HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

It was eating the light.

Yael was thankfully quick to pivot after he'd barked his "orders", and the combined efforts of her and Rolan had freed up Caulder andf his mighty axe in an instant— and an instant later, the burly knight put it to good use, bringing a fell-handed cleave down through the Gannek's soft underbelly— a ghastly wound on anything that drew breath. They had the advantage, they had the pressure, they were winning. As coordinated a fighting force as could be leveled on the fly against such a foe.

Unfortunately, the magical nature of their foe meant that even rending it open like this wouldn't be enough. His stomach churned, as though ready to howl. His eyes began to strain, as the relatively thin field of view afforded by his new helm was quickly growing dark. Unnaturally dark, as though the light itself were sucked out of the air. It sought to blind them. Desperate. Hurt. Feelings he knew well, with each remembered pang of hunger it foolishly forced into his brain.

Where his light faded, his eyes, ears, and breath sharpened. Where his stomach groaned, his heart hammered, buoyed by old, familiar war drums. It had made a crucial error in this effort. One that would spell its undoing. Many men would be enfeebled, distracted, or otherwise unsettled from their fighting for by this phantom of starvation. They would believe their bodies sapped of strength, the way hunger did.

Gerard, by contrast, came from a life where these feelings came with war. He had fought to put food in his belly, day in, day out. A sufficiently starved wolf would even challenge a bear for the rights to a kill. A sufficiently starved fighting man—

In this moment, a realization alighted upon him. Barely even a thought, so much as an... understanding. That of something he was previously not fully aware, of knowledge and perspective he'd not yet needed. In the moments where their strengths checked one another, the teeth-grit deadlock between beast and man, he... had more to give. There was still yet strength that he could bring to bear, still power he could use.

The knight breathed low, golden eyes glaring out the darkness of the visor as though coins catching the firelight of Rolan's torch. Beneath his plate, fur, gambeson, cloth, his muscular frame held sturdy, coiled like a spring. His moment was close. with a light in the darkness, there would surely be a moment of primal recognition that something new was— THERE!

He remembered the broken end of the felled branch he was driving into this thing's maw as a primarily ragged thing, but all the same split wood— that first jagged, primordial point that the first men had waged war with. Not all that far from a stake. The Gannek's stomach wound was belaboring it, unable to properly close, but Rolan's bolts and the cuts made upon its limbs were still sealing quickly. Its regenerative ability was still very much alive—

So why not turn that against it? While not quite the anathema that staking the heart of a vampire was said to be, the too-hungry soldier for hire that it had dragged up, so soon after he'd begun to properly tuck him away, still wanted to know what it would make of having its' skull impaled upon this lance by any other name. Would it burn precious seconds and energy having to shove it back out the roof of its mouth? Would it simply close around the branch, like wood fibers around a nail? He'd find out. He'd find out, kill his enemy, and this damn facade of emptiness would release the vice it had his gut in. Heavens above, double wages upon them all.

He brought his sword arm to the length of old wood, bracing it on both, and drove forward with redoubled force— the instant the Gannek's beady eyes wavered, he was going to run it through. If Reon's lucky rays still pierced the unnatural gloom in some way, the timing might have even lined up with his peers truly tearing that initial wound open. An immaculate opportunity for a one-man (and technically one fae) siege engine to pulp the brain right through the base of the skull.

Falling Skies

Pilot Dossier: Kilmer, Roy

ROY 'COMMIE' KILMER

D O S S I E R : I D #458423691

---

Name: Kilmer, Roy
Callsign: Vomit Comet (Often shortened to "Commie").
Rank: O-2 LTJG. Ought to be higher.
Kills: 44
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Height: 5'11
Weight: 168lb

S E R V I C E R E C O R D

---

Psychological Analysis:
Of noble, upright bent, and infallibly earnest in his every waking moment. Well-respected as a soldier for his dedication to the craft and consideration of his colleagues in largely equal measure, Roy is often thought to in many senses be a man out of time in the 2700s— a summation he graciously counters by positing the archetype of a gentleman warrior never really went away at any point in history before. Proud of his skill, he makes no attempts to hold back the notion that he delights in the thrill of putting his life on the line against a properly challenging foe living for the livewire feeling of pushing man and machine to their limits in concerto. As one might expect, there is a reckless flame within that this produces, but one that thankfully takes a back seat to being a team player. He is affable, charming, and his unshakable integrity and intensity are humorously counterweighed by a whimsical tendency towards superstition and spiritualism on the ground— but in the air, it all falls to second place behind a single facet. He pilots the way a fish swims: like he'll stop breathing if he doesn't. Being an Earthling, he has taken a number of years to completely reconcile the idea that his "normal, middle-class American childhood" puts him in a completely different economic stratosphere to a fair few of his peers— thankfully, that same disconnect engenders an egalitarian view towards them, rather than any sense of Earthborn superiority. They are all pilots, they are all the 101st, and they are all just as here to push him past his limits as he is them. Nowhere in all the universe he'd rather be.

Well, maybe if he could get home for a Vikings game one of these days, there might be a little competition. But who are we kidding? He can’t even remember the last time they brought home a ring.

Earned the moniker “Vomit Comet” years back, after attempting (and in fairness, succeeding) to perform a high-amplitude stunt in BFM after too much of the barracks moonshine the night before— the story has warped over time and nobody can really agree whether he went for a Kulbit, a Cobra, or just some overly tight Immelmann, but the common throughline is assured: He could not get the oxygen mask off quick enough. He weathers the immortality of the event with admirable humor and is a little pleased that it’s been shortened to the snappier “Commie”, but has nonetheless very pointedly sworn off anything more than a glass with a week of ground time in his future.

Personal Record:
Born to a large family in Rochester, Minnesota, Roy held the dubious distinction of both being the baby brother and eldest son of the generation— A trio of accomplished and quick-witted elder sisters preparing him for the worst torment the military world could throw at him, by his account. They in turn would counter that he was more than rambunctious enough to bring it onto himself. Having no nose for the books save history and no love in his heart for real academic study regardless of subject, his childhood was characterized by turning the familial brainpower and stubbornness alike towards thrill-seeking and working with his hands.

At sixteen, he picked up a job apprenticing beneath the local auto mechanic. At seventeen, his boyhood love of thrill rides was firmly in his own hands in the dead of night, racing other hotblooded gearheads down the freeway in his Toyota when he damn well ought to have been preparing for his future, given Earth’s cost of living. At eighteen, his time in school had come to an end— and while he wasn’t failing, he hadn’t quite the grades nor the interest to follow his third sister down to Florida to enroll in Embry-Riddle, no matter their shared interest in the aerospace field. Instead he decided, as he so often does, on a more hands-on path.

The Navy Recruiter seemed chuffed that he’d actually bagged a kid from the homeworld that day. Despite the Kilmer clan’s disappointment that their generational run of college graduates would be ending at three, Roy logging the first few years of dignified service under the family name in over a century was still a damn sight more to take pride in than the alternatives that were left. None of them could deny it, either— the dress blues suited him.

With the seemingly eternal war with the Coalition well underway once more, Kilmer was tapped for flight school practically the same second his physical and psychological evaluations hit the Naval Academy’s desk. They had an adrenaline junkie on their hands— but so was every pilot that was thrown into the simulator and asked for seconds once the altimeter crested four digits. More importantly, he showed quick reactions and a distinct comfort with the alienating sensation of one’s body being pulled across the cockpit by more momentum than you were ever supposed to survive. It likely also helped concerns about his ability to follow orders that he was more or less classically “Minnesota nice”, agreeable enough that they felt they could iron out the kinks by the time they handed him anything they were worried he’d crash. With the threat of Coalition MASes still very much looming over UEE forces, his promising talent was hard to overlook.

He dove feet first into the program, buoyed by the holovids of old films and what current war footage had made its way into the curriculum alike. Given that UEE MAS Production was still neck-deep in the pipeline by this point, he did everything he could to absorb the small smattering of recorded kills made on Fenrirs by Naginata pilots completely—hogging whatever extra sim hours he could pull together to try and match and dissect the winning plays the men and women ahead of him had made. He found himself obsessed before long— an obsession that would seem an act of fate, seeing him graduate flight school with top marks and ship off to the Coalition front in short order. He was assigned to the 212th Flight Wing during the year directly prior to the UEE’s first Sentries hitting the front, and would become a mainstay in his squadron— enough to be thoroughly humbled by the meatgrinder, watching superior officers and fellow rookies alike come and go. Many of them he had made fast friends with— many of them leaving the front shattered or silenced. Through it all, his passion for defeating the Coalition forces remained, and his endless hours of study did indeed bear fruit— by the end of his first tour, he had logged an impressive five MAS kills in the Naginata.

He and other standouts had proven that the UEE’s updated training was starting to pay dividends, but such praise rang hollow for both speaker and recipient— for him, he hadn’t nearly done enough to avenge the friends he’d lost on the way, and for the Imperial Navy, the paradigm shift was clearly not going to allow for such gradual progress at such a cost. It wasn’t long before his subsequent tours began, deployments dotting the FEZ and Border Space. His consistent survival record and steadily climbing kill tally saw him and the 212th as some of the earliest adopters of the Sparrow, and MAS frame he seemed suspiciously quick to master, even provided his now-clear talent. Notably, a few of his more observant peers had sighted him being approached by Union higher-ups near the end of his second tour… Though they’d at the time simply believed a promotion to Lieutenant was on its way thanks to battlefield merit, now different gears started turning as to why he’d gone uncharacteristically dark in the interim period.

For his part, he simply offered the same easy smile as always, and mentioned he’d turned down an opportunity for them to stack more on his plate than he wanted— that not every pilot wanted to worry about being in charge of people. Now behind the controls of an MAS of his own, he was right where he belonged in the chain. Deployed to the 3rd fleet as a rapid response wing and interceptor, he made the most of the moment of opportunity that came with a new breed of MAS screaming into the engagement at well north of 1000mph, and made Ace in short order. Things progressed from there, and roughly 4 years ago his longevity and skillset saw him transferred to the 101st SOG— and in some interesting quirk of fate, beneath the watchful eye of one of those first few men whose maneuver patterns he’d pored over in flight school.

Personal Skills:

Aerobatics: An accomplished Mobile Suit jockey and Aerospace Fighter Pilot before that, LTJG Kilmer treats flight maneuvering as second nature, weaponizing both a natural aptitude and psychotically honed tolerance for High Gs. He is an especially quick and agile dogfighter, hard to keep up with even on his worst day— and on his best, he can barely keep up with himself. On more than one occasion he’s pushed his airframe and body past their recommended operational limits— The callsign of “Vomit Comet” infamously more than a simple reference to old aircraft trivia.

Close Combat: As the MAS was forged in the human image, Roy found it natural and sensible to familiarize himself with fighting techniques developed for that body plan over countless millennia to contribute as much efficacy as he could to his role as a hypermobile melee skirmisher— the practical logistics of this are a bleeding edge field of Imperial Navy doctrine, of course. If nothing else, he’s found a hobby and will never need to be too worried about personnel combatives standards suddenly eclipsing him, but he’s of the belief that it helps him maintain his cool under fire and spot openings at knife-fighting range another pilot might miss.

Mechanical Aptitude: While the bulk of his expertise is still very much rooted in the automotive repair field, Roy is as handy with a torque wrench as ever, and has retained that infectious tuner’s mindset when assisting the hangar crews with keeping his expensive rides up and running. It’s suspected that his willingness to eat the grease with the rest of the monkeys and foist any beer offered to him onto their craftily-concealed minifridge is a large portion of how he’s stayed on their good sides, despite how much work his piloting puts in their laps after sortie.

Motivation: None of this guy’s deal is done “for the bit”. He’s completely sincerely a psycho.

FTP-013 “Shrike”

M O B I L E A R M O R S U I T

---

S P E C I F I C A T I O N S

---

Designation: FTP-013 Shrike Prototype
Role: Close-in Skirmisher and Interceptor
Weight Class: Light
Description:
A project by the Boeing design team that has entered the field-testing stage only a month a go, the Shrike represents their bleeding edge of Mobile Suit development. Utilizing many of the hard-learned lessons from the five years the Sparrow has been in service, the Shrike’s primary functionality is to provide the UEE with a more dedicated platform for Interception and Air Superiority. Where the incoming Sparrowhawk models trend more towards bolstering the survivability and armoring of the fragile predecessor, shoring up weaknesses, the Shrike is poised to explore the option of further exaggerating its’ strengths. Chiefly, it is a testbed for a full-transformation capability, allowing for further gains on cruising range and space-optimization by way of the aerospace fighter form— as well as providing an intuitive piloting experience for those familiar with the venerable Naginata. While the armoring is a little more robust than the Sparrow’s, the Shrike is still fundamentally a Light MAS: best utilized to enter and exit engagements at high speed (cresting 1350mph in Flight Mode), performing surgical strikes on priority targets. In a protracted combat environment, the frame’s maneuverability and skill inherent to the pilot will be deciding longevity factors— recommended doctrine is to minimize opportunities for reprisal.

Kilmer’s unit has been with him for roughly two months, and has already been torn into by him and the ground teams to push whatever margins they can with the fancy new toy. His service record in the Sparrow and placement in the 101st made him an ideal test pilot on paper— in practice, Boeing’s representative engineers have been made to reckon with the very much alive tuner culture in his heart. He’s applied the American Muscle philosophy to their baby— more thrust, less weight, and whatever happens to him in the cockpit is his problem. He thinks he can push the thing to 1500. They wish he’d stop transforming at cruising speeds to get the drop on Coalition patrols.

A R M A M E N T

---

• M176 50mm Autocannons (Primary): Mounted to the Shrike’s arms, these are largely standard autocannons as UEE mechs go, and serve as the primary ranged armament inbuilt to the Shrike, with the additional feature of a measure of barrel retractability to facilitate the flight mode transformation. They’re playing with the idea of utilizing that in the recoil reciprocation systems, as a way to squeeze out a little more accuracy. Fed by a 45-round internal magazine. There are adapters being developed for external box magazines, but Kilmer is leery of compromising on weight.
• EB-21 Beam Saber (Primary): - A plasma beam saber used in close combat. The blade length can be adjusted, and its high energy output allows it to be a deadly close ranged weapon. A personal favorite and vital weapon in the close-in role Roy inhabits, he’s been bugging the maintenance crew about removing the limiters on power output— and campaigning the Boeing rep for a second blade for his other hand.
• Head Mounted Point Defense Gun .50 Cal (Secondary): - A .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the mech's head, this light weapon provides the MAS with anti-personnel and direct missile defense. It has a 500 round magazine. A mainstay of his toolbox in his previous chariot, LTJG Kilmer was pleased to see it was kept in the Shrike design.
• S10 Combat Shield (Secondary): - A lightweight combat shield meant to provide the Shrike with limited protection from incoming fire. Treated with anti-beam coating, though the shield itself is too lightweight to fully block hits from incoming plasma. The formula for the anti-beam coating common to the S8s of the Sparrows may be slightly refined in the coming months, depending on how the added diffusion compounds perform during the stress-testing of an average 101st financial quarter.
• Solid Fuel Afterburners - Flight Booster (Utility slot): - For when you just don’t feel like that high-altitude reconnaissance craft should get away so easily. Working in conjunction with the leg-mounted verniers, these back-mounted thrusters serve to punch the acceleration of the lightweight Shrike into next week, contributing to both the high top speeds and disorientingly sudden bursts of movement in combat.
• Countermeasure System (Standard to Light MAS): A combination of flares, chaff, and raw mechanical nimbleness that every flyboy worth their salt knows how to outfox a missile with.
• Stripped Armor(No Utility Slot): In keeping with his operational preferences, Kilmer has stripped much of the armoring his experience has informed him was nonessential, in the name of pushing speed and maneuverability further and further. The marginal improvements on the Sparrow's defenses are at this point null.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

Hardly a breath after Dame Yael forced one of the Gannek's crawling, grasping arms back into its maw, a second line of edged steel blurred, as the longsword in the wolf-pelted knight's hand sent another home. He grunted, snarling as he drove all his power into the dried, dead ground beneath, keeping his impromptu boar spear wedged against their foe's most dangerous weapon, checking its advance, keeping that belly exposed. That was the key to all this. Everyone here knew that.

None moreso than the beast itself, as two legs snatched Sir Caulder's axe and stopped it cold, while a third reached for his helmet while he was still stuck in deadlock for generalship of the weapon, strength met with strength. Gerard had mere seconds to react, even as Rolan darted in and out of range behind the bite of his hunting knife to disable an arm—

"To Caulder! Go! We'll be alright!" he howled, the immediate echo in his helmet ringing down to the Aessyr's ears as much as Dame Yael's. As though to make good on his promise, lightning cracked behind his visor, and he pressed the advantage, forcing his arm, shoulder, and torso behind it forward, buying more distance... for now.

He could feel the strides of the crawling length of arms even as he bat them away with his sword. Between that and the titanic strain he was putting the wood under (even with the grain as opposed to against), he wouldn't be able to check it like this forever— at some point, he'd need a fallback. His passenger was buried really deep now, so he didn't believe he'd lose her if he needed to move quick...

"Be ready, but have faith. I've got you." he breathed.

If he felt the branch was about to go, he'd cast it off and use the second of obstruction it'd buy to get at the neck— take over as battering ram, find an angle where the monster couldn't get its mouth or arms around to reach.

Falling Skies (Mecha, Military, Space Opera)

This post was fact-checked by real Earthnoid patriots: TRUE

Pilot Dossier: Kilmer, Roy

ROY 'COMMIE' KILMER

D O S S I E R : I D #458423691

---

Name: Kilmer, Roy
Callsign: Vomit Comet (Often shortened to "Commie").
Rank: O-2 LTJG. Ought to be higher.
Kills: 44
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Height: 5'11
Weight: 168lb

S E R V I C E R E C O R D

---

Psychological Analysis:
Of noble, upright bent, and infallibly earnest in his every waking moment. Well-respected as a soldier for his dedication to the craft and consideration of his colleagues in largely equal measure, Roy is often thought to in many senses be a man out of time in the 2700s— a summation he graciously counters by positing the archetype of a gentleman warrior never really went away at any point in history before. Proud of his skill, he makes no attempts to hold back the notion that he delights in the thrill of putting his life on the line against a properly challenging foe living for the livewire feeling of pushing man and machine to their limits in concerto. As one might expect, there is a reckless flame within that this produces, but one that thankfully takes a back seat to being a team player. He is affable, charming, and his unshakable integrity and intensity are humorously counterweighed by a whimsical tendency towards superstition and spiritualism on the ground— but in the air, it all falls to second place behind a single facet. He pilots the way a fish swims: like he'll stop breathing if he doesn't. Being an Earthling, he has taken a number of years to completely reconcile the idea that his "normal, middle-class American childhood" puts him in a completely different economic stratosphere to a fair few of his peers— thankfully, that same disconnect engenders an egalitarian view towards them, rather than any sense of Earthborn superiority. They are all pilots, they are all the 101st, and they are all just as here to push him past his limits as he is them. Nowhere in all the universe he'd rather be.

Well, maybe if he could get home for a Vikings game one of these days, there might be a little competition. But who are we kidding? He can’t even remember the last time they brought home a ring.

Earned the moniker “Vomit Comet” years back, after attempting (and in fairness, succeeding) to perform a high-amplitude stunt in BFM after too much of the barracks moonshine the night before— the story has warped over time and nobody can really agree whether he went for a Kulbit, a Cobra, or just some overly tight Immelmann, but the common throughline is assured: He could not get the oxygen mask off quick enough. He weathers the immortality of the event with admirable humor and is a little pleased that it’s been shortened to the snappier “Commie”, but has nonetheless very pointedly sworn off anything more than a glass with a week of ground time in his future.

Personal Record:
Born to a large family in Rochester, Minnesota, Roy held the dubious distinction of both being the baby brother and eldest son of the generation— A trio of accomplished and quick-witted elder sisters preparing him for the worst torment the military world could throw at him, by his account. They in turn would counter that he was more than rambunctious enough to bring it onto himself. Having no nose for the books save history and no love in his heart for real academic study regardless of subject, his childhood was characterized by turning the familial brainpower and stubbornness alike towards thrill-seeking and working with his hands.

At sixteen, he picked up a job apprenticing beneath the local auto mechanic. At seventeen, his boyhood love of thrill rides was firmly in his own hands in the dead of night, racing other hotblooded gearheads down the freeway in his Toyota when he damn well ought to have been preparing for his future, given Earth’s cost of living. At eighteen, his time in school had come to an end— and while he wasn’t failing, he hadn’t quite the grades nor the interest to follow his third sister down to Florida to enroll in Embry-Riddle, no matter their shared interest in the aerospace field. Instead he decided, as he so often does, on a more hands-on path.

The Navy Recruiter seemed chuffed that he’d actually bagged a kid from the homeworld that day. Despite the Kilmer clan’s disappointment that their generational run of college graduates would be ending at three, Roy logging the first few years of dignified service under the family name in over a century was still a damn sight more to take pride in than the alternatives that were left. None of them could deny it, either— the dress blues suited him.

With the seemingly eternal war with the Coalition well underway once more, Kilmer was tapped for flight school practically the same second his physical and psychological evaluations hit the Naval Academy’s desk. They had an adrenaline junkie on their hands— but so was every pilot that was thrown into the simulator and asked for seconds once the altimeter crested four digits. More importantly, he showed quick reactions and a distinct comfort with the alienating sensation of one’s body being pulled across the cockpit by more momentum than you were ever supposed to survive. It likely also helped concerns about his ability to follow orders that he was more or less classically “Minnesota nice”, agreeable enough that they felt they could iron out the kinks by the time they handed him anything they were worried he’d crash. With the threat of Coalition MASes still very much looming over UEE forces, his promising talent was hard to overlook.

He dove feet first into the program, buoyed by the holovids of old films and what current war footage had made its way into the curriculum alike. Given that UEE MAS Production was still neck-deep in the pipeline by this point, he did everything he could to absorb the small smattering of recorded kills made on Fenrirs by Naginata pilots completely—hogging whatever extra sim hours he could pull together to try and match and dissect the winning plays the men and women ahead of him had made. He found himself obsessed before long— an obsession that would seem an act of fate, seeing him graduate flight school with top marks and ship off to the Coalition front in short order. He was assigned to the 212th Flight Wing during the year directly prior to the UEE’s first Sentries hitting the front, and would become a mainstay in his squadron— enough to be thoroughly humbled by the meatgrinder, watching superior officers and fellow rookies alike come and go. Many of them he had made fast friends with— many of them leaving the front shattered or silenced. Through it all, his passion for defeating the Coalition forces remained, and his endless hours of study did indeed bear fruit— by the end of his first tour, he had logged an impressive five MAS kills in the Naginata.

He and other standouts had proven that the UEE’s updated training was starting to pay dividends, but such praise rang hollow for both speaker and recipient— for him, he hadn’t nearly done enough to avenge the friends he’d lost on the way, and for the Imperial Navy, the paradigm shift was clearly not going to allow for such gradual progress at such a cost. It wasn’t long before his subsequent tours began, deployments dotting the FEZ and Border Space. His consistent survival record and steadily climbing kill tally saw him and the 212th as some of the earliest adopters of the Sparrow, and MAS frame he seemed suspiciously quick to master, even provided his now-clear talent. Notably, a few of his more observant peers had sighted him being approached by Union higher-ups near the end of his second tour… Though they’d at the time simply believed a promotion to Lieutenant was on its way thanks to battlefield merit, now different gears started turning as to why he’d gone uncharacteristically dark in the interim period.

For his part, he simply offered the same easy smile as always, and mentioned he’d turned down an opportunity for them to stack more on his plate than he wanted— that not every pilot wanted to worry about being in charge of people. Now behind the controls of an MAS of his own, he was right where he belonged in the chain. Deployed to the 3rd fleet as a rapid response wing and interceptor, he made the most of the moment of opportunity that came with a new breed of MAS screaming into the engagement at well north of 1000mph, and made Ace in short order. Things progressed from there, and roughly 4 years ago his longevity and skillset saw him transferred to the 101st SOG— and in some interesting quirk of fate, beneath the watchful eye of one of those first few men whose maneuver patterns he’d pored over in flight school.

Personal Skills:

Aerobatics: An accomplished Mobile Suit jockey and Aerospace Fighter Pilot before that, LTJG Kilmer treats flight maneuvering as second nature, weaponizing both a natural aptitude and psychotically honed tolerance for High Gs. He is an especially quick and agile dogfighter, hard to keep up with even on his worst day— and on his best, he can barely keep up with himself. On more than one occasion he’s pushed his airframe and body past their recommended operational limits— The callsign of “Vomit Comet” infamously more than a simple reference to old aircraft trivia.

Close Combat: As the MAS was forged in the human image, Roy found it natural and sensible to familiarize himself with fighting techniques developed for that body plan over countless millennia to contribute as much efficacy as he could to his role as a hypermobile melee skirmisher— the practical logistics of this are a bleeding edge field of Imperial Navy doctrine, of course. If nothing else, he’s found a hobby and will never need to be too worried about personnel combatives standards suddenly eclipsing him, but he’s of the belief that it helps him maintain his cool under fire and spot openings at knife-fighting range another pilot might miss.

Mechanical Aptitude: While the bulk of his expertise is still very much rooted in the automotive repair field, Roy is as handy with a torque wrench as ever, and has retained that infectious tuner’s mindset when assisting the hangar crews with keeping his expensive rides up and running. It’s suspected that his willingness to eat the grease with the rest of the monkeys and foist any beer offered to him onto their craftily-concealed minifridge is a large portion of how he’s stayed on their good sides, despite how much work his piloting puts in their laps after sortie.

Motivation: None of this guy’s deal is done “for the bit”. He’s completely sincerely a psycho.

FTP-013 “Shrike”

M O B I L E A R M O R S U I T

---

S P E C I F I C A T I O N S

---

Designation: FTP-013 Shrike Prototype
Role: Close-in Skirmisher and Interceptor
Weight Class: Light
Description:
A project by the Boeing design team that has entered the field-testing stage only a month a go, the Shrike represents their bleeding edge of Mobile Suit development. Utilizing many of the hard-learned lessons from the five years the Sparrow has been in service, the Shrike’s primary functionality is to provide the UEE with a more dedicated platform for Interception and Air Superiority. Where the incoming Sparrowhawk models trend more towards bolstering the survivability and armoring of the fragile predecessor, shoring up weaknesses, the Shrike is poised to explore the option of further exaggerating its’ strengths. Chiefly, it is a testbed for a full-transformation capability, allowing for further gains on cruising range and space-optimization by way of the aerospace fighter form— as well as providing an intuitive piloting experience for those familiar with the venerable Naginata. While the armoring is a little more robust than the Sparrow’s, the Shrike is still fundamentally a Light MAS: best utilized to enter and exit engagements at high speed (cresting 1350mph in Flight Mode), performing surgical strikes on priority targets. In a protracted combat environment, the frame’s maneuverability and skill inherent to the pilot will be deciding longevity factors— recommended doctrine is to minimize opportunities for reprisal.

Kilmer’s unit has been with him for roughly two months, and has already been torn into by him and the ground teams to push whatever margins they can with the fancy new toy. His service record in the Sparrow and placement in the 101st made him an ideal test pilot on paper— in practice, Boeing’s representative engineers have been made to reckon with the very much alive tuner culture in his heart. He’s applied the American Muscle philosophy to their baby— more thrust, less weight, and whatever happens to him in the cockpit is his problem. He thinks he can push the thing to 1500. They wish he’d stop transforming at cruising speeds to get the drop on Coalition patrols.

A R M A M E N T

---

• M176 50mm Autocannons (Primary): Mounted to the Shrike’s arms, these are largely standard autocannons as UEE mechs go, and serve as the primary ranged armament inbuilt to the Shrike, with the additional feature of a measure of barrel retractability to facilitate the flight mode transformation. They’re playing with the idea of utilizing that in the recoil reciprocation systems, as a way to squeeze out a little more accuracy. Fed by a 45-round internal magazine. There are adapters being developed for external box magazines, but Kilmer is leery of compromising on weight.
• EB-21 Beam Saber (Primary): - A plasma beam saber used in close combat. The blade length can be adjusted, and its high energy output allows it to be a deadly close ranged weapon. A personal favorite and vital weapon in the close-in role Roy inhabits, he’s been bugging the maintenance crew about removing the limiters on power output— and campaigning the Boeing rep for a second blade for his other hand.
• Head Mounted Point Defense Gun .50 Cal (Secondary): - A .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the mech's head, this light weapon provides the MAS with anti-personnel and direct missile defense. It has a 500 round magazine. A mainstay of his toolbox in his previous chariot, LTJG Kilmer was pleased to see it was kept in the Shrike design.
• S10 Combat Shield (Secondary): - A lightweight combat shield meant to provide the Shrike with limited protection from incoming fire. Treated with anti-beam coating, though the shield itself is too lightweight to fully block hits from incoming plasma. The formula for the anti-beam coating common to the S8s of the Sparrows may be slightly refined in the coming months, depending on how the added diffusion compounds perform during the stress-testing of an average 101st financial quarter.
• Solid Fuel Afterburners - Flight Booster (Utility slot): - For when you just don’t feel like that high-altitude reconnaissance craft should get away so easily. Working in conjunction with the leg-mounted verniers, these back-mounted thrusters serve to punch the acceleration of the lightweight Shrike into next week, contributing to both the high top speeds and disorientingly sudden bursts of movement in combat.
• Countermeasure System (Standard to Light MAS): A combination of flares, chaff, and raw mechanical nimbleness that every flyboy worth their salt knows how to outfox a missile with.
• Stripped Armor(No Utility Slot): In keeping with his operational preferences, Kilmer has stripped much of the armoring his experience has informed him was nonessential, in the name of pushing speed and maneuverability further and further. The marginal improvements on the Sparrow's defenses are at this point null.

Falling Skies (Mecha, Military, Space Opera)

im plenty adjusted it's normal to enjoy fast flight and melee combat yknow
there's a pageantry to it

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@VitaVitaAR@vietmyke

"Friends of yours, Fey?"

Blades crashed, painting the heavy shadows of the narrow alleyway in brief showers of orange as the trio of Kirins (nobody reasonably expecting Goug to fight) squared off with twice their number in soon-to-be unlucky highwaymen. Negotiations had quickly fallen through after it became clear that nobody intended to part with their gil so easily— Rudolf had barely the time to raise a smirk and an eyebrow at the thought of robbing people so heavily armed as they were before he was set upon by a pair of masked ne'er-do-wells.

Silver lining was that they'd prove a fair first outing for his new recruits.

The seconds that followed were a cacophony of steel striking steel, as the heavy, curved Crane's Wings at his hip were set to work on their first sortie, turning aside the straighter, thrusting attacks made by his sudden opponents. His eyes narrowed, taking their measure while he had these opening moments of uncertainty. They darted to and fro between the figures, his companions, the narrow space and sturdy walls they'd walked themselves into. Something itched at the back of his mind, feeling like familiarity.

From the jump, it seemed like they at least had a rudimentary idea of how to maximize their advantages within the space— cramped as this back alley was, he couldn't completely open the Wings up the way they demanded. His new recruits were well-suited to casting oneself almost into a dervish, swinging the body through powerful arcs as one blade played off the momentum of the other, each strike lending some of its torque to the next— fine as a lone fighter, but when minding his comrades in such tight environs, he'd suddenly found himself kind of wishing he had brought along Valon's spear instead—

That, at least, would allow him to more than contend with his opponents, who had far less concern for the likelihood of accidentally striking an ally. Theirs were the classical form of cut-and-thrust, in keeping with the highwayman look, all in-and-out movement punctuated by needling tempo. He was penned in by the space, and forced to make his reads on the defensive— they would already be out of the way by the time one of his cuts would pass through where they'd been. Trapped at the edge of their range and with no way in, he most out of the three present would be suspect to a death by a thousand cuts once they wore him down. In basic terms, this was what he intuited to be their gambit.

What they had failed to account for was to be a fatal gap in the theory. One they had no reason to know of, in fairness, but was simultaneously a load-bearing element of the whole idea that had been swiped from beneath them, one that made him probably the worst to encounter, rather than best. He'd figured out what it was about the feeling of each exhange that had been bugging him.

He watched the nearby man step in deep. The rhythm, the form, the openings...

He had seen this before.

A few times with his eyes from afar, but more importantly, once over the span of a moonlit bout behind his swords. The other half of that ill-fated eve was barely two steps to his right. The space was very different, true, he didn't have a whole courtyard to open up and apply pressure through—

As the masked mystrel man tried to retract his spada, he found it off-course and caught between the Crane Wings as they crossed over its length, catching his edge on the "featherlike" quillons on the spines. Behind the thin strip of black cloth, his eyes would go wide for the moment the pressure was relieved after a slight tug forward.

"Either way, if they're holding us up I'm playing rough." a cold voice intoned from directly in front, as a blur swelled through the gloom. Still trying to catch himself, the next instant saw the world explode into a field of white pain as Rudolf's pommel smashed into the bridge of his nose. Blinded, he reared back only to find a boot planting itself into his stomach, sending him crashing into another.

—but with that revelation in hand, these guys were now an open book. Forget responding in time— by the end of sparring the better version, he was confident he knew how to break rhythm and regain initiative at a moment's notice. He could attack stance, wedge his cuts in between theirs, or leverage physicality in tight, just as he had here.

The time to sit and watch on the back foot was over. Now that he knew what he was dealing with, it was time to smash through their game the way he had the best of this archetype. Having bought himself a moment's space, the Sagramori Auxilia decided it was his turn to use the terrain to his advantage.

As though channeling the spirit of the mighty sabertooth whose fang he had pried out four years ago, the young man surged forward and pounced, using the nearby wall as a springboard to launch himself clear over the heads of the highwaymen—

"Heads up, nimrod."

—Only to descend upon their rearmost like a falling buzzsaw, twisting at the hips and trunk into a whirling set of hews as his boot planted upon the wall opposite and launched Wings and Warrior both towards the earth. Now behind their lines, suddenly it was the three Kirins bunching up and entrapping the would-be robbers.

He had no intention of letting up his assault.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"Stay with me, little one. Bury yourself well in the coat. It's close." Gerard growled as their hike took them deeper and deeper into the unnatural gloom, an emptying pull in his gullet heralding tension down the back of his neck, hackles raising and senses sharpening. He licked his chops in spite of himself, as he finally donned his helmet anew and drew his sword as they entered the rest, head on swivel. He as well as any recognized the pangs of inexplicable hunger as they came— And while the white branches of the tree that marked a hero's grave yet caught light, he did too mutter a silent prayer to his patron goddess anew.

The sensation intensified as the blackness deepened and they continued on, until finally they arrived at the site of the attack, taking in the destruction caused by the monster in question with wary eyes. The tree that had once been the Aessyr's home was now a tattered ruin, old belongings strewn about the blackened ground, and of course, no monster in sight... Yet.

Hunger and smelling war at his doorstep. It was much like old times— and as such, his instincts were sharp pins and needles, forcing his visor upward to meet the eyes they all felt upon them.

Impossibly wide maw. Hunger filling the air. Long, spindly, emaciated, big— full of a gluttony that stood as eternal allegorical rival to the storied greed of dragons. It was a good thing he and the little fairy had finished the pastry on their journey— as a growing boy, he had always been told these damnable things would come, and eat the whole village if food was left to waste. He had put the pieces together now.

"Gannek," he growled, bringing his blade to bear as it began to descend, the first hand-tipped tendrils creeping out of the depths of its mouth. It was hard to hide the disgust in his voice— boyhood nightmares had become adulthood understandings of the world he lived in. Though an unfinished meal wasn't ever likely to draw one to your homestead, they were very real monsters all the same, and needed to be immediately dealt with as such. "Lovely. I get to start my day by doing the countryside a service."

Its approach was steady, but unceasing, heedless of the steel being brough to bear upon it. Though faced a group of three knights, he couldn't help but believe he was being singled out as its first meal. Why might that—

He felt a tug as the Aessyr buried herself as deep as she could into his shoulder... Right. Aessyr, like many seelie fae, were as pockets of raw vibrating life as much as they could be considered beings of flesh and blood— no more enticing a repast for a demon of gluttony and greed like this. He took a low stance, ready to spring.

He needed to occupy that mouth, and they needed to kill it. Nominally, the best way was to behead these things, but that first required—

The telltale thrum of a heavy bolt sailing downrange finished the thought for him, as Rolan's words put it to a clear and concise voice. Well, in the thick of it like this, Gerard could shelve his misgivings that the man had doubled back for now— ranged support like his was hard to come by on a good day, let alone one where each time you got close to your target you made a gamble.

"The man's right!" Gerard affirmed, still unused to hearing his voice ringing inside the steel of his helmet like a horn or bell. Even though it would doubtless regenerate, that first shot had bought them a moment where it needed to deal with a sudden impact to the head— one they could not afford to waste. That branch Sir Caulder had been examining earlier was still close by. "I'll force an opening, be ready!"

Taking it into his free hand, the gold-eyed knight grunted as he brought the long mass of torn wood to bear and surged forward— meeting the widemouthed beast in the middle of its approach behind the ragged tip of the heavy branch. A strange experience. A mere month ago, this would have at least demanded both hands of him—

Stomping into the earth and driving all the power in his kinetic chain through its length, he used the momentum of his charge to ram the branch into the maw of the beast, driving it up by the roof of the mouth. His plan was simple and intuitive— where the head went, the body needed to follow. This way, he could line up the things gut to be split open by the others. in his right hand, his sword remained at the ready to swipe through any errant hands of shadow reaching too close for comfort.

—when you had spent more than any sane man's lifetime's worth warding off strikes from Cyrus the Hammer in his prime, well.. the scales tended to weigh a little differently afterward.

Falling Skies (Mecha, Military, Space Opera)

Some men aren't looking for fame
Some men aren't looking for fortune
Some men
just gotta go fast

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"Perfect. We'll take the direct route." Gerard nodded, fine with this arrangement and hearing nothing in the way of objections. Time was of the essence if they wanted to make this save, this Enfys's survival being an open question or otherwise. Additionally, provided they could preliminarily scout out the sight of the attack, the main party on their heels could be quickly brought up to speed and act effectively.

It'd be a more agile stance to take than delaying the information until all fourtysomething of the knights present were on-site, at any rate. Plus, even this small division of theirs was noisy enough simply by way of their armoring— two or three harnesses could move with the wind and minimize jangling passably, provided their skill levels were all roughly equivalent. After a dozen or more, it was much, much further from feasible.

Really, another reason he'd brought Sir Rolan's name up in the "return to base" part of the division of labor was that he had to work with what he was given— Ideally, he and the other scruffy black-haired knight would push out ahead, known quantities to one another and both at least servicable in their bushcraft. If the goal was simply to prowl the forest to try and get the drop on this beast, Gerard had plenty of cause to suspect their pair the strongest.

But putting it as simply as possible, he didn't for a moment believe the other two would let them get away with that.

So he had to work within that frame.

"We have a fair idea of which way Thomlin's Rest lies from this point per the briefing— There should be a split in the path that would take us there. I intend to just keep things to an 'investigation' and not an 'engagement' unless a fight comes upon us first— though with that said, we're burning daylight. Move well, Rolan, and Reon guide you. We'll do the same."

He shifted his gaze back to the buzzing little Aessyr, another torn-off fragment of pastry on offer.

"You'd best stay with us if that monster you speak of still prowls nearby. Safety in a pack, right?"

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

"She's right." Rudolf watched the three highest authorities in the land take their with a tight-lipped frown, only loosing the sigh he'd been holding out through the nose once they were well and truly gone. What an abject disaster. Skaelan diplomacy amounting to little more than a thrown brick was already one thing, but the reveal of the Caradoc ties to stewardship of the Edreni Crystal had called the specificity he'd opened with into question, hamstringing the point in their favor it had served as.

Furthermore, the invocation of Cid's name specifically had nearly been an opportunity they'd wholly missed. Were it not for Izayoi and the final Grovemaster salvaging the proceedings by raising that point at the last second... Well, he had little doubts that things would have fully dissolved.

A dull, brassy eye slid over to regard Neve, her shoulders slumped in regret. "You saw that old coot walk in with a full head of steam. Axes were there to be ground already— and you had plenty of reason to want to reassure them you were in safe hands while away." he elaborated, waving his hand for a moment before folding his arms. He would have little else to say until their return.

He should have just opened with it to begin with. His instincts had told him as much, but he'd held off— gambling on the frame the deliberations would take.

It was on him for still not learning his lessons, then.

---

By the time the Grovemasters returned with their decision in hand, Rudolf had grown tired of sitting around, and now leaned against one of the walls. The boat ride the prior three days had already left his legs wanting more of a stretch— and just as well, because each word that spilled forth from Zacharias's mouth he could feel winding the rest of him tighter.

"...That's one way to get rid of us." he noted, flinty gaze pointedly lingering upon the old man after a quick glance to poor Neve. She must have been feeling worse than useless at this point. "And no room for her to choose, too— we know where we all stand at this point. Looks like you got everything you wanted."

He clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing on the hooded figure, even as Isolde piped up with a token attempt at amelioration— explaining their reasoning, at least.

Well, look at that. Guess you got what you thought you mighta wanted after all. The one that couldn't trust you enough and the one that was trusting you too much are both out of the picture. It's all coming up Rudolf— Your conscience feel any clearer?

I never wanted this. And my choices, clearly, haven't mattered at all lately. This is what's becoming of every commitment I've made my mind up on— dissolution. In ways I never expect, and my work on them never prepares for.

Maybe it was "luck of the draw". I certainly don't see any of my agency at play here.

No need to accuse, kiddo. Save this unspoken animus for the man in the hood. You and I are on the same team, same as ever. I've a vested interest in keeping us alive. Have a little faith— or are you unwilling? We're all in this together.

...Well. Save the aforementioned, that is.

He sighed bitterly, stepping off the wall. "Whatever. Let's settle this Trial while time's still nominally on our side. I have unfinished business with Leviathan anyway."