Still here. Life's demands have been calling loudly as of late, but I should have a post up by next week.
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The Pilgrim
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Andreyich
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Good stuff, guys. Let's see if @TheMoatedGrange is saving the best for last.
I checked @TheMoatedGrange's profile and did not see activity for about 5 days now. This isn't to suggest I'm uber-active on RPG, but does anyone by chance have contact with them to see how things are going?
<Snipped quote by Spoopy Scary>
The guards' attire is made mostly of padded cloth and a nasal helm, equipped with a polearm usually, and a sword. The captains and lieutenants are better and more extravagantly armored. The Captain of the Guard is arrayed in a polished breastplate, dark leather pauldrons and a flowing white cape with the sigil of the Lord's House emblazoned on it. Guards will have the sigil stitched onto the left side of the chest or the right arm.
You're plucking the chords of my deep affection for antiquated armour, sigils, and the like.
When the pangs of one too many flagons of wine dulled the details of the plan returned to mind. First, simple satisfaction uplifted as knowing what lie ahead was a gift yet unreceived on this little journey. The seeds of doubt took root later, perhaps while walking the streets of Camlorn, or glimpsing the high walls surrounding the castle. Doubt came more freely than the wine. Placing trust in a ragtag lot recruited from the muddy floors of a poor town's dungeon did not seem wise, nor did thinking the plans of such honed minds infallible. Still, though doubt might sour supper and spoil otherwise good drink, it also begged for attention. When the second day came what remnants of doubt remained burned up in the hot excitement for what was to come.
The guards covered in shapeless mail took Brynn roughly. Meanwhile, the so-called ponce wearing leather spaulders and a plate cuirass more elegantly crafted than Faruq's smirked. They chuckled lightly, head shaking a little while unraveling a copy of the wanted posters littering the hold.
"If we shan't skin the cat I'll see one of his lots' heads upon pikes at the least," the ponce mused, seemingly to himself.
Faruq watched the guards carry Brynn off, boots dragging against the cobblestone as a shadow cast over the bandit's face. Stories of violence to the Blood Red name came to mind along with horrorific scenes sewn by bandits unknown. The face of the farmer protecting his family from Brynn and this lot as they demanded food on the journey here shown quite clear. Yet, the face of the farmer remained vibrant with life and the demand could hardly be considered banditry. Faruq stole one last glance of Brynn before he disappeared from view, then squared his shoulders.
"Indeed the khajit does not make tracking easy," Faruq added to the musing. The ponce turned to him and Fiona, observing them both as the redguard stepped forward and paid a half bow. "We found the bandit there scouting about for a new campsite. Said as much the way we found him skulking about, looking for the next place to make camp by the looks of it. She wanted to wait there awhile and capture the khajit and the whole of his crew," Faruq nodded to Fiona then shook his head.
Fiona managed to wipe the look of surprise at seeing Brynn dragged off for execution from her face, and shrug at Faruq and the white-caped man. "Taking just the one man seems hardly a victory." Faruq seemed to be adapting to this far better than she was. It even sounded like something she'd do, in this particular story. Go after the head of the bandits, and end the threat, not merely nibble at it. Risky, but with great potential reward.
The ponce chortled somewhat dismissively. "Fool girl... Sev'Ahmet would've gutted you, your captive would've gone free, and I would have no one to behead today." He studied Fiona momentarily, leaving her feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Rather young for bounty hunting, aren't you?"
She ignored the question, holding her ground. "Taking the scout's head is a mistake. He could be of use." Fiona was almost surprised at the words. It had occurred to her that letting Brynn die could well be justice, considering his history... but there were too many factors involved for her to be the judge. There was a better way out of this, and she had to try for it.
The ponce tilted his head slightly, gauntleted hands finding their way to his wide belt. "And how is that, exactly?"
"He could know where to find Sev'Ahmet. Surely the guard would be interested in dealing with those bandits once and for all."
"And let him walk my men into an ambush? I thought that was your plan," he retorted, taking a step closer. "Capture or kill his entire band. How were the two of you going to manage that, I wonder?"
She struggled momentarily for a response. This was not her strong suit. "We... have contacts of our own. Enough to deal with the bandits, if we could find them."
"I see. So why not bring the captive to them, and come to me when you have a real prize, not some raggedy scout?" Now her face was turning red, and she didn't know what to say. There was only so far she could go in defending the life of a man she'd supposedly brought in for a bounty, and her own logic had seemingly cornered her.
"Ah. Uh... well..." she began to trail off, looking uncertainly at Faruq.
"I tire of this," Faruq interjected, prodding at Fiona and giving a harsh look beneath a lowered brow. "Let's end this act shall we?" His words came slow. When he turned back to the ponce his expression hardened, his jaw set with a slight scowl casting lines down from his nose. He tried hard to summon the face he wore into battle, the face of the Bone Knight. "Indeed the girl is a bit young to hunt bounties. I happened upon her spending quality time on the burnt up remains of her family farm, her home and family gone. Crisps. Your Sev'Ahmet did that. What does this fool-girl do?" Faruq glanced to Fiona again shook his head. "Takes her crisp-father's sword and looks for the bastards. And I followed her!"
The ponce lowered their hand from a hip and made to speak. Before they could, Faruq continued, "I caught the scout. I hoped she would cry or ask I cut him down or disembowel the sorry sack herself for fuck's sake. Whatever to sate this appetite for revenge, because I am sure as shit not taking on that many bastards with only some fool-girl by my side. So I convinced her to bring the bastard here to the castle to make a deal. Since revenge means more to her than coin, what say you we use this reward to pay you," Faruq pointed to the ponce square in the chest. He then waved a hand over the guards standing about or walking the halls. "Or any of these fine men, to find this ratty khajit bastard. Paid and delivered a living fucking compass. The fool-girl gets her revenge, the count gets their bandits, and you get glory and nice bonus. Bah, we'll even go with you. What say you?"
The ponce looked between Faruq and Fiona, who had thoroughly reddened, though she supposed that was good for appearances. Faruq's tale had hit awfully close to truth, though there was little way he could know that. Her home gone, family lost, passion driving her to take up the sword and set out. Bandits had little to do with it, of course, but when put in these terms, fool-girl seemed to fit quite well. She wasn't even particularly concerned with coin, so long as her expenses were paid.
"You make a convincing case..." The ponce mulled over the tale, plotting something within his mind. "A swift strike, with the pair of you in the vanguard to soften them up, and a row of heads to bring back. Still, you're asking me to place faith in the directions of one of these scum." This also seemed a problem to Fiona. Brynn couldn't actually direct them to the bandits if he didn't know where they were, but even still it could buy him some time to carry out their mission, and maybe even clear some guards out of the castle.
"Appeal to his self-interest then," Fiona offered, a little more confidently. "That's what you can trust in these types. If it benefits him to turn on his kind, I'm sure he'll do it in a heartbeat. Anything to save his own skin."
"True enough." He glanced at Faruq. "And what's your angle in this? Purely monetary? Unless you've some vested interest in the fool-girl's revenge?"
Faruq felt his lips begin to move before a proper lie could form. His eyes flicked to Fiona, her red hair and the powerful expression that rarely faultered. Suddenly the answer came to him, and as the redguard felt a heat gathering upon his face, he shot back, "I suppose you might say I fancy the foolish sort." The redguard cleared his throat then took on his hardened face once more. His gauntleted hand outstretched, Faruq pushed once more. "You've your gold and a guide and two recruits beyond your own guard, not to mention the promise of glory. I can't imagine a better deal is awaiting around the corner."
The silken white cape flapped as the ponce extended a hand. He gave only a small smile, so slight in fact that Faruq could not help but doubt the man as they shook hands. Once their hands clasped one another the ponce pulled the redguard close and whispered beside his ear, "Should you happen to fall to Sev'Ahmet worry not. The girl shall be in capable hands." As Faruq eased out of the feigned embrace he bit his tongue so not to speak. He bit harder as the ponce extended a hand to Fiona as well.
Fiona wiped away any embarrassment left over from Faruq's words, which she truthfully had no idea if they were sincere or just quick thinking. For the moment, her wariness was fixated on the man in front of her, whom she did not trust or like in the slightest. Still, she reached out and firmly clasped hands with him, her features etched in stone.
"We have a deal then," the ponce declared, waving a hand delicately. At once a guard approached and bowed their head. "Send word to the executioner that we shan't need his services quite yet. Our newest guest will be detained within the dungeons after his trial. It is imperative he remains alive until I no longer have need of him. Are we clear?" After the guard nodded, the ponce gestured to Fiona and Faruq. "These two are my guests. See they are made comfortable after the trial and that their needs are met."
The guards covered in shapeless mail took Brynn roughly. Meanwhile, the so-called ponce wearing leather spaulders and a plate cuirass more elegantly crafted than Faruq's smirked. They chuckled lightly, head shaking a little while unraveling a copy of the wanted posters littering the hold.
"If we shan't skin the cat I'll see one of his lots' heads upon pikes at the least," the ponce mused, seemingly to himself.
Faruq watched the guards carry Brynn off, boots dragging against the cobblestone as a shadow cast over the bandit's face. Stories of violence to the Blood Red name came to mind along with horrorific scenes sewn by bandits unknown. The face of the farmer protecting his family from Brynn and this lot as they demanded food on the journey here shown quite clear. Yet, the face of the farmer remained vibrant with life and the demand could hardly be considered banditry. Faruq stole one last glance of Brynn before he disappeared from view, then squared his shoulders.
"Indeed the khajit does not make tracking easy," Faruq added to the musing. The ponce turned to him and Fiona, observing them both as the redguard stepped forward and paid a half bow. "We found the bandit there scouting about for a new campsite. Said as much the way we found him skulking about, looking for the next place to make camp by the looks of it. She wanted to wait there awhile and capture the khajit and the whole of his crew," Faruq nodded to Fiona then shook his head.
Fiona managed to wipe the look of surprise at seeing Brynn dragged off for execution from her face, and shrug at Faruq and the white-caped man. "Taking just the one man seems hardly a victory." Faruq seemed to be adapting to this far better than she was. It even sounded like something she'd do, in this particular story. Go after the head of the bandits, and end the threat, not merely nibble at it. Risky, but with great potential reward.
The ponce chortled somewhat dismissively. "Fool girl... Sev'Ahmet would've gutted you, your captive would've gone free, and I would have no one to behead today." He studied Fiona momentarily, leaving her feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Rather young for bounty hunting, aren't you?"
She ignored the question, holding her ground. "Taking the scout's head is a mistake. He could be of use." Fiona was almost surprised at the words. It had occurred to her that letting Brynn die could well be justice, considering his history... but there were too many factors involved for her to be the judge. There was a better way out of this, and she had to try for it.
The ponce tilted his head slightly, gauntleted hands finding their way to his wide belt. "And how is that, exactly?"
"He could know where to find Sev'Ahmet. Surely the guard would be interested in dealing with those bandits once and for all."
"And let him walk my men into an ambush? I thought that was your plan," he retorted, taking a step closer. "Capture or kill his entire band. How were the two of you going to manage that, I wonder?"
She struggled momentarily for a response. This was not her strong suit. "We... have contacts of our own. Enough to deal with the bandits, if we could find them."
"I see. So why not bring the captive to them, and come to me when you have a real prize, not some raggedy scout?" Now her face was turning red, and she didn't know what to say. There was only so far she could go in defending the life of a man she'd supposedly brought in for a bounty, and her own logic had seemingly cornered her.
"Ah. Uh... well..." she began to trail off, looking uncertainly at Faruq.
"I tire of this," Faruq interjected, prodding at Fiona and giving a harsh look beneath a lowered brow. "Let's end this act shall we?" His words came slow. When he turned back to the ponce his expression hardened, his jaw set with a slight scowl casting lines down from his nose. He tried hard to summon the face he wore into battle, the face of the Bone Knight. "Indeed the girl is a bit young to hunt bounties. I happened upon her spending quality time on the burnt up remains of her family farm, her home and family gone. Crisps. Your Sev'Ahmet did that. What does this fool-girl do?" Faruq glanced to Fiona again shook his head. "Takes her crisp-father's sword and looks for the bastards. And I followed her!"
The ponce lowered their hand from a hip and made to speak. Before they could, Faruq continued, "I caught the scout. I hoped she would cry or ask I cut him down or disembowel the sorry sack herself for fuck's sake. Whatever to sate this appetite for revenge, because I am sure as shit not taking on that many bastards with only some fool-girl by my side. So I convinced her to bring the bastard here to the castle to make a deal. Since revenge means more to her than coin, what say you we use this reward to pay you," Faruq pointed to the ponce square in the chest. He then waved a hand over the guards standing about or walking the halls. "Or any of these fine men, to find this ratty khajit bastard. Paid and delivered a living fucking compass. The fool-girl gets her revenge, the count gets their bandits, and you get glory and nice bonus. Bah, we'll even go with you. What say you?"
The ponce looked between Faruq and Fiona, who had thoroughly reddened, though she supposed that was good for appearances. Faruq's tale had hit awfully close to truth, though there was little way he could know that. Her home gone, family lost, passion driving her to take up the sword and set out. Bandits had little to do with it, of course, but when put in these terms, fool-girl seemed to fit quite well. She wasn't even particularly concerned with coin, so long as her expenses were paid.
"You make a convincing case..." The ponce mulled over the tale, plotting something within his mind. "A swift strike, with the pair of you in the vanguard to soften them up, and a row of heads to bring back. Still, you're asking me to place faith in the directions of one of these scum." This also seemed a problem to Fiona. Brynn couldn't actually direct them to the bandits if he didn't know where they were, but even still it could buy him some time to carry out their mission, and maybe even clear some guards out of the castle.
"Appeal to his self-interest then," Fiona offered, a little more confidently. "That's what you can trust in these types. If it benefits him to turn on his kind, I'm sure he'll do it in a heartbeat. Anything to save his own skin."
"True enough." He glanced at Faruq. "And what's your angle in this? Purely monetary? Unless you've some vested interest in the fool-girl's revenge?"
Faruq felt his lips begin to move before a proper lie could form. His eyes flicked to Fiona, her red hair and the powerful expression that rarely faultered. Suddenly the answer came to him, and as the redguard felt a heat gathering upon his face, he shot back, "I suppose you might say I fancy the foolish sort." The redguard cleared his throat then took on his hardened face once more. His gauntleted hand outstretched, Faruq pushed once more. "You've your gold and a guide and two recruits beyond your own guard, not to mention the promise of glory. I can't imagine a better deal is awaiting around the corner."
The silken white cape flapped as the ponce extended a hand. He gave only a small smile, so slight in fact that Faruq could not help but doubt the man as they shook hands. Once their hands clasped one another the ponce pulled the redguard close and whispered beside his ear, "Should you happen to fall to Sev'Ahmet worry not. The girl shall be in capable hands." As Faruq eased out of the feigned embrace he bit his tongue so not to speak. He bit harder as the ponce extended a hand to Fiona as well.
Fiona wiped away any embarrassment left over from Faruq's words, which she truthfully had no idea if they were sincere or just quick thinking. For the moment, her wariness was fixated on the man in front of her, whom she did not trust or like in the slightest. Still, she reached out and firmly clasped hands with him, her features etched in stone.
"We have a deal then," the ponce declared, waving a hand delicately. At once a guard approached and bowed their head. "Send word to the executioner that we shan't need his services quite yet. Our newest guest will be detained within the dungeons after his trial. It is imperative he remains alive until I no longer have need of him. Are we clear?" After the guard nodded, the ponce gestured to Fiona and Faruq. "These two are my guests. See they are made comfortable after the trial and that their needs are met."
<Snipped quote by Leidenschaft>
How much of that are we allowed to control/move along? Like can we control the Guard Captain and other NPCs and stuff. Sorry if that question was already answered.
@Lo Pellegrino I figure a collab would be the easiest and best way to go, if you like.
@Luminosity I'm game. I tend to be active in mornings and evenings, so if you're good with the chunk-by-chunk approach I'm ready to roll when you are. Do you have a doc or pad you'd like to use?
@Leidenschaft Gods, wouldn't it be fresh if a dragon came swooping in at the last moment? Feel free to use that idea on me. Seriously though, Brynn is being dragged to the chopping block right now? Do we have time to speak with the Guard Captain a touch, perhaps attempt at convincing him Brynn has some valuable information worthy of sparing his life a little longer?
@Lo Pellegrino
Mission report, December 17th, 1944
I'm loving a Samuel L. Jackson addition to the flight
I thought two things with this post: 1) Don't say 'Everyone get off this motherfuckin' plane', and 2) How horrifying would it be to see a tall deranged looking black man with an axe yelling at you as you awaken surrounded by dead bodies? I may have had a partial experience of that last one with an uncle with a questionable sense of humour to draw from.
As a side note, everyone should get ESO and make their characters. We can start a guild!
My laptop can't handle much beyond Skyrim and I'm afraid ESO may beyond its capabilities. Truthfully, I'd love to experience some TES without going back to heavily modded versions of old games though.
Hank definitely has a point there. Dervish and I have been running RPs for a while and we notice they always got bogged down when any of these happened:
-We were too laissez-faire with the players
-We let them have too many collab posts
-Literally nothing of note (anything from a fight to a character's admittance to something or a great reveal) happened for any length of time
There will always, always be chances for characters to interact. This scene in the tavern was to introduce us into Camlorn and allude to us plotting, as well as just so happening to be a place for Finch to further his character's arc just a wee bit and for a certain Dunmer to introduce themselves. I tried splitting each group into characters I think wouldn't give each other the time of day given your regular ol' tavern scene. I wanted to pen you guys in and force your characters out of their comfort zones when it came to people they're not used to fraternizing with. Brynn vs Fiona and Faruq are particularly at odds with one another, one being a man whose reputation has spiralled out of control and whose betrayal by his group is shrouded in rumor and the others being otherwise righteous do-gooders who Brynn would've had to fight in any other kind of meeting with them.
This kind of dynamic can be seen by Mauly's group, that and I really want to peel back Cyrendil's shell and get him talking about his life somehow. I'll get you one of these days, you sonofabitch. But I know these things take time, I'm just saying, conversation will happen. Dervs and I wanted to get you into the filet mignon of the story. All we've experienced so far was the pre-dinner salad, so to speak.
This pre-dinner salad is pretty good so far. I can see the concerns about speeding through opportunities for character development, but I must agree, it seems that our characters are mostly sticking to specific sub-groups thus far. In these groups there is a touch of conflict spurring some development, but it seems like most of them are still in the getting to know one another phase. I expect as the new small groups break away to sneak into Camlorn proper the added stress will create more opportunities to develop. Maybe it's not appropriate to have some long moral speech as we sneak into the castle, but meeting eyes as a sneakthief lifts a precious gem and saying nothing is quite powerful too.
I welcome the chance to have Faruq actually engage with Brynn and Fiona directly. Brynn and Fiona are making hard decisions to help the group survive, something I think Faruq respects on one hand but also suffers as their way challenges his sense of self. I think having the three go in together will make for a serious power team in terms of combat and inspiring change in one another.
Kalterherberg | The Ardennes
Early Morning, December 17th, 1944
Julian crouched low and loosed the scarf from over his mouth. He bit a cigarette out from out a thin paper pack then plucked a pack of matches from his chest pocket. The snap of the match as it burst into a small flame caught the attention of his comrades. Allen glanced down from behind the machinegun and sandbags that made up the front of the trench chuckling. One of the newer members of the platoon, Hamilton, paid more attention to the freshly lit cigarette than he did keeping the belt of ammunition out of the mud and snow. Julian enjoyed a long drag, fully aware of the hungry eyes.
"I swear not a year ago you were all high and mighty about smokin'. Sign of weakness, dirty habit, any of that sound familiar?" Allen recounted as Julian stood with the cigarette offered. The gunman accepted with a nod, eyes never tearing from the field of white before them.
Smirking, Julian stood and held the cigarette near Allen's shoulder. The gunner scanned the field of white ahead of them, then turned his head briefly to take a deep drag. A calm appeared in the gunner's eyes and Julian moved in a crouch further a few steps down the trench toward the next seasoned member of the group. Julian replied to the comment as he approached Bradley, "You sure that was me? I think you've got me and Bradley here mixed up again." He winked, then handed the cigarette to the sharpshooter bundled in white blankets. Bradley responded with the faintest of smiles before taking the smoke under the blanket and handing it back amidst a faint cloud. The sight was almost comical. Finally, Julian turned to Hamilton who was staring flatly.
"Bradley ain't no nigger, boy," Hamilton snapped. The belt slackened, further dipping into the mud. "No mongrels shoot as good as him, don't even joke or I'll remind you of yer place. Hear me?"
Julian made to respond until he noticed Allen. He caught a flash of annoyance recognized from years together, while Hamilton caught only the back of the gunner's hand. Allen struck the man twice before sneering at him long enough to hiss, "Shut the fuck up. Callin' folks mongrels? You sound like the fascist bastards we're here to send packin'. Besides, seems like keepin' the ammo ready to feed is hard enough for you, consider talkin' a privilege you gotta earn." Allen shook his head then returned his gaze to the field. "Hamilton just forfeited his turn. Mind fittin' me with another drag, Jules?"
"Got something," came a voice slow and cool. Both Julian and Hamilton turned to Bradley, while Allen pulled the bolt back on the M2 Browning. "Civilian. A woman with a bag. Looks like a nurse."
Allen kicked the frozen dirt wall of the trench. "Goddammit again? These people go wandering off like they don't know guns pointed in both directions. If Jerry pops up and she's out there I can't just --"
"I'll get her," Julian interrupted, flicking the cherry out the end of the cigarette. His eyes were large and still and almost unnerving as he smiled. "You wouldn't tag the only one with smokes, right?"
The joke hung in the air as Julian grabbed his rifle and climbed out from the side of the trench. He jogged to the nearest tree before then dashed to the next. After the third tree he came to a great clearing where the Arden parted and around which lines were drawn. Julian sat with his back pressed against the bark and leaned to the side until he could see the field. It was simply pristine. A new blanket of snow fell in overnight and glowed under the cloud washed morning sun. Yesterday's horrors hid beneath a glistening expanse unspoiled by man or beast or least of all war. The brightness, or perhaps it the sheer quality, caused Julian's eyes to tear.
Julian charged into the heavenly expanse. His boots drove cut the packed snow like a butter knife through steak. With each step he imagined the sight all the more foolish for Allen, Bradley, Hamilton, and any of the Germans enjoying this bit of morning entertainment. The tattered, mud speckled green scarf issued by Uncle Sam flicked to the side in the bittercold wind. He thought of the flags that hung below shooting targets to judge wind and of the forest which had spared him the tortuous weather before. Through the biting wind and flakes of snow glowing the dawn's light found a silhouette. She by the shape of the shadow, though the image delicate behind the blur of white. Julian slung the rifle over his shoulder and stepped faster. He heard a gentle song. When his vision cleared a woman appeared.
The Wreckage | Unknown
Morning, February 24th, 1969
Françoise smiled softly with a thin line of red contrasting against her pale cheek. He awoke to her hand clasped in his as it had been when the turbulence began. Three little cuts from her manicured and polished nails pressed nervously into the top of his hand bled a little. He'd cupped her cheek softly and kissed her. A show of affection and trust despite years passed. He wondered how many saw their wives or husbands or children last in a moment of anger. He wondered how many couples shared a beautiful memory as their last. He shut his eyes and drew a long breath.
Julian stood slowly feeling years beyond his age. He placed a hand on the seat ahead a little too hard causing the passenger to stir. Before he could apologize, they slumped into the aisle and began to drip dark blood. An unnatural stench hung in the air reminding him of a kitchen fire and his years at war. As he stepped into the aisle and scanned the plane, or rather the half that remained. Suddenly, reality hit.
"Get off the plane," Julian gasped. His eyes widened and chest broadened as he repeated in a shout. "Everyone get off the goddamn plane!"
Julian barely remembered his duffle bag in the overhead compartment. Stepping hard alongside rows of the dead, dying, or stirring, he made his way to the first emergency exit near the lavatories. He grabbed the lever and jerked downward. Not only did the handle of the lever break off completely, but the emergency door remained entirely still. Swearing under his breath, Julian kicked at the door twice before trying uselessly at the second exit. By now at least one other was shuffling in their seats closer and closer to a rude awakening. On any other day he might wait to consult with the other passenger, but not on a day when the room looked of hell and reeked of burned flesh. Without any other obvious paths to escape Julian scanned the cabin.
An emergency axe and fire extinguisher lay spilled out among the fallen baggage and toppled compartments. Julian slung the duffle bag over a shoulder then took the axe firmly in both hands. His eyes glanced back toward the lavatories, but he wagered the emergency doors would handle the axe as well as his kick. The windows along the cabin were also too small for anyone of his size to slip through. Then his gaze shifted to a darkness at the end of the cabin. Julian approached the shadowed space, axe ready, intent on escape.
Early Morning, December 17th, 1944
Julian crouched low and loosed the scarf from over his mouth. He bit a cigarette out from out a thin paper pack then plucked a pack of matches from his chest pocket. The snap of the match as it burst into a small flame caught the attention of his comrades. Allen glanced down from behind the machinegun and sandbags that made up the front of the trench chuckling. One of the newer members of the platoon, Hamilton, paid more attention to the freshly lit cigarette than he did keeping the belt of ammunition out of the mud and snow. Julian enjoyed a long drag, fully aware of the hungry eyes.
"I swear not a year ago you were all high and mighty about smokin'. Sign of weakness, dirty habit, any of that sound familiar?" Allen recounted as Julian stood with the cigarette offered. The gunman accepted with a nod, eyes never tearing from the field of white before them.
Smirking, Julian stood and held the cigarette near Allen's shoulder. The gunner scanned the field of white ahead of them, then turned his head briefly to take a deep drag. A calm appeared in the gunner's eyes and Julian moved in a crouch further a few steps down the trench toward the next seasoned member of the group. Julian replied to the comment as he approached Bradley, "You sure that was me? I think you've got me and Bradley here mixed up again." He winked, then handed the cigarette to the sharpshooter bundled in white blankets. Bradley responded with the faintest of smiles before taking the smoke under the blanket and handing it back amidst a faint cloud. The sight was almost comical. Finally, Julian turned to Hamilton who was staring flatly.
"Bradley ain't no nigger, boy," Hamilton snapped. The belt slackened, further dipping into the mud. "No mongrels shoot as good as him, don't even joke or I'll remind you of yer place. Hear me?"
Julian made to respond until he noticed Allen. He caught a flash of annoyance recognized from years together, while Hamilton caught only the back of the gunner's hand. Allen struck the man twice before sneering at him long enough to hiss, "Shut the fuck up. Callin' folks mongrels? You sound like the fascist bastards we're here to send packin'. Besides, seems like keepin' the ammo ready to feed is hard enough for you, consider talkin' a privilege you gotta earn." Allen shook his head then returned his gaze to the field. "Hamilton just forfeited his turn. Mind fittin' me with another drag, Jules?"
"Got something," came a voice slow and cool. Both Julian and Hamilton turned to Bradley, while Allen pulled the bolt back on the M2 Browning. "Civilian. A woman with a bag. Looks like a nurse."
Allen kicked the frozen dirt wall of the trench. "Goddammit again? These people go wandering off like they don't know guns pointed in both directions. If Jerry pops up and she's out there I can't just --"
"I'll get her," Julian interrupted, flicking the cherry out the end of the cigarette. His eyes were large and still and almost unnerving as he smiled. "You wouldn't tag the only one with smokes, right?"
The joke hung in the air as Julian grabbed his rifle and climbed out from the side of the trench. He jogged to the nearest tree before then dashed to the next. After the third tree he came to a great clearing where the Arden parted and around which lines were drawn. Julian sat with his back pressed against the bark and leaned to the side until he could see the field. It was simply pristine. A new blanket of snow fell in overnight and glowed under the cloud washed morning sun. Yesterday's horrors hid beneath a glistening expanse unspoiled by man or beast or least of all war. The brightness, or perhaps it the sheer quality, caused Julian's eyes to tear.
Julian charged into the heavenly expanse. His boots drove cut the packed snow like a butter knife through steak. With each step he imagined the sight all the more foolish for Allen, Bradley, Hamilton, and any of the Germans enjoying this bit of morning entertainment. The tattered, mud speckled green scarf issued by Uncle Sam flicked to the side in the bittercold wind. He thought of the flags that hung below shooting targets to judge wind and of the forest which had spared him the tortuous weather before. Through the biting wind and flakes of snow glowing the dawn's light found a silhouette. She by the shape of the shadow, though the image delicate behind the blur of white. Julian slung the rifle over his shoulder and stepped faster. He heard a gentle song. When his vision cleared a woman appeared.
The Wreckage | Unknown
Morning, February 24th, 1969
Françoise smiled softly with a thin line of red contrasting against her pale cheek. He awoke to her hand clasped in his as it had been when the turbulence began. Three little cuts from her manicured and polished nails pressed nervously into the top of his hand bled a little. He'd cupped her cheek softly and kissed her. A show of affection and trust despite years passed. He wondered how many saw their wives or husbands or children last in a moment of anger. He wondered how many couples shared a beautiful memory as their last. He shut his eyes and drew a long breath.
Julian stood slowly feeling years beyond his age. He placed a hand on the seat ahead a little too hard causing the passenger to stir. Before he could apologize, they slumped into the aisle and began to drip dark blood. An unnatural stench hung in the air reminding him of a kitchen fire and his years at war. As he stepped into the aisle and scanned the plane, or rather the half that remained. Suddenly, reality hit.
"Get off the plane," Julian gasped. His eyes widened and chest broadened as he repeated in a shout. "Everyone get off the goddamn plane!"
Julian barely remembered his duffle bag in the overhead compartment. Stepping hard alongside rows of the dead, dying, or stirring, he made his way to the first emergency exit near the lavatories. He grabbed the lever and jerked downward. Not only did the handle of the lever break off completely, but the emergency door remained entirely still. Swearing under his breath, Julian kicked at the door twice before trying uselessly at the second exit. By now at least one other was shuffling in their seats closer and closer to a rude awakening. On any other day he might wait to consult with the other passenger, but not on a day when the room looked of hell and reeked of burned flesh. Without any other obvious paths to escape Julian scanned the cabin.
An emergency axe and fire extinguisher lay spilled out among the fallen baggage and toppled compartments. Julian slung the duffle bag over a shoulder then took the axe firmly in both hands. His eyes glanced back toward the lavatories, but he wagered the emergency doors would handle the axe as well as his kick. The windows along the cabin were also too small for anyone of his size to slip through. Then his gaze shifted to a darkness at the end of the cabin. Julian approached the shadowed space, axe ready, intent on escape.
<Snipped quote by DearTrickster>
Excuse yoooou.
Hold up, is that a Vera Wang? Swaggin' as usual @Dervish & @Leidenschaft.
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