HeySeuss

Game of Thrones

I have to work on which points of view to play for Baratheon and any others that I should add to the list I am doing.

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

Putting this on hold since the people interested in the check haven't shown up.

Game of Thrones

House Baratheon

Name: House Baratheon
Seat: Storm's End
Words: Ours is the fury.
History:

House Baratheon is the youngest of the original great houses, tracing its origin back to Orys Baratheon. Their castle is one of the strongest in the Seven Kingdoms. It is known as Storm's End. The Baratheon sigil is a crowned black stag on a field of gold and their house words are "Ours is the Fury." Orys adopted the home, sigil, and words from his wife's family line, the Durrendons.

House Baratheon of Storm's End

Recent History:

The Great House that rules the Stormlands, Baratheon had the bad luck of switching sides against relatives during the Dance of the Dragons, allowing the murder of Rhaenyra's son on the doorstep of Storm's End and then was, out of fear, forced into alliance with Aemond One-Eye, Aegon II and the Greens. After a lengthy period of sitting on his hands, Lord Borros led his troops to liberate King's Landing only after the battle for it was all but won and then, in a fit of optimism, proceeded into the Riverlands to be cut to pieces, along with his heirs and much of his strength, on the Kings Road, a battle known as the Muddy Mess.

Harwyn Baratheon was there. He picked up the pieces of his dead older brother. With a determination to see his wife, Lynara, again, he rallied what strength he could to break out of the trap that the Riverlanders laid for his fool brother. He delivered the news to Aegon II of the battle and counted himself lucky to survive it. It was the end of the Dance, and he was allowed to return to Storm's end to lick his wounds. Through his wife, a Mormont of Bear Island by birth, he was able to negotiate honorable surrender with Cregan Stark, having seen his fill of bloodshed and slaughter to fill a lifetime in the Dance. He was left with a bad limp to show for his season of war.

Harwyn devoted himself to the uneasy and gloomy peace during the reign of Aegon III. He worked to repair his lands and the good name of House Baratheon. His wife was a Mormont of Bear Island, a bloodline that was fertile, and they had a number of children. He made marriage alliances with Borros' daughters first to get them out of where they could be troublesome reminders of the darkest days. His wife bore strong children. They argued which bloodline the children resembled more with pride. He watched as his lands healed, slowly at first, and then flourished under his stewardship. He died three years back, leaving his son Edric to rule in Storm's End. He married his daughter Jocelyn to House Tyrell. He sent his second son, Steffon, to Bear Island, to know his mother's kin.

Disaster struck in the form of a harsh winter, and Edric was laid low with the flux. Maester Alyn did all he could. Steffon was stuck on Bear Island for the duration, unable to travel safely down, and it fell to Ser Martyn Storm and the Lady Lynara to see to it that Storm's End could weather the winter. When the Winter seemingly relented, Steffon came back to Storm's End, prepared to assume his mantle of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, with much work to do in rebuilding from the depredations of Winter. His story, of course, is added to elsewhere. Boisterous, loud and passionate for life, he is a rougher man than his father or older brother. It was not for him, Lordship and Land, but it fell to him and duty compels him to assume the mantle.

As of now, Lord Steffon has only begun to assume the mantle of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, but he has already been active. Under the pretext of hunting, he's ridden over much of the territory already and laid eyes on it. He surrounds himself with a rougher sort of entourage than his more staid father and his more polished older brother, but the big and loud Lord of Storm's End seems energetic and already has created a bit of a stir among his vassals and the peasantry of the Stormlands with his rougher, readier and more boisterous ways.

Members of the House

• Lord Steffon Baratheon, 23.
• Lady Dowager Lynara Baratheon, mother, 52, born a Mormont of Bear Island.
• Joceyln Tyrell, 28, sister, married to Lord Lyonel.
• Elinor Baratheon 25, sister, Married to Lord Caron.
• Cassana Baratheon 17, sister, not promised yet.
• Ser Davos Baratheon, 25, cousin and a noted tourney champion that serves as the master of arms at Storm's End.

Bound to the House

• Maester Alyn, 67, who is one of the senior advisors of Lord Steffon and served his grandfather, Boremund, well. He could have been an Archmaester, but for his devotion to Lord Boremund. He seems to have transferred that loyalty over to Steffon who is a very different lord from Harwyn or Edric. In turn, Steffon shows him a strong fondness as regard.
• Ser Martyn Storm, 46, a household knight of his father's serves as Captain of the Guard at Storm's End. He is a seasoned warrior that knows his business.
• Ser Rickard Mormont, 22, a cousin and a friend of Steffon's from when he fostered. As a companion of Lord Steffon's, he traveled down largely to see the rest of Westeros and find some adventure before he ventures to the wall to take the black. He is not a sworn sword of Storm's End, but he is well-regarded by Lord Steffon nonetheless.

Sworn to the House

- Others as listed here. (up for grabs)

OOC:

Lord Steffon Baratheon

Steffon Baratheon
Age: 23
Affiliation: House Baratheon

Biography:

The Father

Borros Baratheon was a fool.

And that is where Lord Harwyn Baratheon's story starts. Before Borros Baratheon was killed invading the Riverlands, he allowed one of Rhaenrya's sons to be slaughtered outside his own gates by Aemond One-Eye and was forced to take a side one and there out of fear for his own skin, brought on by being too craven to tell a prince of the Realm that it was unacceptable to kill a stripling boy on his doorstep after he'd been made a guest. And worse, Borros convinced himself he was clever, as he did when he held back his forces and allowed Kings Landing to be sacked, and then as he did when he invaded the Riverlands impetuously, convinced that he only faced feeble opposition.

Borros had a brother named Harwyn. He was there. He cut his way clear from the battle and rallied what he could of the shattered host, mourning the strength of the Stormlands that perished in that folly under the arrows of Black Aly and the swift and decisive flank by Bloody Ben. Battered, bloody and defeated, Harwyn didn't have much of a host. He gave word of the battle in person to Aegon II, being of sterner stuff than Borros, and reported in that deep voice of his precisely what happened. Perhaps something of the towering young man standing before him impressed Aegon, either the candor or the man's grim but unbowed demeanor. He was conferred the title of Lord Baratheon, for he was indeed the heir at that point, commanded to return to the Stormlands and raise a new force, to defend Kings Landing with it.

Harwyn was not, in the eyes of many in the Stormlands, the material a Great Lord was hewn from. It did not necessarily help that he had a Northerner for a wife, of an obscure house -- a woman met in a tourney he'd fought in, a woman he'd fought against. Before the disaster of the dance, he was seemingly destined for little besides serving Storm's End as a household knight. A good fighter, Harwyn. He'd squired in the Marches under Lord Caron, but he and Borros didn't get on. He had much more of his father than his older brother did though, and he was steadfast to family, even as he detested the choices it made.

When he returned, he showed unexpected mettle, more like his grandfather Boremund than his uncle Borros -- though unlike either of him, he displayed little of their belligerent temperament; Harwyn Baratheon quickly resolved inheritance disputes and rallied the Stormlands with what resources he had, instructing the preparation of the keeps for invasion, provisioning them for siege, setting up rider relays to warn other keeps when such a siege happened. He prepared for more fighting, but he hoped for peace. They'd been battered and beaten in battle in the Riverlands, but a folly of a fight in the Riverlands did not mean the Stormlands were easy; such a folly was the province of Borros and others like them. He did his best to put off Aegon's calls for troops and reinforcement. He didn't have anything to send and had no taste for more bloody sacrifices.

Aegon was poisoned, though the Lord Baratheon had naught to do with it from so far away, though the resolution of the Dance seems to have left a boy on the throne but the Wolves at the door of King's Landing. Lord Harwyn swore that he would not suffer others to punish his lands for the follies of Borros, though he has sent out heralds in an attempt to negotiate for a peace, reckoning that even the most impetuous of the Blacks might look upon the Stormlands and consider that a negotiation is preferable to a bloody season of grinding war against keeps well-prepared for the onslaught. He was right. Cregan Stark required an indemnity, a taste for those who marched in his host to satisfy them with easy gold and no blood, and Harwyn paid it. It was not an easy choice, but it was the right one. If it hadn't been for the Lady Baratheon, a Northerner herself, treating with the Starks the price might have been higher.

Lord Harwyn spent subsequent decades rebuilding from the folly of Borros. He had sons and daughters. He worked to keep the uneasy, bitter and bleak peace of Aegon III's reign.

Steffon was born fourth child of Lord Harwyn and Lady Lynara Baratheon. His brother Edric was the heir apparent of the family, though Jocelyn and Elinor were also older. Given the order of things, when time came to foster the boy Steffon elsewhere, he was given to Lynara's kin in the North, the Mormonts. It was, of course, a much lesser house in stature compared to the Baratheons, but they were a family with strong traditions and honor and it was felt that the boy, Steffon, was a wilder sort that would do well in the North; he was, it was said among the nurses, the loudest of Harwyn's children, with a lusty roar as a baby. As page and squire to Lord Willam Mormont, his uncle, he learned not only skill at arms, but also an appreciation for the ways of the North and an understanding of the people he came from. Bear Island was not Storm's End or the Stormlands, but it was similar in that it relied on fishing and the hardiness of its folk. Steffon was not content merely to sit in a keep and be a little lord, his preference was to mud-wrestle with the children of Bear Island, do mock battle with his cousins and go out on the water to haul in the catch. He was happy to hunt and then cook the kill himself, standing over a firepit with friends and letting the juices run down his chin. It was Bear Island, there was little point in standing on decorum. When there was trouble, Lord Willam's squire was often involved, if not the leader of the pack.

When winter came, there was no way to get back from Bear Island. He was forced to weather it with the Northmen, in the hall of his Mother's childhood. Lord Willam died of a chill and Lady Bethany, his sister, took over the rule of Bear Island. To survive, all had to do what they could and Steffon found himself laboring with the servants of the hall, alongside the Lady of the longhall, to salt fish and otherwise do what could be done to survive the winter. He learned to use a cook's knife as well as the heavy axe he began to favor. He grew tall and strapping, tough from hauling nets and whatever labor needed performing to keep Bear Island alive through the winter. Bear Island was blessed with fish aplenty even through the bitter cold, but illness carried the young and old alike away, leaving survivors who cared for them. There were fights among some on the island but he tried to put these down without undue slaughter, knowing that they could ill afford to lose the strong to such bloody infighting. He roused spirits, he kept people laughing, he fought when it was necessary.

Through the harsh winter, he began to dream the dreams. He confided in Old Wynie, the wizened old woman who passed for the mistress of the household servants in the Mormont Hall, who told him the tales of those who saw visions. He could make little sense of them, but wrote them into a journal nonetheless, a practice he continued to the day. It was like an eye only half open, a song only half heard.

That labor turned bloody when wildlings, desperate, raided in force toward the end of the winter. It fell to Steffon to organize a defense and fight them off with an axe in hand, watching the steam rise from the blood of his foemen who were fighting for food and survival, just as he was. He found himself toe to toe with a huge, giant-blooded beast of a wildling with an iron-studded club and a crude but thick shield that was seemingly impenetrable. All the same, howling his battlecry and hacking ferociously in the snow, he managed to break down the shield and then break the man's thick skull in half.

When winter seemed to lift, the news came to him that his brother Edric was dead of an accident in a tourney. He was the Lord Baratheon. He took his leave of Bear Island with the well-wishes of its people and his aunt. Accompanied by one of his cousins, Rickard, he made his way down to Storm's End. He finds himself in a different sort of Storm's End; a new king, a new era, and the drumbeats of potential war with Dorne. The dreams are almost a part of him now, hardly accorded much in the way of attention. He is loathe to bother his Maester or his Mother with such. Instead, he focuses on the work of a Lord.

On Bear Island, he learned how to work the fishing boats and the nets, and in Storm's End, he looks over the fishing and the farming, the land and its people, more than the boy king's dreams of conquest; he's never one to stay away from a good shindy, but there's plenty to do in the Stormlands.

His own dreams are darker things, only half remembered terror in the dawning light and there is much to do; he is active. Not able to abide merely sitting in Storm's End in endless councils among his household and vassals, he prefers to use the excuse of hunting as a cover for his ability to cover his lands and those of his vassals, to meet his sworn houses and learn their problems, even as he feasts peasant, hedge knight, sworn sword and lord alike on the kills of his hunts. His entourage is a strange one, often including the kind of bards that sing for coppers in a tavern rather than some harp-strummer. He's let it be known that he'll pay crowns and take into service the hedge knight or any other that can beat him on the training field, feeling that there is always a lesson to be learned from someone better and to ensure that no one holds back against him. He'll happily fight a man in the morning and spend an afternoon in a tavern with that same man afterward.

Unlike Harwyn, who was gloomy and sedate, or Edric who was a bit of a silken tourney champion, Steffon is loud, boisterous and generous. His feasts at Storm's End are not the affairs that the Tyrells would know, of men stuffing their faces and reciting poetry, but rather of boisterous song and the occasional brawl or wrestling match. If Harwyn was a more staid man and Edric too dainty for such amusements, it is Steffon that brings clamour and wildness back to Storm's End with a rough retinue of boisterous huntsmen and warriors. He also keeps on the move; he might spend four nights out of fourteen in Storm's End, but otherwise is content to stay on horseback, hunt game and send messengers back and forth.

Far from being lazy, he is up from bed early and to it late, eager to get on with a day's work. There's been a time or two where a knight has come to a well digging to find Lord Steffon in the hole with a shovel, or helping push a peddler's wagon out of the mud. Leadership, he was taught, is in the example and that example is being noted in the Stormlands. Harwyn was staid and reserved but competent. Lord Edric preferred to spend his time in Storm's End preparing for the next tourney or at King's Landing, or even visiting Jocelyn at Highgarden. It seems almost as if Lord Steffon is almost a lord by accident; he has little patience for those that are 'too noble to shit.'

OOC:

Steffon is unmarried.

Spiritum

This is good! Quick question though, about magic. I thought it was renewable? Like the water cycle, it gets used and works its way back up into the starry sky. I mean, sure, there's a maximum available at once (hence the crystal shenanigans), but aside from that, it gets reused.

Also: can't wait for Hex's plot post. (PP?)

@Draken

If that is the case, I can modify the post.

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

Yeah, the sheet we really need is the Alpha. I should change it around a bit to make it so that the werewolf alpha could be a woman. So, potentially, a nurse in the 'Nam somewhere saving a couple key people by the bite. If someone wants to go that route, we can rewrite the backstory for it.

It's entirely possible that the other supernaturals don't expect it to be a woman, since there's never been an Alpha female among werewolves before.

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

The Wild Hunt MC OOC

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

Instructions

• Post your character sheet here using the template provided below.
• Please do not post anything else here, all questions and comments should go to the OOC thread.
• Please make sure to put your character in hiders.

Character Sheet Template

(Template Here)

Character Sheet Template

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Ethnicity/Nationality:
Physical Description:

It's probably best to actually describe the character if you are going to rely on a picture, or you can
do without the picture if you like, but definitely describe.

Skillset:

Talents one has either naturally or through education or training of some sort.

History:

Explain how your character got there -- no 'the story will come out in RP' lines, please -- I want a feel for where your character is coming from. Feel free to work up names and places and so forth. Be sure to mention arrests or feuds and debts and the such.

Psychological Profile:

An idea of how the character thinks and so forth; should be linked to the history.

Equipment:

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

TL;DR Summary:

• Late 1960's, early 1970's
• The world is ruled by supernatural factions that keep the knowledge of their existence tightly controlled.
• A young outcast werewolf, drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam met friends and fellowship for the first time. To survive in the face of a VC onslaught on their firebase, he bit a couple of his best friends. They survived.
• One of the young men had a brother who ran the Wild Hunt MC. Soon, all the Wild Hunt were werewolves.
• This story starts with their fight against the Man.
• Weapons of choice: hallucinogens, free love and lots of guitar.
• Inspired by Easy Rider and hey, Hunter S. Thompson.
• Chat on Discord for the RP -- ask questions, brainstorm ideas!

In Character

Werewolves were always kept on a leash, at least since the middle ages, when the last great alpha was extinguished. Left shattered by the destruction of their royalty and courts, Werewolves became the bellboys, the doormen, the legbreakers of other supernatural beings that were more sophisticated at finance, commerce and politics. There were, of course, rumors of werewolf bloodlines producing an alpha, who could make new werewolves with a bite, but the rumors also were that other supernaturals were adept at finding and killing these individuals when they arose before they could surround themselves with others.

1968, in the worst of the Tet Offensive, a young werewolf undergoes a first change that is unexpected. He is indeed a werewolf, but far from the rites of his people, including an indoctrination into servitude. He is from a bloodline that serves others, but he was raised with the secret stories of the great werewolf lords, Alphas. He was told, in family gatherings, the glorious history of these failed uprisings, heroic and melancholic.

He and his friends are being overrun by the Viet Cong in an outpost near Cambodia. The lines are stretched, air support is minimal. They are going to die, though the werewolf knows that his odds are good. Knowing the tales, he attempts something desperate, to give his friends a chance to survive with him; the bite. The bite worked. He and his buddies are miraculous heroes, their deeds (massively fictionalized) feted in Stars and Stripes. What counts is that the Alpha has his pack, already blooded in battle.

The new alpha came back to the world with his army buddies, one of whom had a brother that ran with a biker gang. It was a good place to lay low, to marshal the forces of a new war against the other supernaturals, the ones that turned everyone into their slaves. They stayed on the move, nomads, to avoid the notice until they were ready. They added to their numbers so that it wouldn't be so simple as neutralizing the Alpha to keep the help from becoming restive. This time, the supernatural bigshots out there, worrying over stock prices and manipulating their politicians while their tame wolves did the dirty work for a pittance, would have a real fight on their hands.

This is the saga of the Wild Hunt, the Werewolf biker gang, and its fight against the cabals and conspiracies of the world arrayed against them.

Out of Character Info:

Werewolf bikers in the 1960's/1970's. It's glorious.

I am going to break the convention and make the gang multi-ethnic and multi-gendered to allow people to create a great character that they feel. The Alpha, of course, is a werewolf of great power and influence, but also will be hunted by anyone supernatural who comes across them out of fear -- even the ones that doing have were's doing servant work for them aren't going to relish the destabilization of their cushy lives. Without an alpha, Werewolves are few in number and less potent, docile and content to serve other supernatural factions and live off the bones they gnaw, figuratively (sometimes literally.)

With an alpha in play, the game changes. Some weres are so far gone in their servitude that they will fight against them, but others are potential recruits to the cause. The alpha's leadership is primal and magnetic, he is a natural leader among his kind. Of course, the alpha is also in danger. Not all werewolves are apt to follow, particularly if they are kept addicted to drugs or are otherwise being controlled by a rival being. Of course, by the same token, wolves in an alpha's pack are not easy to subvert by mind domination and charm magic; they are bonded in spirit and that much more dangerous.

Also, I am thinking there is an ebb and flow to the werewolves and their powers. At the full moon, they are at their most violent and dangerous, whereas the opposite applies at a new moon, it's a time for them to sleep it all off. By the same token, they can rouse themselves to fight. I am definitely looking for them to be able to go to that wolf-man form that the movies like to show off, and maybe see if they do a normal wolf form as well.

What we have here is a skeleton -- in the interest check, people asked "how do were's become were's?" and I came up with the 'bloodlines and alpha's bite' system. Hopefully, we can flesh out the plot and the factions more as we proceed.

The Wild Hunt MC [Werewolves, the 1960's, Bikers]

Sounds good. I'll get that OOC rolling in a bit tonight.

Spiritum

(Collab between AlexStarsion, vietmyke, Mike73, Mercenary Lord and HeySeuss)

The truck didn’t have very good suspension, so there was a lot of creaking and jostling. It was dark, but the fires in the distance provided a point of reference for driving. Gideon, however, rode in the back with the others, having assembled a pack of supplies from his camping gear. It was mostly dark, but the crash site created some glow in the distance, an easy beacon to follow.

Gideon had done enough night exercises at the Citadel, they all had, to be fundamentally okay with the deepening spring chill of the night. He didn’t have uniform gear packed away, but instead had worn the sort of clothes he took for outdoor activities anyway. They all had some variation of outdoor gear, some of them had weapons but they were mostly loaded up with booze, not equipment.

Others could pull weapons out of the Mist, out of themselves, but Gideon’s preferred mode of operation was a rifle. He didn’t have one of those on hand, but he had a hunting knife and a combat hatchet that he favored.

Every creak and groan of the truck felt like they were being given away, but the reality was that this was a rescue, as far as Gideon knew, and they were not walking into an ambush. Even so, despite this being his suggestion on getting down here, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise a bit, and faced outward, keeping eyes on their flanks, watching along the roadside as the truck rolled by it. He left the conversation to others.

Galahad sat himself down across from Gideon, at the edge of the truck so he could look out just as easily. He didn’t bother sitting in the front seat- He didn’t much care for Darryl, and he was well aware that he had a similar sentiment about him. Besides, you didn’t need a tactician to tell you how to drive towards a crash site. Instead, Galahad would prepare useful spells for their little outing.

Of course, they were engaging in more of a humanitarian search and rescue mission rather than a force-recon patrol, but it still never hurt to be safe. No one had ever complained to him about keeping them safe. During field operations, the instructors loved to throw curveballs at the team- such as giving them faulty or non-working equipment. In their last 4 years of training, Galahad had perfected a spell for their team.

Gathering the mist around him, he created a set of ‘beads’. He bound a basic protection spell into the bead- it was a standard barrier spell, cut-down to relieve the burden on himself. The barrier spell would protect the wearer from a single blow from a weapon, projectile, or other deadly weapon to the torso or head, the primary vital regions. Attacks to the limbs were inconvenient, but nothing their medic couldn’t handle. Only for Theta and Trent did Galahad extend the protection spell to include the arms instead- several mages used hand motions to help them concentrate and focus for spells.

The second spell bound to the bead was a communication spell, for the cases where their communication equipment didn’t work, they could utilize the communication spell to talk to each other. The bead would collect sounds from the wearer and project them through the other beads, like a walkie-talkie system. It also had a vocal trigger to mute and unmute. It wasn’t as efficient as their long range communication technology, but in a pinch it would do the job.

The last spell bound to the bead was more for Galahad’s usage than anyone else. When someone’s barrier spell was expended, it would trigger an alert on Galahad’s bead, allowing him to know who had been attacked, and subsequently restore their barrier when the conflict had ended.

The result of his spell weaving was a set of orbs no bigger than a pinky nail each. Galahad stuck his bead to the dogtags around his neck, before handing one off to Gideon and passing the rest out.

Trent grinned, staring at the back of his eye lids listening to the spell Galahad was weaving and enjoying the tones it made. Communication, protection and a relay of some sort that he couldn’t pin point. Getting them to mesh together made the notes sing out to Trent. This, was going to be interesting when he was “sent” to the front lines. Taking a bead when it was handed to him, eyes still closed, head still leaning against the truck, he stuck it under his own collar. His voice would catch enough for their group and leaving his hands open to do what he did best. Blow everything sky high. He passed them on to the next person without much looking at them.

Lee didn't have much of a response to Gideon's comments beyond shooting him a sour look. He was honestly thrown off by the sudden fiery event in the sky and was too mentally preoccupied trying to figure out what the hell was going on to come up with a snappy comeback. Though of course, once they all got on the truck and began to drive off to the crash site, he managed to think of something good, but it was too late by then so he just let out a huff as he folded his arms. It was almost uncharacteristic of him with how quiet he was, but he just seemed to be shocked. While no one had expected the firefight and crash to happen, to him it was just surreal to see it with his own eyes. This was the real thing, something he'd been training ten years for, and he didn't feel ready.

But really, that was his own fault. He never took any of the training seriously until recent years, and now he just felt unprepared. That wasn't to say he wouldn't act if the time called for it, but he there was a bout of anxiety dwelling deep in his chest. What probably worried him the most was that he wouldn't be able to step up if anyone needed him to, or that he would somehow screw something up.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He was getting in his own head and freaking himself out, he needed to relax before he created some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He could handle this, he knew he could. Ready or not, he still had the skill to act and contribute. Maybe not to the extents that everyone else around him could, but he wouldn't let that stop him from doing what he could. If anyone needed backup, he'd be there. Mentally, he prepared himself to peer into the Mist in case a spell of his could be useful during this rescue mission. If necessary, he would even summon his weapons, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Sometime during the ride, Galahad had created what could only be described as magic beads. Lee took one once he was handed one and attached it to his jacket's collar, making sure it was on securely before leaning back in his seat. He'd elected to sit in the back, figuring that despite being friends with Daryll, someone else would be better suited sitting up front, preferably someone who wasn't him that could react quickly if something was happening out on the road. Trent was sitting next to him, head leaned back and body language that said he didn't want to do anything at the moment. Lee hoped he would be ok in case things went south, Trent had drank almost as much as him, though possibly even more.

Trent couldn’t help it, but his hand patted Lee’s leg, right above the knee cap, “I’m fine, I can feel you staring.” He still kept his eyes closed, humming softly to the music only he could hear. “Setzer and Zimmy made sure I could handle my drinks when I DID go out.” He let the small conversation die and finally opened his eyes to look around when he felt the truck coming to a stop.

Lee looked over Trent patted his leg, and nodded in response. Right, Trent would be fine, there wasn't anything to worry about with him. He may be small, but Trent was more than capable of handling himself, he'd proven as much with his spell casting prowess during combat training situations. Lee still hadn't gotten over how such a small guy could hold so much power, but he should have known that looks could be deceiving.

The beads were better than nothing, at least. They were going in with what they had. When Darryl slowed the truck up and ground it to a halt., Gideon was over the side and onto his feet on the ground with a light pack over his shoulders. It was the basics of medical supplies and some gear, but they’d packed for a party. All the same, he knew this area well, better than the rest anyway, because it’d been a place he’d hunted and fished on throughout his childhood. Even so, it was dark and he didn’t want to use a flashlight.

There was a spell for that, or at least a trick he’d used before. He wasn’t a guy that had a lot of magical firepower to spare, but he was extremely creative with what he did have, and was good at the manipulation of light and images as well as terrain conditions. With the bead replicating communications and giving them some protection, the real missing element was vision. It was, again, like the Citadel and the malfunctioning equipment.

He reached into the Mist and pulled down a miniscule amount of power. That was Gideon’s way, use the minimal amount of power and sparingly. After all, magic was a finite resource, like petroleum, like a tree. He’d often wondered where it came from and if there was a way to renew or recreate it. No answers on that, of course, but it was an intriguing question.

The practical effect of the minimal magic use was to pull some of the ambient light in and use that light to illuminate vision for Gideon. The trick was making it so he could see out but that it wasn’t giving them away, and that was the subtle piece of business. Then again, subtle ‘did that happen?’ magic was Gideon’s stock in trade.

“Best I take point. I know where we’re going.”

Zimmy wasn’t much a fan of the whole “silent and grave” riding bit. Sure, she was as used to it as the rest of them: they had gone through hours and days of this kind of riding when training in the Citadel, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

Darryl was driving, though not very well, and Galahad was doing that thing with magic beads he liked so much, and Gideon was being subtle as always...they were all specialists, she reflected. Specialists who were expected to be good at everything, and better at a few things. No pressure or anything.

So it was with some relief that they all stopped and disembarked. This was something she could get behind. Literally. “Lee and I can take the back. We’re fast enough to get around in a pinch. Just in case someone is out there that shouldn’t be, you know.” She looked down at the little gun in her hand, checking to make sure it wouldn’t explode when she fired it. So far so good. “Any objections?”

Trent stretched his arms high as he once more exited the vehicle, he arched his back and tilted his head with a nice soft cracking noise, “Can we stay out of that thing for a while next time…” His grin was still in place but his eyes, which to that point had a mystified look to them, hardened. “I’ll go right in front of Lee and Zimmy. Galahad has the more versatile spells, mine are more of a packing punch.” With two swipes of his hand, left going from his right shoulder to left leg, right hand going from left shoulder to right leg he pulled his pistols out from the Mist. Checking them was like second nature, clips in, finger off the trigger but on the safety for a quick draw.

He held them aimed at the ground and looked around himself, “I think, after this we head back to the camp site, drink the rest of the booze and party like we planned…” Trent shot Zimmy a smile and a wink. “See if we have more stories of our ‘shenanigans’ before we all get moved to new places.” He walked forward a bit, bumped shoulders with Lee and grinned at the taller male. “Maybe get Darryll some driving lessons without lights whilst we’re at it.”

Lightening the mood was something Trent strived for, even when he was checking everyone over for jitters. Darryll had been concentrating on his driving and everyone was so silent he had wanted to speak but was working on getting his slightly addled brain back to the realm of functional that he wouldn’t screw this up. He’d let Gideon lead them, listen for Galahad’s warnings if he needed to pull on the Mist to do what he did best, keep Lee and Zimmy informed if needed. Watch Theta and Darryll’s back and enjoy Sezter going beast on whatever enemy cross his path.

“I’m starting to see why our instructors refused to put us all in the same team structors… remind me to have words with them when we get back.”

"Sounds like a plan," Lee agreed with Zimmy and Trent's formation suggestions, "I'm used to taking things on from the back anyway, it's usually my role in this kind of situation. Alright, let's do this." It took a few seconds, but eventually a frown formed on his face. "...Uh, w-wait. That came out wrong. Pretend I didn't say that." He turned to Zimmy as he tried to change the subject, "A-Anyway, I've got you covered. Let me know if you need a boost, I can hook you up. Same goes for the rest of you, as long as I can see you my spells will connect, so don't be afraid to ask."

He chuckled a bit when Trent rubbed shoulders with him and tried to lighten the mood. Even at the worst of times he was still trying to prevent everyone from becoming too grim.

"Man, if we can finish this quick enough to get back in time to drink our asses off, I'll die a happy man," Lee joked, "But, something tells me we won't be partying again any time soon." He looked back in the general direction of the crash. Right, they still had a job to do. "But, I'm totally up for getting Daryll some driving lessons."

Once the dispositions were shaken out, Gideon took the first, cautious steps off the road and into the woods, moving carefully and finding his way. Even with the enhanced vision, it was easy to misjudge. Everything was in a blue tint but he could see more. By the same token, it required focus. Walking point wasn’t just stomping around to run into something. It was about care taken in every step, watching for wires, sensing for danger in every way possible. Bad point men got wasted. Gideon did well in training, but that was training and this, it felt like, was a real life situation, full of unknowns.

Next step forward. A few more, and he found an old deer trail that they could use to get closer into the crash site. He weighed the risk of using the trail versus not, heaving to the drilled-in wisdom of forward reconnaissance, patrolling and pathfinding -- don’t fuck with trails. But that was in a combat situation, and that assumed that the enemy would lay in ambush along it. Here, he decided to break the rule, if only because they were technically still rescuing people, rather than trying to ambush them or avoid ambush.

They were in a tactical column, it was the easiest way to move quickly, but even that wasn’t fast, not by the standards of civilian hiking. But Gideon, by the standards of combat patrolling, was moving at a fair clip along, toward the burning parts of the royal hunting preserve...

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