7) Finally, what sort of period in history is this? Medieval technology? Renaissance? Dark Ages Europe? This is pretty important for me when considering what sort of equipment would be available to my character.
I assumed late medieval period, probably late 1400s but sans gunpowder, though I am pushing it with a character who uses a two-handed greatsword. I talked to the GM on IRC and, though I obviously cannot speak accurately for him, it seems like he does not give too much of a hoot.
Name: Alexander Branwen Age: 30 Gender: Male Description: Alexander is a big man in most every way imaginable. He is tall, standing at nearly seven feet. He is large-framed, even for his height, boasting muscular arms sprouting from a barrel chest, long thick legs and wide, firm hands. His head, though normally proportioned, sports a massive smile nearly constantly, standing prominent on a field of mottled stubble. His eyes are wide and his nose scarred and deformed from several run-ins with hard steel or angry fists. His voice is loud and boisterous, deep and commanding but quick to jape and quicker to laugh a laugh that fills rooms to near bursting. His tan skin is marked and cratered, each inch bearing a remnant of some past service to crown and coin, weathered and calloused and in general disrepair. His short brown hair, the exception to the rule, sits atop his head short and unobtrusive, kept fastidiously short. Clad in a dented plate harness when trouble is afoot, in roughspun and patched cloth when in relaxed company, he never gives too much mind to his sense of fashion, rarely having enough money to warrant the thought. Occupation: Ex-Mercenary in the Dragon-Tooth Company, looking for gainful employment in the business of monster hunting.
Alexander’s boots crunched along the ill-tended byway, the dew frozen to the ground voicing its discontent with every heavy footfall. Had Alexander been in better spirits, he would have said the morning was beautiful. The ground sparkled as though it were laced with diamonds and sapphires, the reflective patterns changing with every step taken, stretching out before him as he climbed the shallow hill. The forest enclosed him on all sides, the long boughs of leaning evergreens grasping plaintively towards the center of the road, still but for the occasional gust of morning breeze that shook them from their stillness in languorous, twisting arcs, eventually settling back to their rest to repeat the process. The air smelt of crisp morning and damp forest, a familiar scent to any seasoned traveler, and one that would, to a happier man, speak of enticing mystery and beautiful vistas.
Alexander, unfortunately, was not a happier man. His usual smile and poorly-whistled tune were replaced with grimaces and shifting eyes, his confident long strides replaced with a mix of paranoid caution and hurried fear, speaking of a man profoundly uneasy.
“Damned forests. Nothin’ good ever came outta woods that weren't with a hunter, I say.”
Alexander rarely spoke to himself, but in his solitude he indulged in it, for no other reason than to cut through the oppressive silence. He had never liked the silence; he’d spent his whole life amongst thousands of people, and the few silences he’d been in were always right before some of the worst times of his life. There was a silence deeper than the ocean before Bright Forest. Mad name for a wood you couldn’t see the sky in, he always said, and a madder battle still. He remembered the silence in the lines before the ambush, a near-unbearable weight of tension, cut with the quietest of whistles from the captain. The part that followed had kept to the trend: all screaming men, no-one sure who was on whose side, fear and noise and stench and dark deeds and pain, all a whirl of adrenaline and britches-wetting terror.
Alexander shook his head and cleared the memory from his head. He replaced it with warm campfires, of drink and women and laughter, of dancing and singing and being paid. His jollity pressed him to start whistling again, like he had along the coast road behind him. The quiet, innumerable trees watched, and the song felt wrong. Alexander considered stopping, but he was too determined to spit in the face of his childish fears and melodramatic rememberings, and so he kept going. The whistle turned into a hum, the hum into a song, and by the time he emerged from the forest no more than an hour later he was singing and capering all around the road, the songs changing from bawdy drinking tunes to military marches to mournful shanties. Probably gave the woman he nearly ran into at the crossroads a fright, some giant come out of the forest, massive sword over a shoulder and clattering pack over his back, singing obnoxiously about some lass from Gullsbury and her bright fair hair.
The embarrassment he felt at the woman’s confused and scared expression pulled him out of his memories and placed his awareness fully back into the present. He apologized and looked out over the plains to his destination, the sight of it filling him with that familiar joy of seeing the end of a long journey. The city of Temrin stood like a mountain among the flats of the countryside, and from it snaked a dozen roads, each covered in people despite the godless hour of the morning it was. The unfriendly memories threatened to return for a brief moment, seeing on the plains around Temrin illusory siege camps, identifying good knolls to hide from arrows and pieces of sturdy ground to erect siege engines. Alexander was out of the woods, his spirits high and completely at ease, and so the unpleasant thoughts found no purchase and faded to the background, excited thoughts of warm beds and hot meals filling his mind instead. The last leg of the journey was brief and uneventful. A quick walk along the flats, his pace speeding slightly to escape the chagrin of the old woman who apparently was headed in the same direction as him, brought him to the gates of the city, odd looks from passersby drawn to him like flies to a candle. The attention of the civilians was nothing he was bothered with, but the attention of the guards was more of an inconvenience, and when he approached the gate he could see the handful of soldiers on duty tense and prepare themselves for a fight they no doubt thought was imminent. Alexander made no sudden moves, calmly explaining to them his reason for being in the city, and after several pointed questions he was allowed entry.
He made his way through the crowds, his height garnering him not only a wide berth but an excellent vantage point to find a tavern. He came upon the “Prancing Unicorn”, and entered. It was an upscale establishment, wooden floors and tables polished and clean, glass in the windows and a large fire heating the grand main room and its only occupant, a bald barkeep polishing colorful bottles of no doubt expensive liquors. Alexander was incredibly tempted to sample a few, but he had business to attend to, and he could drink later. He walked to the bar and sat loudly, catching the barkeep’s attention. Not waiting for the formalities to begin, he spoke, his loud voice filling the quiet tavern despite his best intentions, still used to the usually-noisy road and packed streets. “Ere, barkeep, you ever heard of an’ organization goes by the name of…” and Alexander paused for a second to remember the name before snapping his fingers in epiphany and continuing.
Talia's expression was uncharacteristically dour. She hadn't known Benji, not well at least. She had talked with him briefly, passed him in the halls and at the water cooler, but never really known the man. He was well above her pay grade, as were the rest of the Family proper. That did not mean that she was not sad for his passing. Her heart was still heavy with the news of his death, and so her usual precocious mirth was masked with stone-walled determination.
She hated to admit it, but her usual sunny disposition was marred also by the fact that his death had brought a great deal of very likely incredibly dangerous work to her doorstep, time-senstive and almost certain to tread on the toes of not only the Church, but the resistance and very likely other Novaks. She was the premier marksman in the Novak's employ, and was apparently thought resourceful and trustworthy enough to be worthy of being given the green light to surreptitiously investigate Benji's murder.
It was because of this assignment that she found herself atop a dingy apartment building looking for any evidence of the murder, dragging pieces of indicator paper along every serviceable perch looking for powder burns, her eyes scanning for anything out of place. She had no real solid idea where the shot came from. The faintness of the sound, coupled with the size and shape of the entry wound, suggested a long distance, an unrealistic distance with any civilian-accessible weapon. The rifles Talia could reasonably get her hands, even with her connections, would be reliably accurate out to seven, maybe seven and a half hundred meters. From the reports she had managed to acquire, the shot most likely came from further than a kilometer, a ridiculous shot by any metric. This fortunately narrowed down the list of suspects, but it did not help as much as she would like. Her chief suspect would need unimpeachable evidence to accuse, and so she found herself trying to find the exact place the shot came from.
She had begun talking to locals, trying to discern from whereabouts the shot came, and she had not managed to narrow it down to any considerable degree. Throwing her inconclusive test paper to the floor, she fumed as she walked down the fourteen stories of steep steps, adjusting her coat and nervously keeping one hand on her revolver as she made her way out onto the street and towards the next potential firing location.
Admiral Bramyl Hjalt sat in her command chair, relaxed and observant. Her crew sat in front of her, all diligently going about their assorted tasks with admirable focus. She had no such preoccupation, and simply stared at the screen in front of her, taking in every detail of the pictured shipyard, near which they were "moored". It was a massive rib-cage of steel, surrounding a half-finished warship, around which thousands of tiny autos were invisibly scurrying, the mottled hull marked with he occasional flash of welding-light. The ship under construction was a large one: fitted with the latest weapons and ready to withstand cataclysmic punishment. Bramyl knew that the diplomats had fought long and hard to get the technology that not only would power the ship on the screen but the ship beneath her feet, and she was almost giddy to see what the alien science could do when integrated from the very beginning, rather than tacked on like it had been with the Inheritor.
She sat for a few more minutes in silence. Music could be heard, ever so faintly from one of the crew stations, but Bramyl pretended not to hear it. The crew were entitled to their fun, and it was a commander's job to know when she should furtively allow it. She finally grew bored of looking at a video feed that did not change, and pulled up what reports she could, determined to keep this relaxing state of freedom from real responsibility going as long as was possible. She flicked through the short list: diplomatic tensions within the Council, new spice trade from some far-off star, an after-action report on a border pirate incident that included nothing of note besides masturbatory congratulations on the part of Captain Ustmun. Bramyl's red fur bristled under her blue naval uniform, her teeth clentching slightly at the mention of the male. He was a competent officer, but his efforts at taking her job as overall commander were as frustrating as they were blatant.
Bramyl's last notification was for a report that brought her immense joy. She had apparently been mentioned in the Council, in regards to her talks with that Cytherea. Diplo, having brushed it off as too risky, let her pick up the negotiations, and she had managed to wrangle trade agreements and declared non-aggression out of the Synchronicity's "representative". She was still galled that she had not managed to obtain any of the fantastical technology she had heard of, but she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was happy to see the words "noble", "good" and "patriotic" mixed into the speeches about her achievements, but noticed the marked absence of "hero". She didn't mind too much, however. She had many years ahead of her, and there would be plenty more opportunities.
She placed her screen to the side, and retired to her quarters, handing command of the bridge off to Lieutenant Hjelt. She deserved a nap.
