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@InfamousGuy101 looks grand... just for internal consistency with the stuff we've been discording about, change the name of the colony world to Shinar or Kikkar
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Finally, we have returned...
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I haven't logged into this for so long so I guess this merits some words of inspiration.... Benis.
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Why are we still here... just to suffer.
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Skidaddle Skiddodle, your d!ck is now a noodle!
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Bio
Come from NS, still doing RP's there. So far enjoying myself in this site.
Most Recent Posts
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Caleb "Cal" Mercer
Caleb Mercer strode down the Intrepid’s gangplank before the earth had finished trembling beneath her settling ballast. Sun-baked jungle air rolled up to meet him; humid, green, and faintly sweet. Around him the expedition frothed in the landing zone with engineers unspooling steam-line tethers, porters heaving teak crates, sentries fanning out with bayonets half-fixed. Mercer threaded through the scene with ease, expression intent but unhurried.
At the fringe of camp he knelt, cinching the leather straps of a narrow field-pack until they bit comfortably into his shoulders. The Steamwinder carbine—brass receiver catching flashes of sun—slid into its scabbard along his spine, muzzle capped against the damp. His Webley rode forward on the belt, thong loosened for a quick draw. Into jacket pockets went a pocket compass, a stub of carpenter’s pencil, and three folded sheets of oil-skin map paper still clean as virgin linen.
He straightened, tasting the moment the way a wine-man rolls a vintage on the tongue. High to the southeast a serrated ridgeline shouldered above the canopy, its basalt spine mottled by strangler-figs. If any place could offer a first rough sketch of this labyrinth, that crest would do.
“Right, then,” he announced to no one in particular, though a pair of wide-eyed porters paused long enough to overhear. “I’ll take a stroll up yonder ridge, mark the lay of the land. Back with a map in one hand and, God willing, both arms still attached.”
He tipped the brim of his slouch hat, an amiable salute to the bustling camp, and slipped beyond the outer picket, rifle in hand.
Caleb Mercer strode down the Intrepid’s gangplank before the earth had finished trembling beneath her settling ballast. Sun-baked jungle air rolled up to meet him; humid, green, and faintly sweet. Around him the expedition frothed in the landing zone with engineers unspooling steam-line tethers, porters heaving teak crates, sentries fanning out with bayonets half-fixed. Mercer threaded through the scene with ease, expression intent but unhurried.
At the fringe of camp he knelt, cinching the leather straps of a narrow field-pack until they bit comfortably into his shoulders. The Steamwinder carbine—brass receiver catching flashes of sun—slid into its scabbard along his spine, muzzle capped against the damp. His Webley rode forward on the belt, thong loosened for a quick draw. Into jacket pockets went a pocket compass, a stub of carpenter’s pencil, and three folded sheets of oil-skin map paper still clean as virgin linen.
He straightened, tasting the moment the way a wine-man rolls a vintage on the tongue. High to the southeast a serrated ridgeline shouldered above the canopy, its basalt spine mottled by strangler-figs. If any place could offer a first rough sketch of this labyrinth, that crest would do.
“Right, then,” he announced to no one in particular, though a pair of wide-eyed porters paused long enough to overhear. “I’ll take a stroll up yonder ridge, mark the lay of the land. Back with a map in one hand and, God willing, both arms still attached.”
He tipped the brim of his slouch hat, an amiable salute to the bustling camp, and slipped beyond the outer picket, rifle in hand.
Zeppelin #27 — Portside Gun Mount / Interior Access
a Collaboration between @InfamousGuy101 and @Expendable
The last few bursts died in Carter’s barrel with a final clack-chunk. The metal of the grip was hot, even through his gloves, and the smell of oil and burnt powder clung to everything. He stepped back slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. His ears rang, and somewhere the sharp, panicked cry of someone calling for a medic still echoed faintly.
Carter turned his head in time to catch Zoe hauling Aden off the platform like a stubborn sack of wheat. He didn’t say anything, just watched for a moment, long enough to see the blood. Carter had seen the same scene in the Main. Whatever he thought of Inburians onboard, the man's wounds didn’t deserve a shrug.
“Poor bastard,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. Then he pivoted away without lingering.
The firefight had died down with no more flashes from the hills. Just the wind howling around the frame and the quiet groans of a strained ship pressing upward through air it didn’t want to climb.
He arrived back into the control cabin as Arkadios gave his measured commands. Carter’s brow furrowed, half at the idea of being over the Morktree with anything less than full lift, and half because he didn’t particularly like Arkadios assigning their names with that cold tone of his. Even so, Carter didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll take topside,” he said, already turning for the engine lift. “If one of the bags is nicked, I’d rather know now than on a cold descent into that ghost-ridden forest.”
"Carter!" Christina roared back from the master control board, blood dripping from her right ear from a graze. At the moment, aside from one shot gage, everything looked normal. "Che cazzo?! Who was shooting at us?"
"Sorry it's breezy," the mechanic-turned-engineer called out, hoping Carter could hear her above the wind. "Some pezzo di merda left a window open! Going to need a warm up, that bastardo better not have tossed the coffee!"
Carter ducked under a set of hanging wires and hoisted himself up into the compartment with the rigging clanking on his shoulder. The wind howled through the open tear and the sight of Christina's bloodied ear made him grit his teeth.
“Damn,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he crossed the short distance, “You alright?” he asked. Christina was tougher than most soldiers he’d fought beside, but even tough cookies cracked if they weren’t patched up. He only hoped Zoe could do the same for Aden.
He gave her a once-over and nodded toward the panel, “If everything else is holding, then we’re better off than we look. As for our friends shootin’ at us… by all accounts, looked like either those red-banner nutjobs didn’t like us procuring the loot they wanted to steal or perhaps someone just had the same idea we did and just didn't take too kindly to us beating them to ii.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, grimacing at the sweat and soot, “Either way, they’re behind us now. And we’re traversing the Morktree...”
He cast a glance toward the tore up canvas, “Not that I’m eager to take a sightseeing detour through the cursed forest. I’ve heard stories, and none of ‘em come with happy endings.”
Carter rested the tool rig down and began to inspect the outer tarp, boots clanking as he moved, “If we can do a quick patch job that holds and nothing’s burning, we’ll hopefully clear it by sundown. Maybe we get lucky for once.”
He smirked faintly over his shoulder, "And if Nikos hasn’t bled out or passed out, maybe we finally get a cup of that ‘world famous’ coffee he keeps bragging about.”
Christina's eyes rolled, then glanced at her reflection in the gages with a scowl. Reaching under the console, she unhooked the first aid kit and laid it out on a bare surface, then tried holding a square of gauze on it, wincing in pain. She tried to wrap it, but it was impossible to do with one hand.
"Carter...," she sighs, turning around while her right hand held the gause in place. "...I need help."
Carter turned at the sound of his name and saw her standing there with the gauze pressed to her ear, jaw tight, blood still trickling from beneath her fingers.
The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled just slightly with the pain, and it knocked the casual edge right out of him. He set the tool rig down with a dull thunk and moved to her fast.
“Alright,” he muttered, more gently now, “let’s get that cleaned up.” He took the kit, fumbling briefly with the antiseptic bottle before uncapping it. The wind made everything awkward, and the rocking of the deck didn’t help his clumsy fingers, but he managed to dab at the wound, careful as he could manage.
“Sorry,” he apologized for whatever stinging it would cause to Christina, his voice was a little lower, a little more human than usual, “You’d think someone who was awarded war ribbons would know how to dress a scratch...” He gave a faint grin, then secured the bandage in place, finally taping it down. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.
Reaching to the his belt he reached for one of his pouches to pull out a silver flask and handed it over, “Figured this might help more than me fumblin’ with gauze...”
She bit her lip. A shot from her flask wouldn't go amiss, either, but she wouldn't refuse the offer.
He leaned back on one knee and looked out over the wind-stirred canvas. “Hell of a ride, huh? Burning city, castle, now the Morktree… almost makes you wonder if the gold’s worth it.” He gave her a sidelong look, “Still, should buy us more than enough stitches and whiskey once we’re out of this.”
The antiseptic stung, making her sharply draw in her breath in pain and to grip the console handrail tightly.
"Thank you," she said when the bandage was in place, and again when he handed the flask over. She unscrewed the cap and flung it back, then drank two slugs, feeling a different sort of burn as the alcohol rolled down her throat.
"That's..." she managed, swallowing, "That's good.... What is that? Whiskey?"
Carter chuckled softly as he snapped the first aid kit shut and set it aside near the console.
“Yep,” he said, straightening up, “King’s Iron, distilled up in the high hill ridges back at the Main. Used to be a soldier’s favorite before the ration cuts. Burns like hell, but it stays warm in the gut longer...”
He leaned back against a support beam looking up to the gashed canvas, the wind whistling low through it.
“For a while,” he added, almost to himself, “it was the only friend I had left after the war. Didn’t ask questions and didn’t talk back.”
Then he looked over at her again, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the forward compartment with a smirk.
“So what about you?” he asked, “Got plans for your cut? Gonna disappear into the mountains? Buy a villa? Or just drink better whiskey than mine?”
Plans, Christina thought, frowning.
"When I escaped the Esercito Popolare, or whatever those figlio di puttana calling themselves now, I took only what I could carry. My rifle, my helmet, a rag to wave so the Inbur's porca vaccas didn't shoot me."
Her face burned, remembering the hands that groped her during their search. But the hands of the bastardo political officers were not gentle, either.
"It would have been so easy to do what was expected," Christina spat. "But I could not sit in comfort when war was coming. But Inbur's army didn't want me, I was rischio per la sicurezza. How you say, 'security risk'? So I use my skills to fix zeppelins. But nobody trusts me, I could not borrow tools, so I had to scroccare with what little monies I could get."
She paused, glancing over at Carter, then down at herself, staring at her stained khaki overalls that needed patching and a good wash.
"My family were merchants," she said wistfully, a small grin on her bloodied face. "My father ran grand company, we had fine house and my mother and I had many fine dresses. If only mia madre could see me now."
"I was visiting my uncle, a mechanic who had sailed with my father, playing with his daughter, we were like sisters," she said, then continued in anger, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "But walking home, we see those figlio di puttana dragging my parents out into street. He covered my mouth to keep me from screaming as they shot them."
"So I become un meccanica," Christina shrugged, glancing down at her hand as if to inspect her nails. "Rough hands, broken nails, no pretty dresses, patched bloomers, but no rieducazione."
"I need new kit," she told Carter. "No pretty dresses, just pratica. Better tools, more guns. There are many who need killing."
She paused, taking another slug from his flask. It didn't seem to give her as much trouble, before. Was she getting used to it? She could feel the burn, countering the throbbing in her ear. Christina passed the flask back to Carter.
"And yes," she told him, "better liquore for when I am not tired enough and sleep not come because fantasmi that crowd my head."
Carter didn’t interrupt. He just crouched next to the open panel and listened. For all the fire and grit Christina spoke, it reminded him of too many things he’d seen, too many deaths and faces gone. And though he’d never say it out loud, her story stirred something in him, more than he expected from a Calarian.
By all rights, he ought to have distrusted her. Hell, if they’d met just a few months earlier, he probably would’ve treated her like one of those flag-waving fifth column rats torching farms and hanging officials. But she wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. Maybe never was.
He took the flask back, weighing it in one hand, then looked at her, as properly as he could.
“Well,” Carter said, voice low and steady, “I’ve seen men with less reason give up and turn mean. You didn’t. Can’t say I got a stake in any of this madness but if this gold helps you put a few of those ghosts down, maybe it’s worth haulin’.”
He tipped the flask in a quiet toast, “To practical things. Tools. Guns. And ghosts that stay buried.”
With that, he stood, giving the flask one last tap against his palm before sliding it back into his belt pouch. “Come on. Let’s patch this lady up before she decides to finish what the bullets didn’t.”
The next few minutes passed in near silence as the two got to work with Carter hauling the spare canvas roll and adhesive from the rig pack and Christina holding steady as they worked in rhythm. They clambered over struts and beams, wind tugging at their sleeves, voices occasionally barking short commands over the rush.
“Hold that corner, tight!”
“Watch your foot!"
But despite some sniping, it came together fast. They cut and sealed the canvas, taped the inner mesh, and ran a few quick checks over the exposed rigging. Carter leaned back once it was done, fingers sticky with sealant, eyes sweeping the patched section.
“Not bad,” he muttered. “Coulda been worse.”
a Collaboration between @InfamousGuy101 and @Expendable
The last few bursts died in Carter’s barrel with a final clack-chunk. The metal of the grip was hot, even through his gloves, and the smell of oil and burnt powder clung to everything. He stepped back slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. His ears rang, and somewhere the sharp, panicked cry of someone calling for a medic still echoed faintly.
Carter turned his head in time to catch Zoe hauling Aden off the platform like a stubborn sack of wheat. He didn’t say anything, just watched for a moment, long enough to see the blood. Carter had seen the same scene in the Main. Whatever he thought of Inburians onboard, the man's wounds didn’t deserve a shrug.
“Poor bastard,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tight. Then he pivoted away without lingering.
The firefight had died down with no more flashes from the hills. Just the wind howling around the frame and the quiet groans of a strained ship pressing upward through air it didn’t want to climb.
He arrived back into the control cabin as Arkadios gave his measured commands. Carter’s brow furrowed, half at the idea of being over the Morktree with anything less than full lift, and half because he didn’t particularly like Arkadios assigning their names with that cold tone of his. Even so, Carter didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll take topside,” he said, already turning for the engine lift. “If one of the bags is nicked, I’d rather know now than on a cold descent into that ghost-ridden forest.”
"Carter!" Christina roared back from the master control board, blood dripping from her right ear from a graze. At the moment, aside from one shot gage, everything looked normal. "Che cazzo?! Who was shooting at us?"
"Sorry it's breezy," the mechanic-turned-engineer called out, hoping Carter could hear her above the wind. "Some pezzo di merda left a window open! Going to need a warm up, that bastardo better not have tossed the coffee!"
Carter ducked under a set of hanging wires and hoisted himself up into the compartment with the rigging clanking on his shoulder. The wind howled through the open tear and the sight of Christina's bloodied ear made him grit his teeth.
“Damn,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he crossed the short distance, “You alright?” he asked. Christina was tougher than most soldiers he’d fought beside, but even tough cookies cracked if they weren’t patched up. He only hoped Zoe could do the same for Aden.
He gave her a once-over and nodded toward the panel, “If everything else is holding, then we’re better off than we look. As for our friends shootin’ at us… by all accounts, looked like either those red-banner nutjobs didn’t like us procuring the loot they wanted to steal or perhaps someone just had the same idea we did and just didn't take too kindly to us beating them to ii.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, grimacing at the sweat and soot, “Either way, they’re behind us now. And we’re traversing the Morktree...”
He cast a glance toward the tore up canvas, “Not that I’m eager to take a sightseeing detour through the cursed forest. I’ve heard stories, and none of ‘em come with happy endings.”
Carter rested the tool rig down and began to inspect the outer tarp, boots clanking as he moved, “If we can do a quick patch job that holds and nothing’s burning, we’ll hopefully clear it by sundown. Maybe we get lucky for once.”
He smirked faintly over his shoulder, "And if Nikos hasn’t bled out or passed out, maybe we finally get a cup of that ‘world famous’ coffee he keeps bragging about.”
Christina's eyes rolled, then glanced at her reflection in the gages with a scowl. Reaching under the console, she unhooked the first aid kit and laid it out on a bare surface, then tried holding a square of gauze on it, wincing in pain. She tried to wrap it, but it was impossible to do with one hand.
"Carter...," she sighs, turning around while her right hand held the gause in place. "...I need help."
Carter turned at the sound of his name and saw her standing there with the gauze pressed to her ear, jaw tight, blood still trickling from beneath her fingers.
The usual sharpness in her eyes had dulled just slightly with the pain, and it knocked the casual edge right out of him. He set the tool rig down with a dull thunk and moved to her fast.
“Alright,” he muttered, more gently now, “let’s get that cleaned up.” He took the kit, fumbling briefly with the antiseptic bottle before uncapping it. The wind made everything awkward, and the rocking of the deck didn’t help his clumsy fingers, but he managed to dab at the wound, careful as he could manage.
“Sorry,” he apologized for whatever stinging it would cause to Christina, his voice was a little lower, a little more human than usual, “You’d think someone who was awarded war ribbons would know how to dress a scratch...” He gave a faint grin, then secured the bandage in place, finally taping it down. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.
Reaching to the his belt he reached for one of his pouches to pull out a silver flask and handed it over, “Figured this might help more than me fumblin’ with gauze...”
She bit her lip. A shot from her flask wouldn't go amiss, either, but she wouldn't refuse the offer.
He leaned back on one knee and looked out over the wind-stirred canvas. “Hell of a ride, huh? Burning city, castle, now the Morktree… almost makes you wonder if the gold’s worth it.” He gave her a sidelong look, “Still, should buy us more than enough stitches and whiskey once we’re out of this.”
The antiseptic stung, making her sharply draw in her breath in pain and to grip the console handrail tightly.
"Thank you," she said when the bandage was in place, and again when he handed the flask over. She unscrewed the cap and flung it back, then drank two slugs, feeling a different sort of burn as the alcohol rolled down her throat.
"That's..." she managed, swallowing, "That's good.... What is that? Whiskey?"
Carter chuckled softly as he snapped the first aid kit shut and set it aside near the console.
“Yep,” he said, straightening up, “King’s Iron, distilled up in the high hill ridges back at the Main. Used to be a soldier’s favorite before the ration cuts. Burns like hell, but it stays warm in the gut longer...”
He leaned back against a support beam looking up to the gashed canvas, the wind whistling low through it.
“For a while,” he added, almost to himself, “it was the only friend I had left after the war. Didn’t ask questions and didn’t talk back.”
Then he looked over at her again, his tone lightening as he gestured toward the forward compartment with a smirk.
“So what about you?” he asked, “Got plans for your cut? Gonna disappear into the mountains? Buy a villa? Or just drink better whiskey than mine?”
Plans, Christina thought, frowning.
"When I escaped the Esercito Popolare, or whatever those figlio di puttana calling themselves now, I took only what I could carry. My rifle, my helmet, a rag to wave so the Inbur's porca vaccas didn't shoot me."
Her face burned, remembering the hands that groped her during their search. But the hands of the bastardo political officers were not gentle, either.
"It would have been so easy to do what was expected," Christina spat. "But I could not sit in comfort when war was coming. But Inbur's army didn't want me, I was rischio per la sicurezza. How you say, 'security risk'? So I use my skills to fix zeppelins. But nobody trusts me, I could not borrow tools, so I had to scroccare with what little monies I could get."
She paused, glancing over at Carter, then down at herself, staring at her stained khaki overalls that needed patching and a good wash.
"My family were merchants," she said wistfully, a small grin on her bloodied face. "My father ran grand company, we had fine house and my mother and I had many fine dresses. If only mia madre could see me now."
"I was visiting my uncle, a mechanic who had sailed with my father, playing with his daughter, we were like sisters," she said, then continued in anger, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists. "But walking home, we see those figlio di puttana dragging my parents out into street. He covered my mouth to keep me from screaming as they shot them."
"So I become un meccanica," Christina shrugged, glancing down at her hand as if to inspect her nails. "Rough hands, broken nails, no pretty dresses, patched bloomers, but no rieducazione."
"I need new kit," she told Carter. "No pretty dresses, just pratica. Better tools, more guns. There are many who need killing."
She paused, taking another slug from his flask. It didn't seem to give her as much trouble, before. Was she getting used to it? She could feel the burn, countering the throbbing in her ear. Christina passed the flask back to Carter.
"And yes," she told him, "better liquore for when I am not tired enough and sleep not come because fantasmi that crowd my head."
Carter didn’t interrupt. He just crouched next to the open panel and listened. For all the fire and grit Christina spoke, it reminded him of too many things he’d seen, too many deaths and faces gone. And though he’d never say it out loud, her story stirred something in him, more than he expected from a Calarian.
By all rights, he ought to have distrusted her. Hell, if they’d met just a few months earlier, he probably would’ve treated her like one of those flag-waving fifth column rats torching farms and hanging officials. But she wasn’t one of them. Not anymore. Maybe never was.
He took the flask back, weighing it in one hand, then looked at her, as properly as he could.
“Well,” Carter said, voice low and steady, “I’ve seen men with less reason give up and turn mean. You didn’t. Can’t say I got a stake in any of this madness but if this gold helps you put a few of those ghosts down, maybe it’s worth haulin’.”
He tipped the flask in a quiet toast, “To practical things. Tools. Guns. And ghosts that stay buried.”
With that, he stood, giving the flask one last tap against his palm before sliding it back into his belt pouch. “Come on. Let’s patch this lady up before she decides to finish what the bullets didn’t.”
The next few minutes passed in near silence as the two got to work with Carter hauling the spare canvas roll and adhesive from the rig pack and Christina holding steady as they worked in rhythm. They clambered over struts and beams, wind tugging at their sleeves, voices occasionally barking short commands over the rush.
“Hold that corner, tight!”
“Watch your foot!"
But despite some sniping, it came together fast. They cut and sealed the canvas, taped the inner mesh, and ran a few quick checks over the exposed rigging. Carter leaned back once it was done, fingers sticky with sealant, eyes sweeping the patched section.
“Not bad,” he muttered. “Coulda been worse.”
Caleb "Cal" Mercer
Cal lingered a pace back, hat tilted low as the chatter eddied around him. The stock-exchange baron, -Gibbs, was it?-shone like a polished coin, his words rattling against the glass in bright, eager clinks: Standard Oil, textile empire, rare antiquities for the parlour display. Cal’s lips twitched; he had seen men buy tiger rugs and think it made them hunters.
Next to Gibbs, young Takács shifted from one boot to the other, eyes alight with the academic hunger Cal remembered from Siamese temple digs: the kind that could note the curvature of a glyph yet miss the cobra at ankle height. And somewhere off to the side, that razor-thin doctor scribbled neat hieroglyphs of his own, measuring the world in angles and theories as if a charging beast might pause out of courtesy for a diagram.
Cal cleared his throat, “Gentlemen,” he drawled, “I’ve no doubt Omon has scrolls and baubles enough to christen a dozen museums and set a fair few society pages aflutter.” He tapped the brim of his slouch hat back, eyes sharpening to the emerald sea below, “But the maps we’re about to walk off the edge of weren’t left blank for want of curiosity. More likely something down there obliged the last curious souls to stop drawing.”
A grin crept across his face as he loosened the leather thong on his Webley revolver and let the walnut grip wink in the light. “So by all means, chase your prestige, your glory, your footnotes in the annals of civilization. Just remember: ruins have teeth, natives may not care for polite introductions, and the ferns out there grow big enough to hide things that’ll pick their teeth with our bones.”
He settled the revolver back, knuckles resting easy on the rail. “Stick close when the scouts say tread left instead of right, keep a piece of iron within arm’s reach, and most of us will live long enough to toast each other with whatever vintage passes for champagne in these parts.”
Cal’s grin tilted wry. “Fail that, and at least Reverend Jacob will have plenty of souls to shepherd on short notice.”
Cal lingered a pace back, hat tilted low as the chatter eddied around him. The stock-exchange baron, -Gibbs, was it?-shone like a polished coin, his words rattling against the glass in bright, eager clinks: Standard Oil, textile empire, rare antiquities for the parlour display. Cal’s lips twitched; he had seen men buy tiger rugs and think it made them hunters.
Next to Gibbs, young Takács shifted from one boot to the other, eyes alight with the academic hunger Cal remembered from Siamese temple digs: the kind that could note the curvature of a glyph yet miss the cobra at ankle height. And somewhere off to the side, that razor-thin doctor scribbled neat hieroglyphs of his own, measuring the world in angles and theories as if a charging beast might pause out of courtesy for a diagram.
Cal cleared his throat, “Gentlemen,” he drawled, “I’ve no doubt Omon has scrolls and baubles enough to christen a dozen museums and set a fair few society pages aflutter.” He tapped the brim of his slouch hat back, eyes sharpening to the emerald sea below, “But the maps we’re about to walk off the edge of weren’t left blank for want of curiosity. More likely something down there obliged the last curious souls to stop drawing.”
A grin crept across his face as he loosened the leather thong on his Webley revolver and let the walnut grip wink in the light. “So by all means, chase your prestige, your glory, your footnotes in the annals of civilization. Just remember: ruins have teeth, natives may not care for polite introductions, and the ferns out there grow big enough to hide things that’ll pick their teeth with our bones.”
He settled the revolver back, knuckles resting easy on the rail. “Stick close when the scouts say tread left instead of right, keep a piece of iron within arm’s reach, and most of us will live long enough to toast each other with whatever vintage passes for champagne in these parts.”
Cal’s grin tilted wry. “Fail that, and at least Reverend Jacob will have plenty of souls to shepherd on short notice.”
Caleb "Cal" Mercer
The Next Near-Death
Cal sat cross-legged on the narrow bunk, the volt-rifle balanced across his knees like a sanctified relic. Copper coils winked in the sliver of sunlight filtering through his cabin's porthole as the Intrepid’s engines thrummed somewhere amidships—steady, unhurried, as though the airship had struck a private bargain with the fickle winds Mr. Wright claimed guarded Omon. Methodically he ran the brass rod through the barrel, pausing to listen to the faint electrical crackle that lived inside the weapon, hungry for a charge. It sounded uncannily like the Khartoum dynamo that had once blown a Nubian sapper into mist and carved the thin scar along Mercer’s cheek.
Adventures flickered through his mind as if projected on the cabin bulkhead: the tiger that flowed out of Malayan fog, teeth flashing; the Russian packet boat groaning open beneath his boots in the Bering gloom; bullets, claws, ice, and fever—all of them missing by a whisker. Each escape had bought him a purse of gold and a greater craving for the next wager. The expedition’s pay was handsome, true, but he knew the sovereigns would spend like salt water if Omon’s legends proved half as feverish as the maps.
The intercom crackled overhead: “Landfall in one quarter hour—prepare for first sight.” Mercer laughed under his breath, snapped the side-plate shut, and murmured, “Here’s to the next near-death.” Hat, gauntlets, cartridge belt—he shrugged into each piece with a pilgrim’s solemnity, then strode into the dim passage where oil-lamps nodded like conspirators.
Moments later he stood on the observation deck, his palms resting on cool brass rail. The cloud-veil ahead parted like theater curtain to reveal a continent that had no business existing. A green ocean stretched to the horizon, its canopy heaving in the heat like the hide of a sleeping beast. The flowing of rivers flashed in the sun, veins of life in untouched land. No chart had traced those arteries; no lighthouse had ever blessed those shores.
A wicked thrill unfurled in his chest—the same bright sting quinine leaves on the tongue—reminding him that every heartbeat hence was an ante thrown onto a table none of them truly saw. He grinned at the rolling jungle, the molten sky, whatever gods kept tally in forgotten realms. Deal the cards, that grin seemed to say, and mind you play fair—though I certainly won’t. And with that silent challenge, Caleb Mercer waited for Omon to blink first.
The Next Near-Death
Cal sat cross-legged on the narrow bunk, the volt-rifle balanced across his knees like a sanctified relic. Copper coils winked in the sliver of sunlight filtering through his cabin's porthole as the Intrepid’s engines thrummed somewhere amidships—steady, unhurried, as though the airship had struck a private bargain with the fickle winds Mr. Wright claimed guarded Omon. Methodically he ran the brass rod through the barrel, pausing to listen to the faint electrical crackle that lived inside the weapon, hungry for a charge. It sounded uncannily like the Khartoum dynamo that had once blown a Nubian sapper into mist and carved the thin scar along Mercer’s cheek.
Adventures flickered through his mind as if projected on the cabin bulkhead: the tiger that flowed out of Malayan fog, teeth flashing; the Russian packet boat groaning open beneath his boots in the Bering gloom; bullets, claws, ice, and fever—all of them missing by a whisker. Each escape had bought him a purse of gold and a greater craving for the next wager. The expedition’s pay was handsome, true, but he knew the sovereigns would spend like salt water if Omon’s legends proved half as feverish as the maps.
The intercom crackled overhead: “Landfall in one quarter hour—prepare for first sight.” Mercer laughed under his breath, snapped the side-plate shut, and murmured, “Here’s to the next near-death.” Hat, gauntlets, cartridge belt—he shrugged into each piece with a pilgrim’s solemnity, then strode into the dim passage where oil-lamps nodded like conspirators.
Moments later he stood on the observation deck, his palms resting on cool brass rail. The cloud-veil ahead parted like theater curtain to reveal a continent that had no business existing. A green ocean stretched to the horizon, its canopy heaving in the heat like the hide of a sleeping beast. The flowing of rivers flashed in the sun, veins of life in untouched land. No chart had traced those arteries; no lighthouse had ever blessed those shores.
A wicked thrill unfurled in his chest—the same bright sting quinine leaves on the tongue—reminding him that every heartbeat hence was an ante thrown onto a table none of them truly saw. He grinned at the rolling jungle, the molten sky, whatever gods kept tally in forgotten realms. Deal the cards, that grin seemed to say, and mind you play fair—though I certainly won’t. And with that silent challenge, Caleb Mercer waited for Omon to blink first.
A scout, a doctor, an archeologist, and a linguist. We're fledging a full on Atlantis crew, all we need is the French geologist and a wacky American and we're golden.
<Snipped quote by InfamousGuy101>
Okay, then I think it is fine then.
Added the char on the rooster, noticed I left the shotgun from my draft. I removed it, carrying three long arms would indeed be a bitch to do through the jungle.
Name
Caleb “Cal” Mercer
Gender
Male
Age
36
Appearance
Tall (6′1″) and rangy, with sun-browned skin, a hawk nose, thick chevron moustache, and tousled chestnut hair worn just long enough to sweep beneath a battered slouch hat. A thin saber scar runs from his right cheekbone to jawline, a souvenir from the Sudan. Favors a weather-worn leather vest over a cavalry shirt, leather gauntlets, and stout lace-up boots. Carries himself with easy confidence, blue-green eyes constantly scanning like a predator gauging the wind.
Nationality
Colonial Australian
Personality
Equal parts roguish charm and soldier’s discipline. Cal greets danger with a crooked grin and a wry quip, yet observes unfamiliar peoples and creatures with genuine curiosity and respect.
Role
Expedition Scout & Forward Reconnaissance Lead
Skills
- Crack rifle and revolver marksman (colonial sharpshooter champion, 1887)
- Wilderness survival & path-finding in jungle, desert, and alpine terrain
- Competent sabreur and knife-fighter; trained in bush horseback riding and camel handling
Personal Belongings / Equipment
- Greener–Marston 11 mm lever-action “volt-rifle” (steam-coil boost gives silent, low-smoke shots)
- Webley top-break revolver
- Remington-Eclipse Model 8 “Steamwinder Carbine”
- Bowie Knife
- Collapsible brass spyglass, sextant, and pocket chronometer for over-land navigation
- Spring-loaded grappling launcher with 30 m silken cable
- Weather-sealed journal/sketchbook and charcoal pencils
- Miscellaneous clothing
- Leather backpack
- Bandolier and water canteen.
Background
Born on Melbourne’s ragged waterfront to a Cornish railway engineer and an Irish school-mistress, Caleb seemed fated for the ordinariness until a brawl with a drunken officer saw him “volunteer” for the Victorian Mounted Rifles at nineteen. He shipped out with the Sudan Expedition scouting wadis for the relief column at Tamai. There he earned both a silver marksman’s clasp and the scar that creases his jaw, surviving a night ambush by Mahdist raiders.
Mustering out with a taste for dust and danger, Cal drifted up Africa’s east coast after a five year service. He guided ivory caravans across the Kalahari, where he once tracked a wounded bull elephant for three days with nothing but a cracked compass and a single canteen. In Zanzibar he crewed on the coastal steamer SS Meerkat, rescuing a German zoologist from slavers and earning a battered Walther field glass as payment.
His wanderlust next carried him to the Crown Jewel of Asia. In the Indian Highlands he earned bounty by hunting rogue tigers that had learned to stalk rubber plantations like orderly rows of prey. A local shaman taught him to read jungle bird-calls for signs of storm or hungry felines. Those lessons saved a dozen Hindu workers when a flash flood roared through the Ganges River gorge.
Mercer continue on with his ventures, landing in the Amazon's where for two seasons he hacked survey lines through choking rain forest to reach the half-swallowed temple complex of Kuma Dara, the first outsiders to set eyes on its stone doors since the Portuguese expeditions. Cal sketched glyphs and dismantled clockwork traps alongside French epigrapher Dr. LaSalle, gaining an amateur appreciation for dead languages and a sprained wrist resetting a twenty-ton pressure plate to avoid being crushed.
By 1889 he had found the sky more forgiving than the jungle and signed on as deck gunner aboard the tramp-dirigible Cloud Wombat, hauling freight (licit and otherwise) from Darwin to Valparaíso. During an unsanctioned salvage run over the Aleutian archipelago, he rappelled onto an ice-locked Russian packet to recover sealed survey cylinders, only to flee when volcanic tremors tore the floe apart beneath his crampons. The incident caught the attention of the clandestine Eclipse Consortium, which quietly retained Cal for “delicate retrievals.” Among these was extracting a jade astrolabe from a booby-trapped antechamber deep in the Burmese Delta, where mercury-weighted idols still swung on ancient counterweights.
Weeks ago, the Consortium forwarded a discreet letter: financier-explorer Natan Wright requires a scout with experience in particularly dangerous territory for an airship venture to a “primal continent.” The pay was handsome, but it was the phrase “uncharted interior teeming with yet charted megafauna” that sealed Mercer’s answer. He sold his share in the Wombat, topped off his volt-rifle coils, and booked the first aircoach eastward, keen to add one more impossible story to his growing repertory.
Accepted, though not sure if you carry all of those weapons at once.
One is his main hunting gun, the volt rifle, the other a backup self loader for more overwhelming enemies. Both could be feasibly be carried, and his revolver goes on his holster.
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