Recent Statuses

11 mos ago
Current Amy Winehouse has been sober for six years. Just wanted to remind folks of this.
11 mos ago
Apologies to my collaborators, I've been having a rough weekend and didn't get anywhere near what I wanted to get done in posting.
11 mos ago
Found a bolt in my front left tire today. It must be tire week on the Guild, because others had the same stuff.
12 mos ago
Hot dogs are already cooked. Might as well just sear them to add flavor.
12 mos ago
I love it when I catch up on my posting.


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Gideon spent his earliest years in training dealing with Mistburn, when he pushed too hard against a limited power trying to compete with guys like Lee, Zimmy and, particularly, Galahad.

He was not the tank that Setzer or Kitty were. And Lori was an entirely different sort of case, but still a beacon of the power.

But he'd learned something from that suffering about limits, about adapting. It made Gideon into a different type of WARDEN, a dangerous mind. He did better in training, once he learned that he had personal limits.

Others never did. The Citadel never put out stats, though they probably existed in secret, on just how many youngsters in training burned out in every stage of WARDEN training; when they first touched the power, midway through as they learned to use it, and toward the end, when people got overly familiar with it. A WARDEN was trained to use it for all sorts of feats, but underlying that was the constant danger of overdoing it and becoming demented, catatonic, comatose or simply a corpse. Some washouts went into other endeavors, but many wound up in carefully guarded, dead metal-impregnated sanitariums, remote and kept under guard, constantly drugged.

They'd all seen it, and knew the seriousness of Mistburn. What happened to Zimmy was like tripping over a root when you couldn't see, but that really didn't encapsulate the risk. She took it in good faith, considering the need to scout quickly urgent.

With the rifle against his chest, the worn canvas sling holding it there, he found himself under Zimmy's shoulder, bringing himself down to a knee again, but with her supported on his. Only against a specimen like Setzer would Gideon look somewhat normal; he had strong shoulders and a wiry strength, but more endurance, a good amount of it mental, that carried him through the training.

"Got you. Breathe. Go loose."

He knew the feeling of balloon-like tension as limbs felt swollen and leaden, as muscles convulsed and skin felt unbearably taut. Your head hummed and your ears could hear something, but faintly, and you strained to listen. When the Mist burned, one's vision swam with seething, malevolent visions of sparkling power that tempted even more, even as the Gods themselves were saying you dare too much, Mortal! But the lesson was drowned out by the visceral, instinctive reaction of a magic user to use more to fix the problem.

Stage 1 made you feel like shit. Stage 2 was hair of the dog, more of what got you there to keep you going. In the altered logic of the mist, it told you to go ahead and take some more to deal with the effects of taking too much already, like drinking salt water to alleviate thirst, only to find yourself even more parched and thirstier.

If the breathing exercises and self-control mantras didn't work, every WARDEN carried a medkit, and he had his on his hip, on his belt. It held a syringe injector that would fix the effect. Certain types of medication, like adrenaline shots, like insulin and others, could massively offset an underlying condition but too much could kill. And in any case, there were side effects to a potent cocktail of tranq drugs designed to stop a WARDEN in their tracks. It was like a hangover the way a tiger was like a housecat. Zimmy would not be functional if they had to inject. Everyone in the squad had everyone's doses memorized, because it happened before.

Gideon didn't want to go there. "Breathe. Don't take in more. Let it go little by little. Release. Breathe. Release." he told her, using the formulaic mantra, the sort of thing they said to someone starting to go through Mistburn to break through the Mist's little siren song.

And if she didn't come back, he'd have to stick her.
The Marshall loaned Gideon a rifle; they didn't know what they were going into. He had some magazines stuffed into the pockets of his smock, to feed the thing if necessary. It was the old RM-63 type, a heavier battle rifle that was a good design for a tough climate with an adjustable gas system. No frills, and Gideon didn't particularly worry about that; iron sights were just fine. It was heavy, and two generations older than the current issue, but it had solidity to it.

The Marshalls didn't want to go in; they left that to the well-trained WARDEN types. "That's y'all's specialty. It's dangerous, take this," he'd drawled.

He'd been riding on the truck bed into the Mist, keeping eyes on his sector. The Mist and the wreckage, presumably the deaths, would have strange consequences for the unwary.

The Mist was dangerous, but it was a two way thing, in Gideon's experience. They'd had training on operating in it and it was always dangerous, always tinged with a real danger. WARDEN training was no picnic, with a washout, burnout and training accident rate that was kept a state secret to the outside, but the Mist training was always the worst. It seemed like people went gibbering mad or were physically destroyed in the Mist more than anywhere. He drifted into the crater, easing himself down with the surefootedness of someone used to navigating rough terrain. He kept his head on a swivel, moving slowly, stopping to look, and then moving again. You didn't make assumptions in the Mist.

Things floated in the air due to the suspension of gravity, including bits of flotsam, jetsam and Vangar troops. It was a disturbing hellscape; he brushed one of these zones and felt himself being lifted up before he jinked out of it and into normal gravity again. He signaled by hand for the others to know to avoid that spot.

He kept himself calm mentally by counting steps, to make sure that they had an exact path right back to the truck as necessary, by knowing just where it was. You couldn't rely on navigational aids, even a compass, in these situations. He didn't particularly need to enhance his night vision with a spell, something he'd devised when the trainers, particularly Master Sergeant Rask, made sure to sabotage equipment they were using on training missions, because there was enough torchlight all around.

He glided forward, avoiding the more formed looking pockets of the stuff, and keeping an eye out for anything that looked like embers and fire, making his way around those spots. But he moved forward, his face set. He noted the debris to himself, this thing suffered a catastrophic failure or was deliberately destroyed by a weapon or sabotage. Too thoroughly blown up. Airships were designed to get down if something went wrong. They had emergency systems for the purpose. Rarely, since the very earliest days, did you have a zeppelin or something go down in some sort of pillar of fire. The next thing he noted was, this isn't some Vangar warship sneaking in the long way and trying to bombard a target on a surprise attack. Combat airships were notoriously spartan, all excess devoted to armor and weapons. This didn't feel right.

He took a knee alongside Setzer, with his rifle cradled against his chest, barrel down, and grunted for the purpose of the comms spell, "Vangar Class A's, Imperial Royal Guard flash on the shoulder there. This guy was dressed for a party and they guard the Skymnings." He grunted. These were clues, but he wasn't committed to an answer beyond what they had in front of them.

"Look there," he pointed, "Greifskreuz. Griffon's Cross," he amended for those who didn't speak Vangar, noting the red and gold ribbon around the neck, with a sapphire blue and white pendant. Setzer moved on while Gideon did what any good recon-trained fellow might do. He checked the man's pockets for ID, "Captain Gerhard Rekks. Imperial Royal Guard," he reported.

When Setzer started to move toward the pod, Gideon shifted to cover the approach. It wasn't that the rifle was up, it was just reassuring weight in his hands. He was disciplined. Instead, he picked a good spot and kept his eyes peeled. This was still a rescue mission, but it was getting spooky, fast. These were Vangar military, on Rassvet soil. There were a number of reasons why well dressed Vangars in a fancy airship might be in Rassvet. But even if these were the enemy, it didn't look like anyone was in any condition to present a danger. And the Mist didn't care what flag you wore on your lapel.

"Survivors of what, though?" Gideon asked quietly, to be heard by the other members of Barghest.
"Good. Keep your hands where they are can see them." The woman spoke colloquial English, Canuck accent, but that didn't mean that they didn't have an infiltrator on their hands. At the same time, they were going easy on civilians until they showed themselves to be hostile. Dan let Joe cover the lady as he moved out of her field of vision, still covering her, and moved in closer, to check the story. He also did a fast check for anything that could be construed as an explosive, such as a grenade. It was most certainly an intimate, but cold, callous check, far more professional than Soviet shakedowns of women, which tended to be lecherous. Dan had no time for the niceties, but he also was seeing all threat. He gave the gentlest of presses along the abdomen to get her reaction and came away with the wetness of blood.

He knew the potential for someone faking a wound to be dangerous, but realized that this was a very guerrilla attitude for an occupation army. It sometimes, out of habit, didn't dawn on him that they were the guerrillas, and these were their tricks now. They all had plenty of morphine and medical supplies, courtesy of the Joe-led efforts at black marketeering. They were, arguably, one of the most expert black market resistance cells in the region. It meant that Dan had a small medical kit on his hip.

"Sorry about that. Can you keep moving? Do you want morphine?" That meant they'd have to carry her. Dan didn't really want to have to resort to that anymore than Joe did, but it might be necessary.

The gunfire going in the background punctuated the need.

"We gotta move. Now."

The Ben and Preston plan worked out, it looked like, as the two experienced mountain hunters took advantage of the confusion to draw blood, but eventually, watching guys go down, the Soviets figured out that someone else was engaging them. Then they reacted with fire, a large volume of it. It was spray and pray, not accurate but still dangerous. With a muzzle brake and a free-floating barrel, the AK-12 was a decent full auto performer, but these guys didn't have the optics to suitably engage at the longer ranges, not easily.

Dan, Joe and the lady were moving along when the return fire started to come toward them. It was longer distance than the effective aimed range of Soviet-issue rifles, but one sent splinters flying from a tree, and some of that shrapnel caught Danny in the scalp. He grunted in pain and crumpled. He rolled over in the dirt. As he came to a stop, he immediately yanked the balaclava off, ripped open his med pack and pulled the gauze out. He packed it on his skull to try and stop the bleeding, though the blood was already pumping down the side of his head and onto his shoulders, all over his coat. Whatever got his scalp, it got it good.

He tried to use his sleeve to clear it out of his eyes, but it was still all over his face, "I can't see, I need assistance!"
The only problem I see here is getting with Xandrya's character, but I will rewrite my post to have Dan deal with her.
"No time for prisoners," he agreed, with an acquired Gallic shrug. A prisoner had to be bound up, gagged and hooded. They had to be carried. There was a part of him that regretted the necessity, but then there was necessity, overwhelmingly saying he made a pragmatic choice. Of course, they got the Vermont State Trooper out, but that was different. Some East German, here to pillage the place and inflict terror on his home? Very different.

Once the building was clear, it was down to Morse and he in the room, and the Sergeant gave the orders, he nodded and set to that work; there was a fuse on that thing, and once it ran down, they needed to be well away; it was enough C-4 for the job, but not overkill. They had an entire war to fight, and no idea what supplies would be like. All the same, they wanted to make the equipment irreparable, since it was US-made, and presumably harder to replace. Hopefully, someone either had or was planning to sabotage the maker of those electronics if it was anywhere on this side of the Appalachians.

Knowing that a place was going to blow, even on a timer, added a zest to life; the adrenaline surged, even as he bolted out of the place.

He found himself near Joe outside, kneeling in the dirt and grass, keeping his head on a swivel and his carbine's stock nestled near his shoulder, to be easily brought up if needed. He could hear that gunfire not far off; maybe a couple hundred yards at best. Someone was getting the shit end of the stick. East was their rides out; it was easy to get on the Vietnam Veteran's Highway, renamed by the Soviets to reflect their sentiments about that war, since there was no guardrail. Offroad vehicles could just clamber up onto the road from the grass.

There were a lot of big box stores here, and a lot of open parking lots. They were fucked if someone had night vision goggles on. It depended on the quality of the NVG's, but he was betting against the enemy having them unless they had the shit luck to run into bonafide Soviet infantry. Still, it was something to consider; civilian attire was not NIR, it would show up real easily.

He wanted to see if there was a parachute shroud but he didn't think the A-10 pilot made it or that they'd be in any position to extract. In fact, he doubted if they'd do more than harass the enemy, and have to cut it and run. He didn't want to die behind a damned big box store, but apparently someone had a sense of humor.

"Ben, Preston, think you can set up and put eyes on the Russians and put some rounds on them?" That would be in range to engage, 600 feet, which allowed them to put lead on the Russians, but gave the Russians limited options for effective fire. He didn't think they could destroy, but they could suppress with those Mk. 14's.

The Giguere Brothers could shoot. Putting them together in a position to cover meant that they all had a better chance of spotting and getting the drop on enemies. A wolf hunter in Finland was the most famous sniper of all time, and he shot irons. The Giguere's were real Vermont mountain guys, cut from the same cloth. A check at the sky told him what he needed to know about the time, they had twenty or so minutes to get back to vehicles and get out, but there were probably Americans out there dying, somewhere between the Marshall's and the Walmart. They could do something, even if it meant risking daylight.

"Sorry about the doctor, Joe," he told the other man, remembering their agreement; if it was necessary to be left behind, shoot rather than be caught. What he saw in there with the lady doctor was bad enough to justify that even if he hadn't said it already.

He was about to get off his knees and move forward, looking for good cover, though they were pretty out of range with their carbines, when he spotted the movement and immediately trained his M4 in the direction of the figure crossing the street. He didn't say anything, he just waited for her to make her move, with a casual flick of the selector switch from "SAFE" to "FIRE" that carried surprisingly far in a quiet night.
The lady was dead, not knocked out, and Dan got Morse's directive to blow the place, "Copy."

He shot the Stasi trooper out of hand -- they had no time to screw around with a prisoner. Park and Morse, US military members, might be bound by certain rules and Dan knew it had to be done. He did it split second, without hesitation, one to the guy's head. He crumpled, with a spray of blood, shattered skull, brain matter and incongruous bits of scalp and blonde hair fucking painting the wall behind him. In these corridors, the M4's report was loud and twangy. The gunpowder smell mercifully covered the blood smell. A part of him, ruthlessly suppressed most times, ominously noted that if he got out of this shit alive, he'd remember that one in his nightmares.

Then, to the others, panting a bit "Wrap it up guys, we're setting the demo. Rally on Morse." There was a German weapon, and that looked interesting, but the thing he picked up was a laptop bag, on a sudden impulse to make this good. He grabbed flash drives and other portable media for a moment while others started to clear out. Then, he set about planting the demo. After all, they'd just iced a Stasi officer, the laptop could be his porn stash, it could be a treasure trove. Either one could be highly useful back in the mountains.

He had sure hands on the satchel charges; this was not usually a fast job, because no one wanted to get blown up due to carelessness. But they'd cut the fuses very carefully and made sure ahead of time that they'd be able to set the satchel and give themselves plenty of time to clear. A conventional detonator with a fuse and blasting cap had the advantages of dead simplicity and they were using plenty of C4 for this one.

A part of him registered the firefight not too far in the distance; the report of AK-74's added to that of M4's.

Once done called out, "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" which was a clear signal -- it was time to get the hell out of Williston Barracks.
The town got chillier by night, but that was sort of expected of an arid sort of place, without humidity in the air to trap the heat. Luckily, they had Vorslav winter coats on. They had enough alcohol to not really worry about the chill in the air. While there were neon lights nearby, it didn't interfere that badly with the stars. Gideon had a plan to do what Galahad suggested and climb up somewhere and camp that way. However, clouds moved in, the high up kind one found in more arid climates, but that didn't dampen Gideon's enthusiasm to sleep out.

"Barghest Cafe; start your morning with a howl," Gideon deadpanned, in response to the others. The news radio blared on about peace talks this, arrival that. He lent an ear to it without really paying close attention, but it sounded like a slow grind out there. So far, careful use of fire support, avoiding lots of damage. The Vangars wanted their prize intact and were paying a price for the gains they made. The Rassvet Defense Forces were giving, considering a gross imbalance of firepower, a lot, but were always being pushed back. They were giving a couple thousand meters instead of a lot of ground, but they were being pushed back all the same.

WARDEN was expected to make up a lot of the difference here, plugging gaps, covering retreats, mounting forlorn hope assaults at the spearhead.

It still wasn't enough. And it was depressing. The fuckers can't even do a truce while they talk peace, he thought to himself, instead of burdening his companions with his bleak outlook on the course of this war. He believed in his country, but his gut told him something else. He could tell from other expressions that the radio was quickly killing buzzes. This was supposed to be their only chance at a normal existence, and it would be over soon. Gideon knew his orders and they were for Cockatrice Squad, attached to the 12th Royal Infantry Regiment. He'd be an individual replacement, working in someone else's platoon. A new face, not trusted and resented for taking someone else's place.

And so he engaged into the conversation with more gusto, tuning out the radio until someone mercifully tuned it out.

"We can sling espresso after the war, as a front for arms smuggling," he told them as he took another bottle of beer and popped it open with a multi-tool. They had enough practice in illicit activity at the Citadel, "That is to say, Kat will can run the real operation with minimal technical assistance. The rest of us will be baristas. Our training will make us fully capable of handling any caffeine deprived yuppie, including heavily armed ones that are about to snap."

He was mid-sip when he heard the crunch of boots on the ground. He tamped down the initial reaction down to glancing over, which was pretty muted for a guy that just got out of ten years of military training.

"Good evenin' there, wanted to check up on you young travelers, make sure all was well!" called out a voice from about twenty meters away. Silhouette in the darkness was a fellow in a wide-brimmed hat, but otherwise uniformed like a Rassvet army regular, though the uniform was flat khaki rather than camouflage. There was the sword and the rune, but on a shield. Marshalls.

"Good evening, Marshall," Gideon called out, "What brings you out here by night?"

"Well, there's a war on out here, and orders have it that it's my job to check up on anything unusual. So a bunch of young folks like you looking like you just left the Citadel..." he shrugged, "Well, you know." The fellow was substantial, even beefy, but there was a glint under the hat. The guy was being cautious, out here on his own. Gideon couldn't see any obvious backup, which didn't quite make sense. This one sounded older than that, which is probably why he wasn't stripped off his regional posting...yet.

Gideon nodded, "You need to check papers then?"

"Yeah, sure do. Just one of you will do, I don't see the point of running all y'all if it checks out."

"Not a problem," Gideon told him, as he got up, motioning the others down. As he stepped forward, deliberately and slowly, he caught the rifleman's position, and knew that this guy was brains and balls. He called one over to check them, but played it safe. The guy with the gun at the ready would have been able to lay down the fire if there was trouble. They wouldn’t be able to swarm the guy doing the talking.

He could respect the tactics.

Aware that the situation was not a heightened tension thing, but mindful of the weapon, he was slow to reach into a pocket, just so the man could see the motion. After all, it was wartime, and there was a heightened security tension. He walked over slowly and handed those over from arm's length, so the man could peruse them with a flashlight.

"Says here Third Class, correct? So what's a bunch of WARDEN types doing out here?" In Rassvet, a police state, they were expected to show ID, papers, and endure a check. This fellow, out in the boonies a bit, was at least a little more common sense and friendly in his approach. Around Orestia, these guys acted like they were on the front lines already, and that everyone was a spy.

"Graduation, peace talks and a short leave before we head out. We're set to head out from here and hike. One last tour of the auld sod."

The man grunted and read off the ID number on Gideon's papers, along with a photo ID and description, in some sort of spoken code, got some sort of response in the earpiece, and then handed papers back, "No problem, young man. You check out. Sorry about...things, but we're not a big detachment and we gotta be careful in these parts."

Gideon shrugged, "It's your ass to preserve and protect."

The man laughed out loud, "You're goddamn right about that. Well, look, y'all have a good night now, y'hea..."

And that's when the fire lit up the sky, a glow from above the clouds, flickering through them.
I might join this roleplay if I have any time. That is if you are accepting new people.

With all due respect, we're rolling with what we have.
I agree with resurrecting the RP, and I am on board with making it happen. Since my other RP's are at a steady pace, I'm down with simply getting the posting done. I'll have to review the RP (luckily, I didn't delete the discord so we have the plot notes) and work from there.
Fun fact: Mandalorians brought in by Jango Fett trained Republican Commandos. Other fun fact: Old Man Resol was Cuy'val Dar, one of those trainers.

An observer familiar with the operational procedures of Republic Commandos could see hallmarks of that training as they cleared room to room, as they stacked and then entered, and forced the Stormtroopers to fight disadvantageously in the corridors against a foe that had more armor, and the advantage of finely-honed skills. In a small space, numbers and firepower mattered less because it was chokepoints. The Sultana's villa was a place where the rulers of Tengaru relaxed by the river, enjoying the city lights by night. It was built to be cool in the summer, and save on air conditioning.

Using the map markers and other navigational aids on his HUD, Voshno was the second one through most of these doors, clearing ahead after the Barabel took down whatever was in the corner. They made good time, even as they heard the scream overhead of a TIE fighter raining down on the Rebel positions, a visceral reminder of tick-tock.

Resol never really bonded with the Clones, and didn't feel much for the white jobs here either, who were probably the Spaarti-grown variety and other 'sources' of recruits. That was a job, a very well paid one, and the Republic didn't really matter to him. This was different, his boys were a varied bunch, but vode an all the same. The anti-nonhuman prejudices of the Empire fell flat here, because even a Clone Commando or an ARC trooper would have a hard time resisting a Barabel that happened to be a Mando Boy, chopping at them with a blade. The Nautolan's naturally agile frame was tuned to a new standard under the harsh tutelage of the Mandalorian way. The two humans lads chose their purpose as surely as anyone else did.

And that was what gave them the edge over these stormtroopers.

Along with superior marksmanship.

When they transitioned into the part of the palace with the panic room, they came into a hall, an indoor garden with flowers, bushes, leafy vines lovingly cultivated along anything they'd grow up, which was just about the whole room. It beautiful gold-veined stone floor, polished lovingly and just waiting for a party. Fancyness, a place to host balls and receptions. It had a skylight overhead, to bring sunlight down on the crystals. Here, the architecture certainly opened up.

So did the white jobs, with emplaced E-Webs.

They dove for cover, even as Resol gave curt orders, in Mando'a, "Javi, engage 10. Voshno, engage 2." Bearings, directions on the clocks, "Kast, start a fire. Roak, with me son," he said as the old man slammed to the ground and got on one knee behind the cover of a planter, a sprinter's pose. He wasn't in his prime anymore, but he was a long and lean guy, a runner and the muscles remembered.

It wasn't the party the room was built for; it was the party the room got.
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