The first thing Rolan noticed about the pale horned woman was how chipper and kind she presented herself to be. Between the bow, sudden two handed handshake of a greeting, and her rather intense focus on teasing Tyaethe, well, it was fairly apparent she was peculiar as far as knights were concerned. Of course, he had no room to talk, still dressing and conducting himself like a crossbowman rather than a knight, but given the unique situations the Iron Roses seemed to routinely find themselves facing, having some individuals who were atypical would be a useful boon to have, as far as Rolan was concerned. As far as he could tell, the two couldn't be more different, but her antics still got an amused snort out of the former bounty hunter, which rolled into a chuckle when the vampire started grumbling. "A pleasure to meet you Amy, name's Rolan. I tend to spend a lot of my time on farther flung assignments, but you might catch me between tasks situation depending. From the sounds of it Tyaethe, you got yourself a certified rain maker of a pup right here."
Rolan leaned into the teasing, though mostly lightly piggybacking on Amy's own shenanigans. Once Tyaethe began catching him up to speed, that casual smile faded a notable bit. Assassination attempt, strange relics that shouldn't have been in the nation being stolen, and a consolidation of the entire order in the face of what was to come. Leave it to formal knights to miss the assassin, especially as described, but he couldn't really judge. He had been chasing troublemakers through the wilderness and hills, not standing by the core contingent of the Iron Roses. As the vampire wrapped up her brief summary, Rolan crossed his arms and whistled briefly. "Hell, things have been even busier than I would have wagered. Here I was hoping that strange dream would have been the most concerning thing to happen for the foreseeable future..."
He felt sorry for the Knight-Captain, given everything that occurred and how much blame would be heaped on her. He still believed no one that young should be forced into such a role, but he didn't hold that against her nor say it out loud. His train of thought was interrupted by the mention of prayers to the moon goddess, either for celebration or necessity. He wouldn't have considered his most recent activities praise worthy, it was clean up duty that someone was going to have to do, and while he had never been devout, there was a saying his father, loathe as he was to remember it, was fond of saying. No such thing as unbelievers in battle lines, and even if he rarely ever prayed or even considered the divine beyond when the subject was brought up around him, he understood that, between a wall and a towering brute, anyone would throw a prayer to whoever they thought fair. Besides, like was said, it couldn't hurt. "I would say the two of you drive a hard bargain, but its not much of a hard sell. I'm rusty on my prayers, so I'll let one of you lead the way in that regard."
"About time it stopped pissing down rain, was getting tired of wringing out my cloak..."
Rolan Herzog was resting at a small campsite, the sun low in the sky as the day grew close to its end. He had been on assignment, looking into reports of particularly evasive troublemakers that were reported to have ties to the wrong side of the War of the Red Flag. His orders had been to go investigate, and if they were indeed tied to the rebels report back and join the contingent sent to sort them out. If they didn't, he had been given liberty to deal with them himself. It had turned out that, in fact, they had been using the name without any ties and, with that report sent back to Candaeln so he could focus on cleaning up. It had been a busy few weeks, tracking them was tricky under good conditions, and it had been pouring rain for almost the entire time. He had just finished up cleaning out the last of the troublesome individuals, leaving him too late in the evening to depart immediately, instead resting by a campfire on the outskirts of town. While officially grateful, Rolan knew full well that taking advantage of that would go poorly, so he made camp outside the town and planned to depart at dawn. While restringing his crossbow, he found his mind wandering to, once again, how the hell he had found himself as an Iron Rose.
"So you are the bounty hunter the locals keep praising so highly?"
Rolan remembered the opening remark from the leading and senior most Knight. A spitting image of a knight, all noble obligation and the kind of experienced presence that most people would have expected from someone who held a position of authority in a knightly order. Doubly so, the fabled and legendary Iron Roses. Rolan was annoyed at the time, though, he had been rather busy trying to track down the reason he had been approached. Smugglers, at least that is what they called themselves, but these particular fellows were barely better than bandits. Trade goods and farmers would get jumped, robbed, and their goods would get sold at less discerning markets for a fraction of their worth. All profit for the smugglers, but a massive loss for the honest folk. Rolan had been planning to do the work for a few nights food and board, while he figured out where to go next, but he now had a band of Iron Roses looking for him to lead them right to the hideout of these smugglers.
He hadn't been forced, of course, Rolan had been made abundantly aware of that. It was for the good of the many however, and they had hoped he would help them out and, in return, let them help clear out the self proclaimed smugglers. He begrudgingly agreed, and they departed immediately. Rolan had been preparing to make the trek alone, and he recalled his annoyance with how slowly, deliberately, the knights moved. They had a mission to accomplish, a job to do, and Rolan had a rather heated debate with the senior Knight of the contingent during the one night at camp. He had argued that all the knights were currently doing was slowing him down, giving the bandits playing smuggler ample time to prepare and fortify. There had been no signs of them fleeing, especially with so much time to prepare on home territory. The Knight had countered that a forced march into the heart of the bandit power was just as foolish as taking too long.
A compromise was reached, Rolan forcing the issue by threatening to simply leave the Knights behind, standing around like a bunch of fools. He would take the lighter, faster members of the contingent to harass and harry the smugglers, and not give them the chance to fortify in peace. Rolan knew that he wasn't popular with the selected knights, but quickly proved himself by leading, loosely speaking, raids as the main contingent moved into position. The harrying attacks at odd hours kept the smugglers from digging in too much, and Rolan volunteering to join the main assault also seemed to endear him to the Knights. Apparently most would have taken the coin for leading the way, regardless of what was said prior, and let them handle the rest. Rolan, though he wouldn't admit it, frankly didn't think the Knights would pull this off on their own without someone making sure it went well.
His worries were, of course, unfounded. The Knights were skilled and, even if Rolan would not say it, probably did not need to harry the smugglers after all. Still, Rolan made sure to keep picking off threats that would otherwise pose even a minor risk to the Knights from beyond their normal reaches. He was also quick to point out attempts to escape or evade the contingent of Knights, several members peeling off to keep them from fleeing, hemming attempted escapes back in before resuming the cleanup. Before long anyone who had not surrendered was dead, and the prisoners were handed over to local authorities to be tried and punished. Rolan had been preparing to go and collect his payment from both the Knights and locals, in that order since the locals had only promised food and board for a few days, when he was made an offer that genuinely stunned him.
"Playing at bounty hunter doesn't suit you, frankly, given the way you conduct yourself. If you are prepared to accept a higher calling, there is a place in the Iron Roses for you."
The rest of the Knight's pitch had been frankly a blur. Rolan had been expecting to have to haggle or argue to get his promised pay from the Knights, and now he had been offered a place in the Order. Apparently he had been someone to keep an eye out for, his continued efforts and general lack of exploitive treatment of the towns and people he found himself in had reached the right, or wrong, ears. Part of him had to wanted to reject outright, to just give him his damned coin and leave him alone. An old feeling, one that he had heard nearly his entire childhood from a father who had inherited that same hatred from his father, and so on and so forth. But, pragmatically speaking, he would have been a fool to not accept. Knighthood meant nobility, which meant that, after enough service, he could coast on easy glory found parading around playing at hero. He had told the Knight he needed to sleep on the decision, that it wasn't something to make a light decision on, regardless of choice. Apparently that only convinced the man further he was material for the Iron Roses, but he was given the chance to sleep on it, and if he wanted to take the offer, meet them at the edge of town at dawn so they could set out and return to Candaeln to report their success, and formally induct him as a Knight. The following dawn found Rolan joining them and, well, the rest was history.
This had been a year ago, and Rolan had been kept incredibly busy chasing and tracking problems ill suited to more conventionally noble knights. Rolan had been careful to keep his family name out of the knowledge of his fellow Knights, simply claiming he had no family name prior to joining the Iron Roses. No one had called him out on it yet, either out of courtesy or genuine lack of knowledge, but it didn't serve him any to make a troubled family history known to his fellows. Fortunately, when out on his own and at camp, it was easy to muse on such things. Especially since, well, it beat just sitting around with an empty head. Satisfied with the maintenance on his crossbow, he stood and rigged his surroundings with some rudimentary alarms. An old trick he learned before the Iron Roses, but anyone not paying attention would trip over them and cause some loosely balanced camping supplies to topple over loudly. Of course this would wake Rolan up, ideally, and it was part of his standard practice when he couldn't take turns standing watch on the times he had company with him. With camp secured, he retired to sleep. He planned to make an early morning of it, and get back to Candaeln. It was almost two weeks out on foot, and the sooner he started the better.
"C'mon you bastard, the last one put an end to this dance quicker. Aren't you supposed to be tougher?!"
Rolan had cursed his focus on getting a proper sleep in after getting back to Candaeln while evading the armored juggernaut bearing down on him again. Once he was asleep, all hell had metaphorically broken loose. A looming, empty arena and a creepy observer. After realizing what was going on he had taken a shot at her in the hopes of ending this song and dance early. No such luck, and the foot soldier who had manifested thought to take advantage of an unloaded crossbow. Poor fool hadn't realized that Rolan knew his way around in a close quarters fight, using his knife to turn the reach of the spear into a hinderance. Of course, the first fights were the easiest. A bandit who charged headlong into a crossbow bolt into the chest, some shambling undead that had taken a few strikes with the blunt end of his crossbow to break apart, and common foot soldiers were giving way to more trouble.
The first notable fight was an unmounted knight, a junior one to be sure but fully clad in plate all the same, wielding kite shield and arming sword. A practical dangerous combination that provided ample protection against even a crossbow's powerful force. Rolan didn't waste a shot on the advancing knight, lowering his stance slightly and watching the shielding advance turn into a charge, a lunge that Rolan was waiting for. Springing sideways, he evaded away from the knight's shield arm and fired his crossbow into the man's side, the near point blank shot punching through the armor and digging deep into his side. Dancing out of reach, Rolan was a deft hand at reloading even under duress, having created enough space to deftly pick his custom made wippe lever off his belt, draw the string back and slip it back into place before the knight had closed the distance again. Again, Rolan delayed his shot as the knight advanced on him more cautiously, painfully aware of the weakness in his armor now, at least at close range. Rolan backstepped the brisk downwards swipe, aiming low and putting a shot into his knee now that his foe was shielding high enough to prevent another flanking shot.
The junior knight kept advancing, having no other option but to engage Rolan as he danced out of reach again and again. Rolan was patient, a hunter circling his prey now that is was wounded and limping, only striking when he could ensure a damaging blow. Eventually the junior knight made a desperate last effort, just trying to rush down the crossbow wielding Rolan. Sidestepping the man, he slammed the stock of his crossbow against the helmet of the knight, sending the wounded man reeling long enough to put a vital shot into his foe. But before he had time to think, he was cast into the next fight, and the next, and the next.
The first problem had been several experienced skirmishers, archers hiding out in a woodline while he had little cover to return fire from. Rather than trade shots, he had closed the distance, forcing them to scatter into the woods and give him a chance. It wasn't much of a chance, with each archer he pursued the others harried him from the flanks, eventually wearing him down and killing him with a final volley. It was then Rolan realized the absurdness of the game he played. For each opponent he clawed a hard fought, fraught victory from, there were plenty more who could weather his crossbow volleys until he was left without a bolt left, or could close the gap fast enough to render his ranged advantage moot. More importantly, each death just meant facing the next, more dangerous foe, and the fights only grew more difficult.
The first of the truly one sided fights was a seasoned knight, as heavily armored as the warhorse he was riding. He couldn't land a good shot on either horse or knight, and the first charge had forced him into a desperate evasion, and each time the mounted knight wheeled it was moving too fast, too erratically to draw a good shot on. Once out of crossbow bolts, that left his knife and, unsurprisingly, it was a fool's errand to fight a mounted knight with a knife. It was an unlucky lance strike that had sent the crossbow hurtling from his grip, shattered into pieces, while the same charging blow had left his arm nearly torn from his body. The last thing he remembered of that fight was trying to go for the charging horse's throat, a shifting blow of the lance rending his head clean from his body.
Snapping back to his current predicament, Rolan couldn't land a single shot that could even penetrate the layers of angled plate, practically designed to withstand regiments of archers firing volleys into a breach. One crossbow in comparison was practically a stiff breeze in comparison, and sure enough he was finally out of crossbow bolts. Discarding the crossbow, unthinkable before but now it didn't matter knowing it would return win or lose, he drew his knife and rushed in. The iron clad juggernaut tossed the tower shield aside, two handing the bastard sword he had wielded so deftly with one, meeting the crossbowman's challenge in melee openly. Steel scraped across steel as Rolan sought an opening in the towering man's armor, ducking under the first counterstroke and staying in close. This worked until a feinted swipe smashed the pommel of the bastard sword into his spine, sending him to the ground unable to feel his legs. Struggling to rise, the juggernaut brought his bastard sword down, cleanly executing the struggling Rolan in one fell strike.
Rolan grasped at his throat the moment he was restored again, knowing he hadn't somehow mystically become able to function without a body, staring across the open field of an arena to see who he was being thrown against now. The sight of who it was drained what little energy he had to struggle with out of him, at least at that moment.
"Oh, and here I thought I was actually making some headway..."
Anyone would recognize a founding member of the Iron Roses, and Rolan was no exception. The Shooting Star Parvan himself, standing at the peak of his strength and prowess like he hadn't been laid low. He had to respect the drive in making one last attack from death's door, at least if the stories were to be believed, but as he readied his crossbow for a quick bout, Parvan called out to him from across the field. That...wasn't expected, none of the others had said a word to him.
"Not even going to say anything clever like to the earlier challengers? And here I was hoping to trade taunts as well as blows!"
Rolan couldn't help but scoff at that. He'd get a shot off, if Parvan was feeling sporting, before getting run through and torn to pieces by a surge of explosive mana. The scoff came with an almost bitter remark, as much as Rolan lived his life fighting uphill, there was a difference between uphill and a sheer cliff face.
"If your mouth is half as sharp as your spear, it'd be wasted breath."
The Shooting Star shouldered his spear, giving the crossbow wielding knight a casual up and down glance before grinning, flourishing the spear before slamming it down. The surge of mana from the blow buckled the ground, but rather than attack like Rolan expected, continued to casually speak with Rolan. He wasn't sure right now whether or not he preferred the sudden attacks without a word spoken, or the confidence that practically radiated from the founding knight currently squaring off with him.
"Tell you what, you've put on such a good show so far, here's a deal so you don't completely bore me to tears. I'll only retaliate after each attack you make, as long as you at least try to seriously land a single hit. How's that sound for not wasting your breath?"
Rolan considered Parvan's words, the taunt snuck in not going over his head at all. If he was the prideful sort he would be offended, but fortunately pride didn't mean much when fighting for your life. Even if he was dead several times over now, at least he could make an argument for never just rolling over and dying. Raising the crossbow to his shoulder, he couldn't keep that confident, though cocky would be more fitting at this moment, grin off his face since there was an argument that he could at least make a single hit land. Nevermind that all Parvan had to do was deflect first, and then counter.
"Deal. Let's see if I can get deathblow out of you, should be good at them with the practice right?"
Rolan snapped the crossbow back up, deliberately firing low to try and fake out the legend he was squaring off with. Parvan casually slapped the bolt aside, flourishing the spear before dropping into a low stance. The spear flashed with charging mana before he launched forward, the lunge narrowly missing as Rolan threw himself sideways, the clasp of his cloak shattering from the near miss as the following detonation sent him hurtling away from the Shooting Star. Rolling across the ground, the knight righted himself and skidded to a halt, reloading and firing again. This time Parvan lunged again, Rolan ready for it and sidestepping and trying to slam the stock of his crossbow down on his opponents head. A duck, and mana infused shoulder check blew Rolan across the arena.
"Oooh, almost Iron Rose, almost! Your much too slow though, much too slow."
Rolan was coughing up blood as he forced himself to his knees, reloading again as he stained his crossbow with blood. Dumping a vial of toxins on the bolt, he ran through his injuries. Several broken ribs, it felt like he could barely breath so he probably had lost a lung at this point too. He didn't have long to continue trading blows like this, even a near miss was dragging him down in injuries. He was struggling to lift his crossbow now, and as it shook he hurled a dagger with his off hand, having been trying to hide his offhand with his body. Parvan casually tilted his head, dagger hurtling past.
"Here I thought you would actually land a strike."
Parvan twirled the spear in his hand, a wide stance as he made ready to hurl his weapon straight into Rolan's heart. Rolan struggled to his feet, crossbow shaking in his one hand, the other one clutching his side. His eyes were dull right up until Parvan hurled the spear, screaming with enchantment, that his eyes lit up again. Shifting sideways, the spear ripped his arm off, throwing him sideways with enough momentum to pull his crossbow up one more time. He had been banking on the Shooting Star to finish him with a thrown strike, and right before the explosion consumed him he fired. The bolt, splattered with his blood and the toxins he had dumped onto it, slammed into the legend's shoulder. A bloody grin, and Rolan was incinerated in the blast, long dead before he could ever have seen if the poison would have been enough or not.
The next thing Rolan could pick out, he could hear clapping. Parvan, uninjured and restored like he was, had a wide grin on his face.
"Look at you, stealing my own trick. Giving up your life to make one last spiteful strike, trying to follow in my footsteps Knight?"
"Maybe I am, not like I am banking on much more than making it to the next day."
Parvan shouldered his spear again, knowing that he didn't have much longer to converse with Rolan before the next challenge came.
"Look, coming from someone who threw his own life down to make one last strike, make sure that, when the time comes? You make it count. You don't get to know if that final throw from the brink is going to matter or not, and that, is a bitch. Have fun getting your ass kicked by what comes next!"
Rolan couldn't help but laugh at the remark, as Parvan faded and he was left wondering, in that brief moment of silence before he was thrust into the next fight, just how much of that he could take at its word, and how much of it was just showboating as to what was 'right' by the observer still hovering far above, unmoving and unwavering this entire time. When he saw who his next opponent was, he felt obliged to make what any polite company would consider an incredibly crass, rude gesture towards the figure in the sky before the next bout began.
It had been a long two week's march back to Candaeln, though to call a lone Knight returning from a fairly inglorious tasking a march was generous to say the least. What had made it a long march was the fact the damned dream was still keeping him from really focusing his mind on anything else. Had he been going mad already, after only a year of formal service? He would have to discreetly poke around with some of the other knights once he returned to Candaeln. Rolan had slept off the exhaustion that came from that initial day, though he couldn't afford to slow down on that first day, in fact he had made double time back to Candaeln, to look into whether this dream was just limited to him or any of the other Iron Roses. By the time he reached his destination, he at least looked as well rested as someone who just spent weeks on the march.
Rolan stretched as he strolled along, keeping an eye out for anyone of sufficient rank to report back to. Returning to Candaeln was quite the luxury compared to moving through the villages, though he never felt exactly at ease in the seat of the Iron Roses. Sure, he was a Knight and was officially quartered here, but it didn't feel like a home or even a base to operate out of for him, it never had. Hence why he always volunteered for longer, far flung missions that took a bit more of a delicate hand than an armored gauntlet might otherwise offer. Still, it wouldn't take him long to end up passing the Candaeln Shrine, and spot a Knight only the blindest fool would miss, and a complete stranger alongside her.
"Well, good as time as any to report my return. Get a measure for this new person too..."
Approaching the shrine, Rolan made no efforts to try and stall any further. Might as well check in, see what he missed, and if he was lucky get a new set of marching orders. Unlikely, he would probably have to at least check in with the Knight-Captain given how long he had been on assignment, but at least he could get everything in motion right now. He announced himself upon entering the shrine properly, hand raised in casual greeting. Tyaethe was a well known face, even if he spent more time away from the other Iron Roses than most, but he honestly did not recognize the smaller, pale woman. Horns, pale skin, pale hair, like someone had pulled a plug and drained the color from her. He had better things to do than gawk and judge though.
"Tyaethe, found yourself a new friend, looks like. Finished that clean up job, my last report on them not being related to any remnants of the rebels made it back here I assume."
Rolan is roughly 5'9" in height, with a lean figure that lacks almost any shreds of fat, either burned off during regular exertions during daily life, or deliberately worked off during exercise. He always keeps his hair short but otherwise unkempt, failing to obscure his dull red eyes.
Personality: Rolan, first and foremost, is an incredibly pragmatic soul. Everything he has, does, or considers falls under the idea that it needs to have some practical, genuine purpose. Be it hunting between missions, gathering reagents for his alchemical studies, performing maintenance of his equipment, or even during times of rest, it all has a purpose behind it. He wears a pleasant, if mildly brazen, confidence as a face for those he deals with, showing the same casual demeanor that he does a lowborn beggar, and the most noble of blood. Anyone can lose everything and plummet into nothing, he knows his family is one long running story of that, so he only puts stock in what is practical and provable. Still, he keeps an even keel and tries to not let things get to him, taking it as a personal challenge to keep that confidence he wears going strong even in the face of terrible odds or downturns of fortune.
In reality, Rolan knows damn well he is fighting an uphill battle. The family legacy dogs him rather persistently, and his constant bounty hunting has made him a number of enemies in low places. He knows that someone is coming to collect on his actions sooner rather than later, but rather than fight it or try and run from it, he just keeps on living his life. No point trying to course correct when he can at least claim to enjoy his life currently, even if its more violent than he would have liked thanks to not taking kindly to bandits being problematic. Regardless, he thinks its enough to keep meeting the day with that same casual confidence that he wears as a mask, determined to not let it slip when he thinks anyone is looking. Last thing he needs is people prying into his private life, especially if they recognize who his family is. Of course, he never bothers to include his family name, even having gone so far as to say that he doesn't have one, that intent on stepping away from the many mistakes they have made.
Brief Backstory: Rolan Herzog would describe his family legacy as "Wasted potential", and he isn't far from the mark. The only son of a lineage of disgraced nobility, his family has the infamous specter of disgrace hanging over them and dogging their every step. His great grandfather, a vocal opponent of the ruling family of Thain, and of the practices of thrusting children into leadership, referring to the Iron Roses. This came to a head in a minor revolt that left the patriarch of the family dead and his surviving heirs shamed and stripped of much of their wealth, prestige, and standing. What little the family had would be wasted on seeking revenge, and with each generation that passed would end up having less and less to work with, until they had little more than a few heirlooms that hadn't been sold off to make ends meet.
Rolan, raised with the constant reminders by his aging father of what they had once been, mostly treats this legacy as a nuisance. Nothing comes of it besides sideways glances and muttered mentions in taverns and markets, becoming more pronounced the more upscale and civilized the place he visited. As such, once his father passed, he bid farewell to his mother and left for the woods. He intended to avoid all this nonsense of reputation, family lineage, or responsibilities for a life simply living in the wild. For her part, Rolan's mother knew she would not outlast her husband by long and had concealed her failing health from him, so that her death shortly after his departure would be a shock to all, including Rolan. Rumors, of course, abounded about how the boy had abandoned her, and after the funeral rites he was quick to vanish again.
Rolan intended to just spend his days hunting and practicing what he had learned, from marksmanship with the family's last heirloom they still owned, an ornate and well kept crossbow that still had the name Rittersturz engraved along the body of the weapon, to hunting and alchemy that he picked up during his time in the woods. He would rarely return to the local village the woods bordered, bringing back excess from his hunts so that nothing went to waste. He also began, albeit unofficially, helping out around the town when he visited, using it as a chance to not completely forget social interactions and trade for things he couldn't make or find for himself. Certainly not because he had gotten bored and, even, lonely in the woods. That would be absurd. He even saw off the odd bandit or two, though this quiet life would not last forever.
Bandits would raid the village that Rolan had taken a liking to, coming back to find it had suffered a great deal of damage and injuries, though fortunately no one who had been wounded couldn't be saved. There were a few dead, and he made a decision to go out and start hunting down the bandits in question. Tracking the gang that had raided the town, rather than make an attack outright, he began hunting and hounding them, picking them off a few at a time before withdrawing into the woods again. He couldn't take them all at once, and he knew it, so he dedicated his efforts to whittling them down and not giving them enough respite to recover. He would whittle them down like this until he could taken the rest of them out before they scattered completely, and went back to report his success to the village. Hopefully now things would go back to being calm.
Of course, things were never just that simple. Rolan had found he had a knack for tracking down criminals, bandits, and other troublemakers, and his abilities were quickly recommended to surrounding villages by the grateful folk who thought they were helping. Rolan begrudgingly began carrying out a sort of bounty hunter's life, preferring to bring in problems dead, regardless of the price for them alive. Life was simpler that way, plus it would hopefully keep vengeful encounters with those he had dragged to justice out of his life. Of course he would start building a reputation that would start making him enemies in certain parts of the country, and one that would no doubt get him into serious trouble. Until then, however, he would keep working, unaware fate, or chance perhaps, was nudging him towards a chance encounter with a certain knightly order.
Equipment: Rolan still carries his family pride and joy Rittersturz, a crossbow modified to maximize the amount of draw weight it could sustain without flying apart after repeated firings. He has a specially made wippe lever for reloading purposes, and a bolt case for his spare ammunition. He also has a variety of small tools, portable alchemical supplies and reagents, a sturdy knife that, while stated for cleaning hunted game, has shed more than its fair share of blood in combat when Rolan gets caught in close quarters. The vial he wears on his hip looks sinister, but is, in fact, a jam that he learned to make from his mother, and keeps handy for snacks.
Skills: Rolan lacks many of the typically knightly qualities one would expect of a noble in the Iron Roses. His combat capabilities are focused on crossbow and dagger, mostly the former, proving to be a talented shot in medium ranges, though he makes up for this lack of longer range finesse with a sharpness for firing into chaotic situations safely. When pressed into melee, rather than disengaging using his dagger, he aims to get in close, under the guard and reach of larger, longer weapons, and open them up from vulnerable points in armor. Compared to a dedicated fighter, however, he mostly relies on speed and brutality for when he cant evade melee.
Learning from his mother, Rolan is a practicing alchemist and hunter, enjoying both in equal measures. In alchemy he focuses on natural reagents and mixtures, adding to the family journal the various recipes and mixtures he has discovered, from poisons and herbal remedies to mixtures that burn on contact with air and the odd modification to his bolts to carry said alchemical mixtures. He also knows his way around general wilderness survival, be it hunting, finding shelter, procuring clean water, and other necessities for living in the wilds. By extension, he is rather capable in remaining unseen when he chooses to, though he has no formal training in such, tracking game undetected gives one a knack for stealth when the need arises.
However, when it comes to classical skills like riding, Rolan has not had the time nor opportunity to practice. He can keep himself on a horse, but is unlikely to be fighting from horseback to any degree without just dismounting and fighting on foot. Needless to say he also lacks any skill or knowledge of magic, knowing that it exists but little else. He also never particularly picked up on courtly graces, and can no doubt easily get into trouble if expected to be properly diplomatic on missions dealing with other knights and nobility in formal senses.
Rolan is roughly 5'9" in height, with a lean figure that lacks almost any shreds of fat, either burned off during regular exertions during daily life, or deliberately worked off during exercise. He always keeps his hair short but otherwise unkempt, failing to obscure his dull red eyes.
Personality: Rolan, first and foremost, is an incredibly pragmatic soul. Everything he has, does, or considers falls under the idea that it needs to have some practical, genuine purpose. Be it hunting between missions, gathering reagents for his alchemical studies, performing maintenance of his equipment, or even during times of rest, it all has a purpose behind it. He wears a pleasant, if mildly brazen, confidence as a face for those he deals with, showing the same casual demeanor that he does a lowborn beggar, and the most noble of blood. Anyone can lose everything and plummet into nothing, he knows his family is one long running story of that, so he only puts stock in what is practical and provable. Still, he keeps an even keel and tries to not let things get to him, taking it as a personal challenge to keep that confidence he wears going strong even in the face of terrible odds or downturns of fortune.
In reality, Rolan knows damn well he is fighting an uphill battle. The family legacy dogs him rather persistently, and his constant bounty hunting has made him a number of enemies in low places. He knows that someone is coming to collect on his actions sooner rather than later, but rather than fight it or try and run from it, he just keeps on living his life. No point trying to course correct when he can at least claim to enjoy his life currently, even if its more violent than he would have liked thanks to not taking kindly to bandits being problematic. Regardless, he thinks its enough to keep meeting the day with that same casual confidence that he wears as a mask, determined to not let it slip when he thinks anyone is looking. Last thing he needs is people prying into his private life, especially if they recognize who his family is. Of course, he never bothers to include his family name, even having gone so far as to say that he doesn't have one, that intent on stepping away from the many mistakes they have made.
Brief Backstory: Rolan Herzog would describe his family legacy as "Wasted potential", and he isn't far from the mark. The only son of a lineage of disgraced nobility, his family has the infamous specter of disgrace hanging over them and dogging their every step. His great grandfather, a vocal opponent of the ruling family of Thain, and of the practices of thrusting children into leadership, referring to the Iron Roses. This came to a head in a minor revolt that left the patriarch of the family dead and his surviving heirs shamed and stripped of much of their wealth, prestige, and standing. What little the family had would be wasted on seeking revenge, and with each generation that passed would end up having less and less to work with, until they had little more than a few heirlooms that hadn't been sold off to make ends meet.
Rolan, raised with the constant reminders by his aging father of what they had once been, mostly treats this legacy as a nuisance. Nothing comes of it besides sideways glances and muttered mentions in taverns and markets, becoming more pronounced the more upscale and civilized the place he visited. As such, once his father passed, he bid farewell to his mother and left for the woods. He intended to avoid all this nonsense of reputation, family lineage, or responsibilities for a life simply living in the wild. For her part, Rolan's mother knew she would not outlast her husband by long and had concealed her failing health from him, so that her death shortly after his departure would be a shock to all, including Rolan. Rumors, of course, abounded about how the boy had abandoned her, and after the funeral rites he was quick to vanish again.
Rolan intended to just spend his days hunting and practicing what he had learned, from marksmanship with the family's last heirloom they still owned, an ornate and well kept crossbow that still had the name Rittersturz engraved along the body of the weapon, to hunting and alchemy that he picked up during his time in the woods. He would rarely return to the local village the woods bordered, bringing back excess from his hunts so that nothing went to waste. He also began, albeit unofficially, helping out around the town when he visited, using it as a chance to not completely forget social interactions and trade for things he couldn't make or find for himself. Certainly not because he had gotten bored and, even, lonely in the woods. That would be absurd. He even saw off the odd bandit or two, though this quiet life would not last forever.
Bandits would raid the village that Rolan had taken a liking to, coming back to find it had suffered a great deal of damage and injuries, though fortunately no one who had been wounded couldn't be saved. There were a few dead, and he made a decision to go out and start hunting down the bandits in question. Tracking the gang that had raided the town, rather than make an attack outright, he began hunting and hounding them, picking them off a few at a time before withdrawing into the woods again. He couldn't take them all at once, and he knew it, so he dedicated his efforts to whittling them down and not giving them enough respite to recover. He would whittle them down like this until he could taken the rest of them out before they scattered completely, and went back to report his success to the village. Hopefully now things would go back to being calm.
Of course, things were never just that simple. Rolan had found he had a knack for tracking down criminals, bandits, and other troublemakers, and his abilities were quickly recommended to surrounding villages by the grateful folk who thought they were helping. Rolan begrudgingly began carrying out a sort of bounty hunter's life, preferring to bring in problems dead, regardless of the price for them alive. Life was simpler that way, plus it would hopefully keep vengeful encounters with those he had dragged to justice out of his life. Of course he would start building a reputation that would start making him enemies in certain parts of the country, and one that would no doubt get him into serious trouble. Until then, however, he would keep working, unaware fate, or chance perhaps, was nudging him towards a chance encounter with a certain knightly order.
Equipment: Rolan still carries his family pride and joy Rittersturz, a crossbow modified to maximize the amount of draw weight it could sustain without flying apart after repeated firings. He has a specially made wippe lever for reloading purposes, and a bolt case for his spare ammunition. He also has a variety of small tools, portable alchemical supplies and reagents, a sturdy knife that, while stated for cleaning hunted game, has shed more than its fair share of blood in combat when Rolan gets caught in close quarters. The vial he wears on his hip looks sinister, but is, in fact, a jam that he learned to make from his mother, and keeps handy for snacks.
Skills: Rolan lacks many of the typically knightly qualities one would expect of a noble in the Iron Roses. His combat capabilities are focused on crossbow and dagger, mostly the former, proving to be a talented shot in medium ranges, though he makes up for this lack of longer range finesse with a sharpness for firing into chaotic situations safely. When pressed into melee, rather than disengaging using his dagger, he aims to get in close, under the guard and reach of larger, longer weapons, and open them up from vulnerable points in armor. Compared to a dedicated fighter, however, he mostly relies on speed and brutality for when he cant evade melee.
Learning from his mother, Rolan is a practicing alchemist and hunter, enjoying both in equal measures. In alchemy he focuses on natural reagents and mixtures, adding to the family journal the various recipes and mixtures he has discovered, from poisons and herbal remedies to mixtures that burn on contact with air and the odd modification to his bolts to carry said alchemical mixtures. He also knows his way around general wilderness survival, be it hunting, finding shelter, procuring clean water, and other necessities for living in the wilds. By extension, he is rather capable in remaining unseen when he chooses to, though he has no formal training in such, tracking game undetected gives one a knack for stealth when the need arises.
However, when it comes to classical skills like riding, Rolan has not had the time nor opportunity to practice. He can keep himself on a horse, but is unlikely to be fighting from horseback to any degree without just dismounting and fighting on foot. Needless to say he also lacks any skill or knowledge of magic, knowing that it exists but little else. He also never particularly picked up on courtly graces, and can no doubt easily get into trouble if expected to be properly diplomatic on missions dealing with other knights and nobility in formal senses.
Watcher was content to spot that his first salvo had been effective on all counts. The dish had taken critical damage, the one team of MAs had been torn to shreds by the smart munitions, and the turret housing the cannon he had targeted was down for the count. Fire support effective, and while monitoring other pilot activities, he noted that Fallen Angel was effectively engaging the enemy, though not engaging in lethal tactics. He was tracking targets as they went down, noting the attacks had disabled rather than killed. As long as the enemy was dealt with and couldn't get back up, that would suffice for these circumstances. In an actual war, that was not the best plan, because while dragging back downed allies did take more resources, they could be sent back into combat at a later point. Dead was dead, and would require fully replacing. But, given the situation, it would not be worth pursuing any sort of commentary.
The warning on avoiding his ear drums getting blown out by the wall of noise being sent towards the Ultima comms channels. Better them than Watcher, though he synced his fire control systems with the newcomer as well, gathering further information while considering the circumstances. Four Augs were a tough thing to slow down, let alone stop, and that would continue to be the case when he picked up a new target while preparing to continue mopping up cannons before they could target lock and open fire. Arthropod, slow, durable, and capable of bringing incredible force into the battlefield. Besides the obvious main heavy laser cannon, the variety of turrets meant possible point defenses. He couldn't hammer it down alone, but he didn't have to. Right now he was in a relatively safe spot to act, being the farthest away, and in spite of the locking cannons and sudden Arthropod line threat, his voice was dead calm.
"Blinding the Arthropod with countermeasures, stay clear. Recommend focus firing cannons during countermeasure window, then coordinating all points attack on the Arthropod." While Walker spoke, he was loading another missile firing sequence into PAMS. First missile was HMAA, aimed at one of the cannons still operational. A top/down strike by the missile would hopefully bypass armor. The remaining three missiles in this batch would fire nearly at the same time, one HMAA and the deliberately named 'Countermeasures', two of his three WPCF missiles. The first HMAA would hopefully draw initial point defense fire, so that one of the WPCF missiles could effectively blind the Arthropod. With everything in order, Watcher sent the launch signal, the next batch of missiles firing off. The HMAA tasked towards a cannon would arc deliberately high before spiking down towards the, hopefully, vulnerable top armor. The remaining three would hurtle towards the Arthropod, the HMAA aimed for the base of the heavy laser cannon. The two WPCF missiles would be armed to detonate in front of the Arthropod, scattering an initial screen of chaff and flares to interfere with non visual targeting systems, while the White Phosphorus smoke screen would block visual acquisitions. With the agility of the team, they would be able to move around the blocking screen if need be should it overstay its welcome, and buy them enough time to finish the cannons ideally. Almost as an afterthought, Watcher fired his reloaded Thermal Accelerators, aiming at the cannon he had sent an HMAA missile towards, focusing his fire to bring another cannon down before beginning to reload all spent systems.
"It looks like you've been befuddled by a Witch's doll right now, if we are talking looks at the moment Ghost."
The mercenary got a laugh out of the doll sticking its tongue out at the family mage, as childish as the gesture was it did add some slight humanity to the whole situation. Granted, Urden wasn't going to be forgetting the slaughter doll any time soon, so no doubt the small one had plenty of nasty tricks up its sleeves if push came to shove as well, so maybe it was for the best that the small doll be in hands that it seemed happier to be in. Handy was more fitting than before, it seemed, though Liletta was certainly not happy with the circumstances of getting snubbed by the smaller doll, so he lingered until they got too deep into the weeds in regards to magical nonsense talk.
"If its any consolation, pretty much every doll has been some kind of difficult. Thinking about it, you could probably talk Boss into tagging along and doing some field research and not have to pick through first hand accounts and souvenirs that we picked up along the way. Besides, if I was a gambling man I would wager we'll run into either that Witch or other ones, given the way we sort of just stumbled into the Doll Witch."
Urden was wearing an easy smirk, enjoying the free entertainment being provided, even if it was at the expense of Liletta. He wasn't completely joking about petitioning Boss to tag along though, Liletta wouldn't be a retainer if she was only useful in bookish studies. Any magic could be turned to warfare with a bit of creativity, and it would certainly make their lives easier. Also in consideration was, at the current point in time, Handy was not exactly the most stable nor sensible mage he had ever crossed paths with, and he had a hunch Ghost was going to be a far more stable individual in that regard, even if the prowess was a fraction of Handy's. Put the two at a problem and it might get solved rather swiftly. Or Ghost would tear her hear out, he wasn't sure how well mages worked together. Still, was worth mentioning, plus he could continue getting a measure of Liletta as a person, which could always pay off down the line.
Watcher noted that Fallen Angel was lagging behind, at least initially, as they deployed and split up into two teams. Banshee continued settling into the leadership role, giving the rookie a mild hard time as they began moving towards their target. While the others went through whatever thoughts they would entertain, Watcher considered their target. Comms array would have redundancies, a smart one would at any rate, but the primary method of communication would likely be some sort of antenna array, again an extensive layout would have several arrays but a smaller one might only have one. The quickest way to shut down immediate communication would be targeting the main array, which was likely doable with several HMAA missiles directly to the base of the array. Banshee's plan cut his train of thought off, and he considered his position in the raid.
'Go Wild' suited him fine, though as far as wild was concerned, he was still incredibly precise with that. Fallen Angel was keeping up much better now, perhaps she found much more peace on the field like he did? Regardless, he replied, loading up his munitions as they approached the point they would be getting detected, LINEBREAKER picking up speed.
"Watcher copies. Will deploy cluster munitions against secondary line targets, prevent attempts at forming a cohesive defense while engaging first line targets."
LINEBREAKER's engagement created a gap in the line of the Communication Array, Platzragen coming out into view shortly afterwords. Unlike the leader of the trio, the missile boat AUG came to a halt, aiming both of its Thermal Accelerator's at one of the unharmed heavy kinetic cannons before sending the non tracking rounds hurtling straight for the stationary target. The explosive impacts would cripple the cannon, the continually burning wreck causing structural failures that sent the platform collapsing in on itself. While reloading the spent weapons, Walker was manually targeting several missiles at the same time. Two HMAA were being targeted at the base of the Antenna, which would come in at a pincer, near horizontal strike to mitigate the chances of unseen anti missile defenses kicking in. Another HMAA targeted a member of the first MA team that LINEBREAKER had engaged, and the last sequenced missile was a CMST, targeting the second unengaged squad of MA in a right to left sweeping pattern. With a HUD of blaring target locks, Walker smiled to himself and launched the sequence.
All four missiles shot out of PAMS, the first two HMAA being launched near horizontal with the base of the antenna, before second stage thrusters kicked in and sent the missiles hurtling towards the base of the antenna, aiming to cripple the array before a proper SOS could be organized. The third HMAA would more directly launch for one of the first squad's MA, constantly course correcting to ideally account for any attempted evasive maneuvers, looking to land a killing blow before a response could be readied. The star of the first volley, however, would be the CMST missile seemingly hurtling wildly off target off to the right. After a predetermined distance, the smart munition would bank, engaging secondary boosters that began corkscrewing the missile and, as it began passing over the second squad, began hurling highly explosive sub munitions in a cloud as it passed over the heads of the second MA squad. Each sub munition would proceed to lock onto the nearest target not already flagged friendly, assuming any allies got close enough to the sub munition cloud, and began launching towards targets of the second MA squad, as well as other lighter targets that happened to get picked up by the smart sub munitions.
Walker kept tracking targets as they appeared, issuing load commands to PAMS, making ready to engage targets that were left and adapt to any unforeseen defenses. The blaring target locks, shouting and shock of assault from enemy comms, the shudder of missiles being launched and the trails betraying their course, it was all a long overdue balm to his mind. It made tracking the enemies, and his allies, that much more second nature, keeping an eye out for new defenses that appeared before they proved to be a danger to his current allies. He kept an eye out for Fallen Angel to engage, especially given the likely top down nature of first engagement as he didn't want missiles getting unfortunately intercepted by an ally's path of attack crossing over unintentionally.
"Confirmed receipt of squad composition, sending FCS sync request to Comms team, to enable additional fire support options."
The FCS module on Platzragen was the single most modern, even advanced if one was feeling generous, component. For someone who focused so heavily on target tracking and smart munitions, it only made sense that the pilot invest so heavily in the ability to track and lock targets. One perk of that was, once synced, he could use the processing power of his FCS to process allied combat data in addition to his Aug's own. Unlike other pilots who had additional support on board, although he didn't know of this of course, he processed and tracked all the information on his HUD personally. Sync too many allies, and not only would processing power suffer, but the information overload would render target tracking difficult. But only two allies, that was simple enough to keep track of. Most enemies were not equipped to handle the shock of smart munitions being launched from targets not engaged directly with them. Still, getting the fire control sync up was muscle memory, giving him a chance to consider each individual on the mission.
Banshee was a vet, no doubt in his mind there, professional comms and mission focused. He would defer Comm team leadership to her, she seemed to naturally fall into that role to begin with and it let him focus on fire support. At the other end of the spectrum, Fallen Angel sure fell flat in her introduction. Her AUG stood out, and it was likely that he would be the slowest link in the team if his assessment was to be believed. More importantly this should be a good training excursion, MAs were, despite their capabilities, fragments of even a basic AUG's potential. The assault team certainly had some characters, R-18, as the comms indicated, was first to volunteer and seemed relieved to not be on a perceived baby sitting duty. All the better, last thing a rookie needs is that mentality. Rabbit chimed in next, attempting humor to alleviate the situation, not a bad sign of itself, and also volunteered for assault duty with CAS, interesting choice for specialization but who was he to judge. Snow was last to chime in, also siding with the assault team and pointing out, indirectly, the composition of the pilots could make someone jealous out there. Not that it mattered, as Redknight confirmed her role with 'Momo' in the assault team. All pilots named their Augs, but having shortened nicknames beyond that was an indication of deep attachment, though once again, considering he was piloting a War era AUG still, well, that said it all really.
VALKYRIE broke Watcher's train of thought, the recommendations matching the pilot decisions perfectly. Was it already in place, or did VALKYRIE merely eavesdrop in and let the pilots organize themselves, only to step in if things were too lopsided one way or another. Hard to say, he didn't deal much with AI if he could help it. He preferred his machines the strong, silent types, to make a mild joke of the situation. Still, the pilot chiming in was a relief, and as he brought Platzragen online proper, any biomonitoring would see that, as the Aug fully came online instead of merely being in transport mode, Watcher's vitals settled to what one might consider a resting state back at base. He was finally at ease, the hum of Platzragen powering up, the HUD fully coming online instead of being merely on standby, the hatch opening and the first two AUGs launching, hurtling down towards the moon. Finally, he could know some peace and quiet as he, almost serenely, reported in right before he was launched into the air.
"Watcher, Platzragen, deploying."
The shock of being launched into the sky did nothing to unsettle him, and at a glance, Watcher picked an ideal landing point to aim for, trusting fully in the reliable, rugged shocks. Coming in hard, Platzragen seemed to squat from the impact, before rising to its full height again, stepping out of the small crater the heavier AUG had created on impact, moving into cohesion with Banshee and Fallen Angel as the far more gung ho attitude from the former came over comms. She was one of those types then, not to disparage, but his decision to defer leadership was even wiser with hindsight. He fell in a short distance behind Banshee, all weapon systems checking green and he began scanning for targets, stationary or moving. The sooner he spotted them, the sooner he could alert his team. The sooner the alert was given, the sooner they could act, ideally with the advantage of surprise.
"Watcher in formation, scanning for patrols or other targets."
At about that time the trio were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Hraeslag family retainers, one Liletta Venn. She was an odd one, almost certainly wasn't entirely human, but that was like stating the sky was blue. Painfully obvious and not at all helpful, so rather than chime in on that, he gave her an easy grin and half hearted wave, meeting the current scowl with his own usual demeanor. Seemed she was here with that Doll they'd been gifted, well, gifted might not be the right word. Loaned, tasked with caring for, babysitting? Hard to say, he'd had effectively zero dealings with the doll in this case. "Please, Mr. Antiac was my father's name, call me Urden. I'd ask how your faring with the family taskings, Ghost, but that scowl says it all. I'm surprised, truly surprised, to hear your glowing warmth and kindness has gotten vexed by the little doll right there."
Handy stepped forward to take the doll from Ghost, seeming to absent mindedly set to patting its head and, seemingly out of nowhere if you weren't privy to the previous rambling conversation, asked about architecture. He knew about as much about building houses as he did summoning daemons, in essence, he knew that it could be done. Still, he chimed in an off hand manner in response to the question on architecture, a chuckle rising from Red's theatric whispering and responding in kind before answering properly. "Must be displaced by all that magic, huh?"
"As for architecture, I could figure out how to knock a wall down sooner than build one up, so not terribly helpful there." One thing was becoming clear though, things were probably going to get incredibly complicated with two mages going back and forth on the matter of magic and dolls. He somehow understood more about the latter than the former, which wasn't saying much because he could at least rationalize a doll. Magic dolls though, that was right out. Still, he had gotten the healing he was looking for, one would hope his leg didn't end up being cursed, and now that there were two mages, well, the odds of the conversation leaving him utterly floundering was increasing by the moment. Odds of him having anything to contribute to the whole discussion on Dolls was slim to none, and he wasn't fool enough to think he could help with that at all. After all, all he was good at was smashing dolls, not playing nice with them.
"I'll leave you ladies to discuss the whole Doll situation, the slaughter doll from before was enough playing with dolls to satisfy me for the time being. Unless you need insight on how to fight a Doll, I suppose, though that isn't exactly the concern here I'd assume."
Henry's leg bounced steadily in the cockpit of his Aug, eyes half closed as the shuttle continued along towards the drop point. Outgoing comms were disabled for now, listening just in case new orders or briefs came down. He had a lit cigarette in hand, taking the odd drag on it. They were cheap, barely qualified as a smoke, and were generally ass. But it beat having no smokes, and it sure as hell beat whatever crap those electronic vapes had compressed into them. It was a habit he had picked up when he was younger, one that he never could be bothered to kick the habit of, it kept his hands busy when waiting. Still, the confined space of his AUG's cockpit was calming in and of itself, which let him then focus on reviewing the brief.
Fairly standard smash and grab type job, two teams would split up, one to strike comms and strangle any attempts at calling for help, the other doing the lion's share of the smashing. His train of thought was interrupted by Valkyrie, the AI in charge of the teams of mercenaries. Odd? Absolutely, but there was more life in that voice than most of his former commanding officers, so that was a change of pace. Whether it was good or not, well, that was another matter completely. Nothing new was shared over comms, so Henry saw no reason to break comm silence yet, instead putting out his smoke so he could focus on the review of Platzragen's systems and ordinance load. Expecting mostly MA's meant a fairly standard load, a few CMST and WPCF missiles, but most of the onboard munitions for PAMS were HMAA missiles. A few well placed missiles could take out key points in defenses or comms arrays, and he was confident that he had chosen well for the mission at hand.
As Henry, once again, checked his FCS to ensure the most up to date IFF data was loaded and ready to go, a rather energetic woman chimed, dueling the AI for cheeriness and gung ho attitude. Suppose that was the mixed bag of freelance mercenaries was you got all sorts. Professionals, firebrands, dullards and idealists even, there were a lot of sorts who sold their skills in violence in exchange for pay, for various reasons. The first person to chime in was a professional response, Banshee and LINEBREAKER, who also questioned the organization of the impending mission. It was a good question, and it felt like it was finally time to break his silence and actually say something. Opening comms, he kept an even tone as he spoke, keeping it professional for now, focused all on the job at hand.
"Watcher here, good comms, Platzragen is ready to deploy. Assuming no prior VALKYRIE plans, I recommend that I be seconded to the comm silencing task. My FCS can rapidly pick out the key points in the comm relays to maximize initial impact from long range." Henry shut off his outgoing comms for the moment, listening as his leg started bouncing again. Just sitting in the cockpit only did so much, he only felt completely at peace when actually piloting and engaging in combat. It let him focus on a single task, one that required all his focus at least. Sooner they got moving the better, he could only sit for so long before he started feeling the nerves really start coming back, but fortunately focusing on discussion would help, hopefully. At least one professional was here so far, that was a good sign.
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