin' a prison able to 'old folks like you lot..." That is what didn't add up, you kept prisoners for a variety of reasons. Leverage, mainly, though also information, intimidation, even trophies like he mentioned. But this Kazzok and his legions, at least in as much as Jericho had faced them, had never seemed terribly interested in claiming anything. Well, maybe they were, and the fact he and his own had torched anything they couldn't carry made this Kazzok want to inflict some sort of punishment? Hard to say, too little information, too many questions. Turning his attention back to the current surroundings, and the fact it seemed they would be pausing here for now, he found himself giving out, technically speaking, suggestions for what to do while they were here.
"W'oever's useful in stitchin' up a fella, might wan' t' give th' fellow a look over, see if 'e can get moving soon. We'll want someone on t'e watch, keepin' a' eye fer more trouble, aye?" Jericho was not fond of the idea of stopping for too long, he suspected that this whole place was cursed and it wasn't just them individually being affected, that was far too inefficient for a jail that could suppress unnatural beings powers. Looking at the deeper recess, which gave him the idea it could be some sort of storeroom, he glanced at those present, before turning his gaze back to the potential storeroom. "A few o' us should check tha' room, see if we can arm more o' of us, 'opefully. W'o's wit' me?"
Abomination felled, More on their way, a choice of flight or fight is made...
Jericho danced back after plunging a torch into its neck cavity, the thrashing, sizzling, and oozing of black ichor, not wanting the foul smelling stuff on him if at all possible. He hadn't expected things to go so smoothly, then again, he never had a being capable of lifting and smashing down one of these things in his ranks. There was this one giant fellow, had carried an axe with a haft of thick oak and hammered, crude looking iron work for a head. Gods have mercy on whomever got in its way though, he recalled fondly, though he was already giving the one longsword an experimental lift, having kicked it clear of the thrashing corpse. Too unwieldy for his tastes, even if longswords were agile in the right hands, his were not the right hands. Arming swords, daggers, anything that didn't occupy both hands at once was his preference. "'ere, grab 'is kit 'fore we leave. Better some o' us are armed than none o' us."
Offering the longsword to whomever wished to take up the two handed blade, and if no one took it from him he would hang on to it since it was better to be armed than unarmed, he would look at the tin lass as she had questioned brute force, the curious gaze lingering just long enough. What, had her creator not given her due strength to protect her master and break them apart bare handed if needed? Gods damned waste, that, but he wasn't some creator of mechanical....things, so he instead turned his attention to the lifted spell, and the mimed action of a running stance by the thing that saved them. Accurate, it was time to go, even if they didn't precisely know where to go, so the one that sprung them from these cells would be the one leading the way, or they'd just be running blind. "'e's right, time t' get scarce. Find someplace t' 'unker down, we can sort t'ings out proper there."
Among Peculiar Beings, a Stranger in an even stranger Land...
Jericho noted the drowned corpse having figured out that the torches in the wall sconces lit themselves upon being held, and while he kept his expression neutral, his gut was not fond of being so casually surrounded by Magician tricks. Of course, he had to conceded that these may very well not be the tricks of Magicians of his home, as he was presented with too many varied, disparate beings and people to even remotely stand a chance of still being locked up in some prison in Istvargrad. Hell, any ring leader worth his name knew the prisons of Istvargrad, usually through personal experience in breaking themselves out or being broken out by their associates. This....this was not a prison of Istvargrad, the magic alone showed that, which meant he was not in Istvargrad anymore. Which begged the question, where in the eleven hells did he end up this time? Disrupting his train of thought was the curse, brief remark by another person to walk out of there cell, and despite the grime and less than sterling state of his equipment, there was a steel and focus to his stance and movements. This man was more than he seemed at first glance, and while Jericho couldn't place a finger on it yet, he would keep an eye out.
Of course, any jailbreak that spent this long just lingering ran into a guard doing its rounds. He mentioned it, since the amalgamation of flesh, armor, and weaponry that lumbered into their lives was, well, he'd only seen things like it when Kazzok invaded his home. Looked like it was repurposed from line breaking abominations, four 'legged' things flailing about with two handed weapons, using mass and sheer violence to shatter through organized defensive formations. Least that is what the damn thing reminded him of, but its charge was brought short by their rescuer's....spell? Whatever field the thing was maintaining, had frozen part of the abomination in place, and then it proved itself capable of speech, gurgling on about finding and barking for its master. A quick glance at the state of the group pretty much said for itself their odds if this thing's master heard and came running. Of course, hearing his own voice flawlessly spoken back to him, asking for help with the abomination, was disconcerting, but he would have time for nervous break downs or freaking out later.
The one winged woman introduced herself, armed herself with a torch, but other then that, stood around rather uselessly while composing herself or whatever. Great, that helps, Jericho considered while grabbing one of the self lighting torches for himself. Then the drowned lass promptly charged the thing and, after jamming a torch into the base of where those arms came from, did her damndest to pick the thing up and slam it down behind her. Figured the dead wouldn't be restricted in strength, and he barked out plain enough orders to the rest that were still sort of just milling about, especially the one looking to flee. "Ain' no runnin' with that thing on our 'eels. Watch th' weapons an' arms, surround it, an' stick it with fire wherever ye' can, openings, gaps, anywhere. Disarm it if th' chance arises!" Jericho lunged forward, a practiced fener's thrust, just with a torch instead of a sword, aiming for that hole where the thing had drawn weapons from. Kept him clear of flailing arms, best it could at any rate, but still he had to stay light on his feet depending on how the thing responded.
"Get th' last of the women an' children inside! You, you, and you, get th' last o' th' barricades up." Jericho Cross was on the bridge, overlooking as the last surviving wives, daughters, and sons too young to hold weapons shuffled inside. Well, the survivors of those groups that hadn't taken up arms already. Once they were inside, the grand double doors, solid oak with gilding, swung shut again and, if listening closely, one could hear the sounds of barricades and debris being piled up against the door. A handful of the men under his command were getting barricades set up, hastily as one could see the oncoming tide, marching at its own pace. That was ignoring the flying monstrosities, which were lurking outside of archer range, groups of dedicated archers milling about along the windows and openings where they could take cover between volleys of arrows. They had learned, the hard way early on, that the flying beasts could fire back, or whatever rode them into battle.
They were ignoring the fact that most of Istvargrad was burning, or already burnt out for that matter. The smell was, thankfully, rather tame this far from the more recent skirmish sites, considering they had been fighting last ditch stalling efforts up until this point. The makeshift barricades, mostly barriers to huddle behind with pikes and logs cut to sharpened points set up and braced against charges to at least slow and, in theory, funnel the enemy forces into a narrower position. In practice, of course, the larger war beasts could just smash apart the barricades without too much injury, but they did not fit too well on the narrow pathway, thankfully enough for now. No one had much time to complain, or dread their impending doom, as the forces of Kazzok marched ever forward. "Steady yerself lads, and lasses don't give me t'at look. We 'old long enough t' let the rest flee into t' underground. Better t'an burnin with the mansion, eh? Give these things somethin' t' remember of us."
At this point the oncoming tide of enemies reached range of the archers that weren't on the windows and walls, who were already firing in defiance against the tide of flying creatures that darkened the sky, and blotted out the pale moonlight, leaving only fire and torchlight to guide the last standing defenders. Of course, the dedicated archers were busy, but that did not prevent the survivors holding the barricades from unleashing their own, fired at will volleys of arrows. No magicians, though, they had gone down in their own district instead of linking up with the remaining defenders. Last scout reports indicated that there wasn't even burnt out buildings left, reality apparently having collapsed, at least that was what they could gather before the poor sod had drank himself into a coma. Peppering the lighter, fodder troops with arrows and bolts, before long the beleaguered defenders were being swamped in melee, and a proper brawl was not where they excelled. Even the few remaining soldiers, proper soldiers and not the enforcers and thugs of the criminal underground that weren't just color or honor guards for fat, long since dead nobles, were struggling to hold the barricades now.
Jericho was holding his tell tale sword in one hand, a salvaged dagger in his off hand, lashing out in each direction as he slowly found himself getting surrounded, though they stayed out of blades reach. He was quickly cut off as the barricades were destroyed and shoved out of the way and the survivors butchered or pushed back against the gate. A creeping, lingering darkness seemed to seep forward, and he braced himself, blades at the ready. "What, yer resonsible for this?" Nothing, just creeping forward and surrounding him ever more tightly, and despite his lashing out, he could not find his blows connecting with anything, and darkness completely claimed him, despite his better efforts.
Current Times, Unshackled but not Free
Being trapped in a loop of his own memories, the last waking moments before his apparent demise did not do Jericho's temper well when he was brought back to the waking realm. The first thing his body did was collapse forward, having been restrained for gods knows how long, bracing himself and coughing up a lung. He had been restrained within his cell, unpleasant as that might have normally been for long duration, though his mind had been kept occupied elsewhere. It took him a minute to gather himself, mentally at least, which any other time back home might have meant a death sentence. Which meant this prison was most certainly not in Istvangrad, and he hadn't been in some drug induced hallucinogenic nightmare trip. Shame about that, he was almost hoping that he had been drugged and bagged by the Church instead of...well, best not think on it too much. Picking himself up, he heard talking and, oddly enough, mimics of the same voices speaking.
Stepping out of his cell, Jericho deliberately made as little noise as possible as he gauged the situation at hand. Masked thing, mimicking the source of the others voices, likely the reason he, and by proxy, the others were free. Robbed of its voice, maybe? Strange curse, reeked of Magician's work, it did. Next to catch his attention was some winged, woman, thing. No such beings existed back in Istvangrad, so he really had no basis on what to think about this woman. Church spiels about their vengeful angels and the like matched her to a vague degree, and he really, really hoped she wasn't there to be some judging force. He'd hate to try and shank an angel over what he did in life. She seemed, at least in tone of voice, to be the more merciful and kind sort, though appearances were far too deceiving for him to trust that from the basis of things, and he turned his attention to the next one.
Another female looking thing, and Jericho said thing because it had some gear sticking out of its back. He settled on she, for now, mainly due to her choice of attire. Mechanical constructs were the domain of some Magicians, so not only was that outside his boundaries of understanding, he automatically distrusted her very presence. Coupled with the potential hostile stance and gaze he could tell from his position and, well, he would be keeping a very close eye on her until he had a reason to look elsewhere. There was little else for him to consider in regards to the key wound woman, so he turned his attention to the next person who was talking, or at least present.
If he was armed, Jericho would have drawn steel at the sight of the next 'woman', if he could call her that. Some drowned corpse given animate life, more bastarding Magician work if he had to reckon. Given her stance, she was also needlessly proud of her condition, or general state of self, and it showed for someone with an eye for people and their attitude. He caught the tail end of her question, however, asking where her stuff was. Stuff, equipment, and he patted his pockets down and frowned. Some thieving bastard swiped his pipe! No, he was not concerned with the loss of sword or bow, at least not nearly as much, as he was with the pipe. That actually held proper sentimental value, damn it, so he would be keeping a sharp eye out for that. Sidetracking thoughts put aside, he would give due thought to the next person he set eyes on.
Young kid, human for all intents and purposes as far as appearances go, though his lack of muscle or even any sort of redeeming physical form meant that one would be inclined to underestimate them. Jericho had no intent of doing so, it was possible this kid was either no show and all results, or had something else up his sleeve to get him stuck with capture instead of death. Common running trend, most likely, since they were all alive and, for the most part so far, literal sodding angels, mechanical oddities, and outright abominations. And some scrawny punk who he expected to be some demi god of some sort, or another, given the current trend of appearances and stature so far.
Next was another winged person, though lacking the stature or grandiose nature of the sodding angel, at least he kept assuming angel of some sort, who was at least pragmatic enough to react appropriately. Jailbreak, time to get the hell out, and he had to agree with that fully. Getting out of one's cell was only one step of, often times, many to get the hell out of custody. Again. Jails were a pain in his arse, mainly since often times he was there for reasons that weren't related to the crimes he committed, which were plenty enough to warrant life sentences in most civilized places. So he would keep his bragging to a minimum, since most likely would be among 'good' company and didn't need their shenanigans. Well, mostly, the undead abomination probably didn't care, being an abomination.
At this point, further discussion was being apparent, and Jericho finally had a chance to chime in, having taken up a leaning position against the wall. The mechanical woman, thing, whatever mentioned not being sure what use she would be in a jailbreak, and it gave him a chance to make a comment. "Brute force, tin girl. You and th'... drowned lass ain' got t' worry 'bout the body givin' out near as soon as some. Speakin' of, where th' 'ell is the exit? Appreciate yer 'elp and all, but the sooner we get out, sooner we ain' sitting 'ere waitin' for the guards to come knockin', aye?"
Weiland nodded as it was agreed that he would be working for Lotus out here in their own city, remaining silent as he was briefed on District 22. Typical mega city residential area, looked like, which meant a lot of claustrophobic quarters and vertical hostilities to potentially be dealing with. Suited him just fine, really, close quarters was his forte, and he always had a back up for reaching out a bit farther if he had to. Gang known as 'Hive' ran the district pretty much, he would have to ask for more details on them once the brief was at a point he could interject and ask questions. Next up was his mission tasking itself, since he was new and wouldn't be immediately pinned to Lotus, not as easily at any rate. Head to the meet, gather as much info that they have on the Corp if possible, then snag the broker and get them out alive if possible. That part wasn't nearly as much his usual tasking, but he would make it work. Next was pay, and he nodded when it was mentioned he was now 50,000 credits better off, with another 25k plus bonus waiting depending on information quality extracted. Part of that bonus probably also worked with bringing the broker in as well, so he would have to keep that in mind. After Victor informed his daughter of her promotion, he found the opportunity to chime in.
"You want this broker, its going to get messy, odds are they aren't just going to agree to walk out with me. Assuming I will be briefed on this "Hive" group en route, how much do you care about collateral damage? Depending on what I bring, it will get nasty. Local schematics and blueprints for the meeting ground in question as well would be handy to have." If collateral was not a concern, he would be loading flechette, his preferred go to ammunition, as well as a breaching round in the secondary barrel of his modified weapon. A lot of the gory details of how he would get in, and extraction options, would likely be briefed in transit, even if he could expect Frau Hélios and Corp Sec teams as potential reinforcements. He did not want to make a plan just to have a key leg get kicked out. No, he would have to assume he would be on his own for this, even if he was nominally partnered with Frau Hélios for operations outside Lotus Corp territory.
Personality: Having been the leading man in a crime ring of thieves, bandits, thugs and assassins turned into a commissioned Captain of the Monarch when Kazzok and his forces invaded, one might think that he was either a piss poor thief, or a god awful Captain, but that is not the case. Well spoken, fluent in several languages spoken among his people, and clever to a fault, one could easily mistake him for a noble playing at crime. Indeed, some rumors are that he was a noble ousted from his family for being too vicious in the court intrigue. Whatever the truth, he hides it behind a facade of feint smiles, blatant lies, and constant distrust of any and all around him at all times. This leaves a great deal in dispute among his (former) peers as to who he is. Exiled noble, jumped up gutter rat, disgraced officer, rumors swirled wherever he walked.
What isn't in dispute is the level of pragmatism that Jericho displays on a routine basis. It served both him and his own well during the conflicts and problems leading up to the eventual loss of his world. Of course, the arrival of Kazzok and his forces should have had quite the detrimental impact on Jericho but, on the surface and as far as he'll let anyone see, he took it in stride. "A gods damned shit stain cleaned, and without a coin paid, what's the bother, eh?" Of course, one cannot seriously believe this to be the truth, and while he doesn't expect anyone to buy it, he also won't be sharing lightly what the truth of the matter is. Not so much sorrow, but a mix of regret and rage, mixed into a dangerous bundle waiting to simmer to the surface. Regret over what was left undone and of redemption lost, rage over being denied all that he had earned with his own two hands, and of any chance at redemption, being stolen away.
Abilities/Powers: - (Reluctant) Leader of Men - Between his own ring of criminals, bandits, and thugs to when he was drafted to be a formal soldier, and a Captain no less, of soldiers of dubious reputation, Jericho has proven to be a surprisingly effective leader in small, urban brawls. Organizing and tactically deploying small bands of disparate thugs, thieves, and specialists of all sorts tends to come second nature, even if its something Jericho is not fond of. Too much attention, and too much riding on his shoulders. Of course, when Kazzok arrived with his legions, reluctance was no excuse for not applying what skills were useful in fighting back.
- Resilient Physiology - A life of crime tends to lead one to exposure to all sorts of nasty things, from the obvious such as blades and bludgeons to the not so obvious, poisons, toxins, and various diseases, illnesses, and injuries that were never treated by completely competent healers. In such circumstances, one either becomes resilient to physical traumas, or becomes crippled in a hurry. Fortunately for Jericho, he proved to be rather resilient, even by the standards of his world, bouncing back from most physical ailments alarmingly quickly, and shrugging off injury through will, quick bindings, and a touch of liquid courage when needed.
- Dirty Fighter - It should come to absolutely no surprise the crook plays dirty when it comes to a fight. While he is certainly a skilled swordsman, and competent archer, he chooses to "enhance" his ability in a fight with cheap, underhanded methods. Poisoned blades, barbed arrows, a bit of sand in the eye and a brisk blow beneath the belt, anything to give him an edge and come out on top, or at least survive to see another day. He is also alarmingly creative when it comes to preparing an area for a fight, when he has time to, lacing traps and patches of unfortunate terrain for whoever isn't ready for fighting in such conditions.
Equipment: - Personal Arming Sword (Stolen) - A personal, well worn, and tried and true sword that Jericho has had for most of his career. Lacking any real ornamentation anymore, besides the remains hinting at a noble owner in the past, it remains his personal choice of weapon. Well balanced, and honed to a razor edge with a hardened tip, it is capable of cutting down lightly armored foes, and thrusting through medium armor and the weaker joints on heavier armor.
- Composite Bow (Stolen) - Mostly what he had on hand during his last stand in his world, Jericho's bow is a rather plain example of a composite bow. With a quiver full of various arrows, some for armor, some for flesh, and even a few for utility, it rounded out his toolset in a fight, giving him options to face a foe on footing that was not in their favor.
Inventory: - Lucky Pipe (Stolen) - A hand me down from father to son for quite some time, the battered old pipe still functions as a pipe, and is often used as such, even if the remains of ornamentation hint that it was, once upon a time, a symbol of status and nobility.
- Trappers Kit (Stolen) - A small bag of lockpicks, springs, spare parts, and other bits of metal and leather designed to let a man put together, or disarm, traps, locks, and the like without needing a dedicated workshop following him around. Often times added to with scrap and salvage from fights and thievery, one can be surprised at what might be found in its contents from time to time.
A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.
Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.
Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now...
Backstory: Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.
Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.
This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.
Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.
Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.
It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?
Finally got a first draft put together, shouldn't have taken this long to be quite honest.
Former Title: Ranger Captain of Istvargrad
Nickname/Alias: Walker
Name: Jericho Cross
Age: Early forties
Pronouns: He/Him
Race: Human
Personality: Having been the leading man in a crime ring of thieves, bandits, thugs and assassins turned into a commissioned Captain of the Monarch when Kazzok and his forces invaded, one might think that he was either a piss poor thief, or a god awful Captain, but that is not the case. Well spoken, fluent in several languages spoken among his people, and clever to a fault, one could easily mistake him for a noble playing at crime. Indeed, some rumors are that he was a noble ousted from his family for being too vicious in the court intrigue. Whatever the truth, he hides it behind a facade of feint smiles, blatant lies, and constant distrust of any and all around him at all times. This leaves a great deal in dispute among his (former) peers as to who he is. Exiled noble, jumped up gutter rat, disgraced officer, rumors swirled wherever he walked.
What isn't in dispute is the level of pragmatism that Jericho displays on a routine basis. It served both him and his own well during the conflicts and problems leading up to the eventual loss of his world. Of course, the arrival of Kazzok and his forces should have had quite the detrimental impact on Jericho but, on the surface and as far as he'll let anyone see, he took it in stride. "A gods damned shit stain cleaned, and without a coin paid, what's the bother, eh?" Of course, one cannot seriously believe this to be the truth, and while he doesn't expect anyone to buy it, he also won't be sharing lightly what the truth of the matter is. Not so much sorrow, but a mix of regret and rage, mixed into a dangerous bundle waiting to simmer to the surface. Regret over what was left undone and of redemption lost, rage over being denied all that he had earned with his own two hands, and of any chance at redemption, being stolen away.
Abilities/Powers: - (Reluctant) Leader of Men - Between his own ring of criminals, bandits, and thugs to when he was drafted to be a formal soldier, and a Captain no less, of soldiers of dubious reputation, Jericho has proven to be a surprisingly effective leader in small, urban brawls. Organizing and tactically deploying small bands of disparate thugs, thieves, and specialists of all sorts tends to come second nature, even if its something Jericho is not fond of. Too much attention, and too much riding on his shoulders. Of course, when Kazzok arrived with his legions, reluctance was no excuse for not applying what skills were useful in fighting back.
- Resilient Physiology - A life of crime tends to lead one to exposure to all sorts of nasty things, from the obvious such as blades and bludgeons to the not so obvious, poisons, toxins, and various diseases, illnesses, and injuries that were never treated by completely competent healers. In such circumstances, one either becomes resilient to physical traumas, or becomes crippled in a hurry. Fortunately for Jericho, he proved to be rather resilient, even by the standards of his world, bouncing back from most physical ailments alarmingly quickly, and shrugging off injury through will, quick bindings, and a touch of liquid courage when needed.
- Dirty Fighter - It should come to absolutely no surprise the crook plays dirty when it comes to a fight. While he is certainly a skilled swordsman, and competent archer, he chooses to "enhance" his ability in a fight with cheap, underhanded methods. Poisoned blades, barbed arrows, a bit of sand in the eye and a brisk blow beneath the belt, anything to give him an edge and come out on top, or at least survive to see another day. He is also alarmingly creative when it comes to preparing an area for a fight, when he has time to, lacing traps and patches of unfortunate terrain for whoever isn't ready for fighting in such conditions.
Equipment: - Personal Arming Sword (Stolen) - A personal, well worn, and tried and true sword that Jericho has had for most of his career. Lacking any real ornamentation anymore, besides the remains hinting at a noble owner in the past, it remains his personal choice of weapon. Well balanced, and honed to a razor edge with a hardened tip, it is capable of cutting down lightly armored foes, and thrusting through medium armor and the weaker joints on heavier armor.
- Composite Bow (Stolen) - Mostly what he had on hand during his last stand in his world, Jericho's bow is a rather plain example of a composite bow. With a quiver full of various arrows, some for armor, some for flesh, and even a few for utility, it rounded out his toolset in a fight, giving him options to face a foe on footing that was not in their favor.
Inventory: - Lucky Pipe (Stolen) - A hand me down from father to son for quite some time, the battered old pipe still functions as a pipe, and is often used as such, even if the remains of ornamentation hint that it was, once upon a time, a symbol of status and nobility.
- Trappers Kit (Stolen) - A small bag of lockpicks, springs, spare parts, and other bits of metal and leather designed to let a man put together, or disarm, traps, locks, and the like without needing a dedicated workshop following him around. Often times added to with scrap and salvage from fights and thievery, one can be surprised at what might be found in its contents from time to time.
A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.
Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.
Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now...
Backstory: Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.
Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.
This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.
Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.
Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.
It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?
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Zeus23
Not a Sayan
Fading Memory
CrypticMeaning
Lurking Krog
Ariamis
Lunamaria Hawke
