Avatar of Jarl Coolgruuf
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    1. Jarl Coolgruuf 7 yrs ago
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1 yr ago
Current Ma! The sex roleplayers are being weird in the advanced tab again, Ma!
4 likes
4 yrs ago
Stack sats, print gats, distill vats, feed cats
1 like
4 yrs ago
We here at Cyberdine Systems have heard your demands and we answer your cries with "BullyBot". With the push of a button you can now automate all of your cyberbullying. The future is here. Embrace it.
5 likes
4 yrs ago
>using the phrase "normie" unironically
3 likes
4 yrs ago
They always ask me, "What the fuck are you doing!?" but never, "How the fuck you doing?"
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@POOHEAD189 Sweet! Thank you!








Dannie's grin could be heard through the commlink as she replied.
"I always do."
She positioned herself right in front of the door, gripping her spear firmly.

Everything happened in a flash, but Dannie was more than ready. Bullets pinged off Recompense's shield as Dannie charged straight at her group, using their gunfire to navigate through the smoke. A savage warcry remained trapped within the cockpit as she drove her spear through one of the Redcoats, skewering it. She brought the spear in close and used the mobile suit as an additional shield to block fire from the Tommy as it attempted to flank her. The robotic shishkabob attempted to break free but this struggle was short lived as three megawatts of electricity ripped through its chassis. The entire suit went rigid as the metal around the spear began to liquify and ooze from the entry and exit holes. If the pilot inside wasn't dead already, the flurry of rounds from the Tommy slamming into their back might've done the job. Dannie retaliated with a small metal cylinder that folded up onto Recompense's left shoulder and swiveled toward the offending hail of bullets and unleashed a trio of rockets at the Tommy.
TH-TH-THUMP
Every rocket found its mark and exploded in a shower of white-hot slag that engulfed the front of its torso and head unit. The pilot inside reeled as the very paint of their suit ignited with brilliant colors; the pigments inside burning away under the infernal heat. With the Tommy more than distracted, Dannie took the opportunity to disconnect from her spear of charge her remaining opponent. A burst of gunfire ricocheted harmlessly off her shield as she reached for a handle on her mobile suit's lower back. A salvage processing saw roared to life as she swung the fiendish weapon at the Redcoat. Metal shrieked as the alternating teeth ripped through her opponent's arm in a shower of sparks, severing it in moments. The arm, and the gun in its hand, both crashed to the floor. The pilot inside barely had time to register the horror of what just occurred before  Dannie raised her left arm, pressing her suit's palm against the cockpit, and unloaded two armor piercing shells into it from a wrist-mounted scattergun. The pilot inside died instantly.

Two mobile suits lay broken at her feet, their pilots dead, but the Tommy's pilot decided their  faith in Zern wasn't strong enough to save them from Dannie. They were right. As they attempted to flee, she dropped her saw and reached for a metal disk at her waist that split into two thinner disks connected by a metal cable. She spun the contraption a few times before slinging it at the fleeing mobile suit. The cable tangled around its legs, causing the Tommy to skid a ways as it tripped. It tried to stand but not having the use of its legs proved to be too much of a handicap. Dannie wasted no time in rushing at the downed Tommy and unceremoniously stomping on the torso until the cockpit caved in. Then twice more just to be sure. She took a moment to recollect her weapons and hook her spear back up to her suit's reactor before turning her attention to the rest of the battle.
@Stormflyx Yes, I'd love to. I accidentally wrote up a whole post without even reading your post my bad.

@POOHEAD189 Sorry about the post clutter. I didn't read the OOC before adding to the IC and tried to edit my post at first but accidentally posted twice. Sorry about that whole mess

Renar stared at Baldivar's offered hand, visibly uncomfortable. He nodded once, stiffly.
"Yes, you too. I have to scout," he replied quickly.
And that was all he said before swiftly turning on his heel and silently disappearing into the undergrowth around the camp. It was a lie, of course, but such details were best kept to himself.

He returned half an hour later with a fistful of wild onions and accidentally spooked one of the cooks with his sudden and soundless appearance from the trees directly behind him. There was a mumbled apology before Renar took a bowl of soup and sat down away from the rest of the party in the shade of a tree. He didn't say a word as he shoveled soup down his gullet between mouthfuls of onion stalk. As he ate, he observed the rest of the party from a safe distance and took mental notes of who and what they were. No bit of information that reached his eyes and ears was too trivial to forget.

==========


The trip to the keep had been uneventful, at least for the sorceress. Her feet were sore, and she was starting to tire of the days events. Life in the courts of Lyria had left her unprepared for work such as this. The woman gave a light shrug of her shoulders as she thought over the whole situation. She’d been observing the others too, thinking each of them over - from what she could gather of them so far. The Aen Seidhe had been conversational, but he had been the only one she had formally introduced herself too. She kept an especially fair distance from the Witchers - both, she felt, had regarded her immediately with distrust and one of them had a spectacularly heavy energy about him that she wanted to avoid at all costs.

Still, there was work to be done, and the sorceress set about to the courtyard at Balidvar’s command with her gloved hands held at her sides, fingers positioned and ready to form a spell should the need arise. Her steps were stealthy, but confident, and if everyone else had apprehensions about the place, they were not shared with Avery. She simply wanted them to get on with it, so that she could settle in for the rest of the day.

“Well, Winnie… Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” she breathed out with a shake of her head, placing a hand on each hip as her eyes tracked the sight of the yard. Hay strewn everywhere, weapons abandoned. As if on cue, the small, hairless cat hopped out of the satchel down onto the ground, performing a long and regal stretch and hissing viciously as she did so. “Oh stop it, ungrateful beast,” Avery mumbled with a smirk before reaching down a hand to rub the top of Winifred’s head. “We’re to wait for Renar so don’t you-” before she could finish the sentence, the cat had scarpered off and away on her own accord. Avery merely sighed and shook her head, waiting for the scout to join her in her exploration.

No sooner than the sigh escaped her did he make his presence known from just outside her peripheral vision.
"The cat looks sick. Don't eat it," He warned with a voice, low and coarse from lack of use.

The scout reached into a pouch under his cloak to retrieve a sling and a rock half the size of a fist. He chewed his lips nervously as he loaded the sling. Best to be prepared. With his free hand, he reached up to stroke the hawk perched on his shoulder with two fingers, gently running them along the top of its head. The raptor pressed its head up into his hand as he pulled away, seemingly wanting more attention. The scout refused and rolled his shoulder once with a single word.
"Away."
The hawk took flight without protest, disappearing over the tree line with a quiet flap of its wings. He'd rather it stay with him where he could protect it, but who knew what dangers lurked in the darkened halls of the castle? On his own, Renar avoided large, abandoned structures at all costs. Experience told him that bandits and highwaymen are some of the least terrible things that shelter in crumbling, forgotten towers.

"Well I don't think I'll get quite so hungry for a while," Avery answered, turning her head to glance over the cloaked individual. "I'd sooner eat the bird," she added with a wink, implying that she meant no malice or anything serious by it. She chuckled under her breath before placing her hands out in front of her. "Feels rather safe to me, no signs of life in this courtyard except for you and I," she said with a sigh. "Renar, was it?"

"My mother called me that and not every threat is alive."
He believed whatever magic she performed, but still his eyes never left his surroundings. His mind conjured images of bear traps, trip wires, pitfalls, and arcane runes under every pile of leaves and attached to every rusted sword. Then he moved on to ghouls, rotfiends, devours, and more. None of them truly alive, but all very, very dangerous. People often spoke ill of paranoia, but Renar found it to be a commendable trait indeed. He'd seen far more paranoid soldiers survive perilous situations than reckless ones.

Avery blinked in his direction, at the clipped tone that carried his words. He was a quiet one, but perhaps less so on the inside and she regarded him in that moment with curiosity in her eyes.

"The dead are not silent to my ears," the sorceress said softly before heading further through the courtyard, paying attention to what she could feel around her, fingers twitching in response.

He nodded in approval. Hearing was one of the best senses in his opinion. Sight only revealed what was immediately in front or just to the side of oneself. Ears can observe things behind the listener, obscured by obstacles, or even what's cloaked in darkness. He was quickly lost in his thoughts and the work of scouting for danger. Had he seen the curious look she gave him, he likely wouldn't have known what to make of it anyhow.

"From where do you hail, Renar?" She asked, busying herself with idle and polite chatter. It was also simply a way to learn more about the man, of course, already she had ascertained that he was the quiet type and that perhaps he stayed away from conversation but she wondered of the conversations he had with himself. His internal monologues. "You seem far from a city dweller, or a village dweller in fact. Why, I wouldn't even bat an eye if you told me you were from Brokilon forest!"

"I never asked where," he replied, stopping to use a broken board to nudge a suspicious pile of rotted fabric. "You ask many questions."

Perhaps she wanted something from him? Probably not, most who wanted him to do something for them asked simply and paid fairly. If she wanted to hire him she would've asked by now in all likelihood, but she was employed by his employer as well. Where was she going with this line of questioning?

"And you're a very suspicious man," she answered, slightly perturbed at his lack of an answer, and more so by his comment. "I'm just curious," she explained with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "If I'm to spend so much time on this mission, it's nice to know who I'm with but fine. I'll be quiet," she murmured while examining part of the wall of the courtyard.

He couldn't help being relieved at her temporary vow of silence. Still, she almost seemed upset by his question. Why would she be? But was she? He couldn't tell. Every time he interacted with others he found himself wishing everyone would just say how they felt rather than using arbitrary combinations of facial expression and voice.

That vow was soon broken as Avery's fingers traced the wall, as if she was following a trail of something only she could see. Something beyond the brambles that had grown wild around it. "This courtyard was once a happy place," she commented. "Parties… Celebration," she continued. "Nothing like a city ball of course, but, people were happy here," the sorceress said with a sigh before removing her hand from its place on the stone. "Were," she repeated delicately - the implications clear as crystal before she stepped away entirely, almost timidly, and off in the other direction.

Renar tried his best to filter out her idle chatter as his eyes swept over the grounds once more. If anything lurked here, it was hidden from both his eyes and ears.
@Jb I've come to purge with you again
I'm down to clown

I'm tickled pink by the idea of a post apocalyptic future where everyone collectively decides that guns are for losers and instead rediscover the ancient art of "these hands"

Count me in
Renar will search the courtyard.
1 week earlier

The smell of mildew and mold hung in the air as a pair of armored guards dragged a filthy man down a dimly lit hallway at a brisk pace. The man was dressed only in a roughspun tunic and pants without so much as a thread to cover his feet as they slapped against the cold stone. A coarse beard, almost a full hand in length, and black as coal dominated the lower half of his face while the top is streaked with dirt, much like the rest of him, with the smell to match. His eyes, wide with fear, darted around without pause as his captors dragged him by a chain connected to the manacles binding his wrists together. Eventually, the trio arrived at a solid oaken door flanked by lit torches on either side. One of the guards stepped forward to unlock the door with a heavy iron key and pushes both open with a creak that echoes off the stoney walls. The bearded man was yanked forward into a small room surprisingly well lit by torchlight and dominated by a large wooden table in its center complete with two chairs. Splatters of a dark, reddish stain encircle a set of manacles fixed into the table, and caused the bearded man to recoil. He pulled on his restraints with surprising strength and he received a fist in the gut for his insolence that had him bent almost in half.
“Enough of that! You don’t have a choice in the matter. Either sit down on your own or we’ll prop you up with a spear, understand?”
The man nodded once and straightened up with some difficulty as he made his way to the chair. The guards fastened him to the table none too gently and took up positions by the open door they arrived in, weapons in hand as they wait for someone to arrive. Their captive sat quietly, hoping that whatever was going on could be resolved quickly. He hated being there. Everything smelled wrong and he hated the way sound bounced off the walls again and again. Maybe they’d let him go if he just kept quiet.

Footsteps filled the air of the halls, and suddenly a jester danced out from within the castle sanctum. Behind him, an aging but lovely woman in what could only be described as an elaborate headdress sauntered in, her eyes like daggers and her lips taut. She seemed to survey the room as if she would command all if she could, but it was clear she did not, for with her was the King.

Even if Renar had never seen the King before, there was no mistaking it. Foltest had a look that overpowered even the woman, and he wore the crown atop his head as if born to it. Though he could have been considered to have a soldierly look were it not for the eyes and his kingly nose. His body, at least what was not covered in royal regalia and cloth, was sturdy and honed to that of a footsoldier.

“Ah, so this is the one. Renar, is it?” Foltest asked, his voice posh but rough. He waved for the guards to give the scout some room. Once they backed away warily, Foltest approached. He moved with confidence, sizing Renar up. “You’re difficult enough to track and capture. I was hoping you would not disappoint.”

Quiet prevailed as the wild man remained utterly silent and still, his eyes cast down on the table and avoiding the King's gaze entirely. He had the look of a frightened rabbit in the middle of an open field, hoping to avoid detection despite having nothing to hide in.

Foltest stared him down, looking past his hawkish nose. “I see you’re a man of few words. Well it is lucky for you, as I am not in need of your wit or manner.” He said, stepping forward dangerously close. He seemed to have an iron will about him, and he stood not a meter away from the prisoner. “You’ve traveled south, into Nilfgaard territory have you not?”

Renar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, edging away from Foltest as though he feared the King's touch would burn him. He paused, wringing his hands worriedly as he nodded, still refusing to look the king in the eye.
"Many winters ago."
Yes, he’d been to Nilfgaard before. Not in several years, but what did that have to do with anything? He didn’t understand what was happening.

“Then you’re hired.” Foltest said, and to everyone’s astonishment, he smiled. It was cold but somehow full of bravado. “You and others will go to Nilfgaard and prepare the way for my army. You will scout and hold a strongpoint for the winter. Do so and you’ll receive four years pay as a soldier, along with added loot once you complete the mission.”

Renar was immediately floored. The money was nice but he was over the moon about what sounded like his imminent release, but still he struggled to process the sudden shift in tone. Eventually he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and simply nodded.
"I can leave after?"

Foltest raised an eyebrow, and after a moment a grin appeared over his face. He had not been so amused in quite awhile.

“If you so desire, yes. You will be a free man.” he declared. He waved his hands in the air for a moment in exasperation. “You were technically free before, but as you know our plan, even if you said no we would need to hold you here until it was done. Better to be paid and ply your wares than be stuck as a guest in my keep, isn’t it?”

Renar looked down at his restraints with visible confusion. The guards had made it very clear from the start that he was a prisoner. His knowledge of civilized society was limited at best, yet even he knew that chaining someone up was generally not something one did to guests.
"I like being a free man better."

==========


The party could see a hooded man riding a horse without a saddle or bridle in the general direction of their camp from a ways off, but they could be forgiven for thinking he was a lone traveler separate from themselves. Renar didn't spare a single glance toward them until he directed his horse right up to the group by gently pulling on a rope hanging loosely around its neck. Anyone paying attention would spot a young hawk perched on his shoulder as he drew closer. The horse stopped with a gentle pat on the shoulder and a whispered command from Renar who dismounted with one fluid motion, stirring the hawk in a flutter of wings as it rebalanced itself. He pulled half a carrot from a pocket inside his cloak and offered it to the horse he gobbled it up without hesitation. Renar stroked the horse's neck without hurry as it ate, waiting for it to finish before telling it to,
"Stay."
And stay it did without needing to be tied down.

Renar pulled back his hood and revealed a head of black hair untouched by any grooming instrument save a knife as he scanned the faces of the crowd. The King had assembled an interesting group to be sure.

He recognized the Nazairi right away. His travels had taken him along the edge of her people's lands. Visiting was nice, but he much preferred the greenery of the forest to the oceans of sand that made up her birthplace. He took note of her muscle mass, her facial scars, and non-standard equipment. Clearly she was not some run of the mill conscript. One of the men who returned his equipment to him upon his release from the dungeon had mentioned rumors of witchers amongst the party. She was clearly no witcher. Her eyes belonged to a human and her equipment was for hunting men, not monsters. A mercenary then. He knew her sort were not known for loyalty to anything but coin and as he was not the one paying her, he'd be sure to keep that in mind.

The men with eyes like wildcats, on the other hand, were definitely witchers. The paired swords on their backs gave them away before he even saw their eyes. Their armor sets, while different, were very clearly meant to prioritize function over form. They were men who knew their craft well. Were they comrades? No, their pendants differed. He'd heard tell of witcher schools where they made children into weapons to fight monsters. Perhaps they were from rival schools which made it even more odd that two witchers were assigned to the same task. They might be up to something, best to keep an eye on them.

The one with the mismatched eyes was a sorceress without a shadow of a doubt. He'd seen her step out of thin air and onto the road ahead of him and couldn't help but wonder why magic users didn't band together long ago and set about ruling the world with an iron fist. Their lack of cooperation puzzled him, but he was no less thankful for it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, to put it mildly, but this only made the wild man wary of her. He'd seen the way especially beautiful women in cities would leverage their gifted appearance to take what they wanted. He would have to be extra vigilant around her.

The elf gave him pause. It was not often Renar saw one of his kind. He looked over his armor and noted it's luxury. He looked at his hands and saw them to be rough and heavily calloused. That, along with his unusually muscular build led Renar to believe him to be some sort of craftsman. A smith, perhaps? It would explain the armor and how it was obviously custom made in order to accommodated such a large wearer. Him being a smith would also explain his lack of any sort of visible weapon. Pehaps he could be convinced to make tools for coin.

The girl with the mule was not a fighter. The way she carried herself, her lithe frame, her aesthetic but non-functional clothes, and lack of weapons all pointed to her being either a member of the court or some sort of scholar. He wasn't sure yet. Renar made a mental note to observe her more later.

Finally his gaze setttled on Balidvar but he made no move to approach, apparently comfortable being where he was. He saw the look in his eyes and the stewing, unresolved anger they held and it made him uneasy. The hawk did not seem to share his concerns as it cocked its head at the man to get a better look.
"My name is Renar and I am your forward scout. I'm sorry I'm late. I was busy being arrested by your father."
There was no malice behind the statement but no joke either. It was merely a statement of fact to him.
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