Lugubrious

World of Light

Here we go, Master Order number two! An unconventional and very dangerous battle awaits our heroes, one in which intelligent enemies with overpowered weapons will ruthlessly punish any foolishness and exact a toll every update. How will our heroes prevail? Let's find out.

World of Light

Tora & Poppi

Level 6 Tora (48/60) and Level 5 Poppi (44/50)
Location: No-man's Land, the Land of Adventure
Word Count: 2292

For Hat Kid

You have acquired:
Ray Gun
A beam weapon capable of quick successive staggering shots that don't drop, but it has only ten shots before becoming unable to fire

Iote's Shield
A shield of fanciful design. Wielding it normalizes damage bonuses against the wielder that being a flier would incur, like arrows, lightning, and ice

For Banjo and Kazooie

You have acquired:
Bytan Ball x 4
Fun, super bouncy balls the size of oranges. If thrown hard and true they can deal a halfway decent smack, but that's no way to treat your playmates at recess, which would be where these toys are most applicable

Primid Hat x 2
Little more than a stiff pale green cylinder hat with a small red feather, this sort of hat identifies Primids to one another and fellow soldiers of the Subspace Army. If worn by a Hat User, it imparts the mighty strength of one Primid! ...Which may or may not be an upgrade

Chicken Thigh
Not very big, but it keeps pretty well and is fairly flavorful. Tastes like victory!

Monster Eye
A crafting component for the various tiers of feline boots, feline silver swords, griffon armor, griffon swords, manticore armor, wolven armor, and wolven swords

Trowlon-lon Milk
Don't be fooled by that lookalike bottle and label. Whatever that red stuff in there is, it isn't milk. Ingesting it will cause anyone to float upward at 5 meters per second for 5 seconds, then abruptly stop floating. 200 calories per serving, 5 servings per bottle. A great source of Vitamin Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Steel Sword
It is what it is. Nothing special about it, other than being better than iron.

Wave two struck like a crashing wave, its muscle pitted against the heroes' heavy hitters while its guile sought to lift them off their feet. As the party fended off the Nagagogs and in their various ways evaded falling to their deaths off of Trowlons, the Ace Cadet charged into the thick of it with his mind set on the biggest prize. Its cleaving blades descended toward him, but the hunter deftly swerved out of the way. The scythe-points lodged in the ground, leaving the Greap wide open, and a lifetime of capitalizing on such opening in monsters made the Cadet more than capable of seizing the chance. Instead of leaping for its round, red head, however, he went for a less obvious weakness—the poles of its scythes. He brought his sword down on one in a heavy chop, but his one-handed blade was no axe. It jammed halfway through, leaving the Cadet a moment to wrench it free before the Greap pulled its own weapons loose and raised them up once more.

A winged, insectoid shape darted overhead, raining lightning bolts, and one gravitated toward the Greap on account of its potlike metal body. It evidenced no effect on the body, but the head and scythes sizzled, lightly smoking. In silence the monster reoriented itself on the Ace Cadet and swung once more, its attack brutal but no less two-dimensional than list time. This time, however, one of its scythe-hafts snapped clean through thanks to the damage it sustained, and the incredibly oversized blade clattered to the stone. Not even pausing to acknowledge the injury, the Greap mechanically continued its assault with just one blade.

Nearby, in the area of the battlefield glut with the remaining Primids, Banjo and Kazooie cracked open a Ticken while Fox tore through a squad of the mooks, even taking out one overenthusiastic grenadier with its own explosive. With the enemy's reduced numbers Tora and Poppi could fight freely alongside them, steadily beating down Primid after Primid while weathering whatever the goons had to throw at them. Relying on the pair to grab enemy attention and open them up, Euden routinely cut in to cut their foes down, which proved to be a lethally efficient strategy until the last couple Borboras showed up to blast them, Banjo, Kazooie, and Fox back toward Brother Grimm. Linkle, who'd been thinning down their numbers, fought alongside her Cuckoos against a Ticken elsewhere. None other than Hat Kid heroically leaped into the fray, redirecting one Borboras' windstream to singlehandedly wreak havoc on the enemy formation. Bytans sailed away like errant volleyballs while Primids flopped end over end in comical fashion, and while the Subspace troopers blundered around, the heroes renewed their attack. Hat Kid joined them in the fray, bonking and bashing her little heart out.

More enemies arrived, but the kid never even touched the ground, a veritable whirlwind of flame and adorable fury. When she eventually did run out of steam, Tora, Poppi, and Euden gave her the breathing room she needed. “Meh, meh, meh!” shouted the Nopon, rocket-blasting himself upward to land on and squash a Bytan beneath his weight. The last Ticken approached, but Tora tossed the Mech Arms to Poppi. She blasted forward into a crazy spin, wildly ramping up her centripetal force until she was nothing more than a flaming blur. Her Mech Arm's backhand struck the Ticken's head, instantly shattering it and annihilating the bird within. Tora, meanwhile, moved to help Euden as he clashes swords with an Armight. Laughing to himself, the Nopon jumped up behind it, bounced once, and then clamped onto its back. With his wings he grabbed the Armight's helmet, then let go with his nubs to fall down. His weight and grip put the Armight into a backspin, flipping like a figure in a foosball game. Euden grinned, amused as he was thankful. “Great job!” He leaped into the air and came down atop the Armight in a flaming sword plunge, killing the fiend instantly. After regrouping, all three looked around but found only a couple stray Primids left, all under attack by Blazermate's zombies—especially the heavily-mutated thing that used to be a Nagagog.

Elsewhere, the heroes were wrapping up their own fights. Linkle's quick thinking and reflexes spared Peach a rendezvous with the clouds, instead trapping the offending Trowlon in ice. After Kamek's Toadies saved his hide, Bowser rejoined his crew to take out one of his two Nagagog challengers without much ceremony. Geralt disposed of his own Trowlon, one of the last to plague the heroes, before seeking out Blazermate. The Floow that decimated 6's entrenchment met its end at the Courier's hands after the man braved the jaws of death to rattle off a salvo of killer shotgun blasts at close range. With most of the fight elsewhere, he then took a shot at enlisting the Floow as his third and final Striker. Perhaps sensing oblivion, or the chance to dish out more pain, the strange spirit obeyed. It re-materialized in a flash, quickly floated over to where the fight with the injured Greap raged on, then let loose its agonizing cry. The barrage scarred the thing's pot-body and cut deep gashes into its head, leaving it on death's door. The Ace Cadet could easily finish it off at that point, provided they didn't get caught up in the Floow's scream attack, although as 6's Striker it could only deal a quarter of its true damage as friendly fire.

Of course, anyone could be forgiven for taking their eyes off the downed Greap for a moment to watch Jak's impressive jet board display as he took on the last Nagagog, which originally went for Bowser. In tandem came Donnie's daring rescue of a falling Cuphead, having been defending the skies and raining down fire until the little get got tangled up. Jak stunned the Nagagog it with a hard-hitting trick, which got follow up by a high-octane kick from Donnie. While it reeled the morph gunner took the chance to pulverize its guts with root-rotten slugs, filling the Nagagog with pain and infection. It fell to its knees, and the ground shook beneath the impact. It looked up to find Peach walking toward it, her new boomshot in hand. Before it could try to attack her a violent coughing fit sneezed it, and by the time it was done Peach was close enough to put it out of its misery. The boomshot's thunder turned half the monster to ash in an instant, and the rest went limp.

Peach took a deep breath and shouldered the weapon. She looked around at the battlefield. The chaos made the time fly by, but in truth it had been only minutes since her team got attacked. Now, the heroes stood victorious over the few remaining mooks. As she watched, the Engineer's sentry gun plugged a few holes in the final Bytan as it tried to replicate, then timed out and vanished alongside the monster. The last couple of Primids posed no threat. Still, Peach's face bore nothing but cold contempt. “Good work. Do not pity these things. They are scum,” she explained, inviting everyone to head her way. “Soulless minions of the Subspace Army, their sole existence is to get in the way of making things right. If their master is this region's champion, this upcoming brawl is going to be a rough one.”

She turned to face the path leading into the canyons. “Make sure to restock your supplies and get healed. Let's not stick around to see if they have friends.” The Princess proceeded, leading the way. Prince Euden followed, with Tora and Poppi not far behind.

Results!

Party: @Yankee's Ace Cadet, @Archmage MC's Blazermate and Sectonia, @DracoLunaris's Bower, Kamek, and Bowser Jr, @ProPro's Courier 6, Jak & Daxter, and Cuphead, @Genon's Donovan Lee, @MULTI_MEDIA_MAN's Geralt, @Dawnrider's Hat Kid, Banjo & Kazooie, and Fox, @Gentlemanvaultboy's Linkle, Tora & Poppi
Encounter Reward: 5 EXP
Challenger Bonus: Ace Cadet
Challenger Reward: Trophy Base, +2 EXP
The Challenger bonus goes to the bold. If your PC is the only one to deliberately take on an encounter's toughest enemy, the bonus is yours.

---

The winding canyon path twisted every which way, the walls rising and falling, leading around the edges of precarious cliffs, through tunnels, and over bottomless pits. It branched several times, but as long as the heroes could see the sky, they knew where to go. The otherwordly purple-black mass loomed close by, marking their destination. Kamek, of course, performed scouting runs frequently, ensuring that the team took the right path. After a solid twenty minutes of travel, Kamek returned to report a large grassy basin area dead ahead in the canyonscape, sitting right on the precipice of the great distortion. Tora, glancing around at the dusty stone, wondered how a verdant valley could be so close. But sure enough, as the heroes continued, scraggly yellow grass began to crop, getting thicker and greener the farther they got. Something seemed...off, however. Things looked normal enough, but they didn't feel quite right. Maybe it was the air itself, affected by its time in close proximity to the anomaly. As the heroes entered a final tunnel, Tora took a deep breath, then shook himself to loosen his tense muscles.

Ahead, the light grew closer and closer until the party emerged into the light of day. When their eyes adjusted, they found themselves on the edge of a sand-colored path, staring out across a roughly circular valley surrounded by tall cliffs. It had trees, a river, even fields of what appeared to be wheat and a pretty waterfall. And it had a mountain in its center, shaped like a corkscrew, with a hanging bridge attached to its top that led into the mouth of a giant stone head. Just beyond that lay the anomaly's edge.

A few moments after the heroes took in the sights, something shifted just above the mountain. From a singular point came a burst of light, followed by an entity most familiar to many present. Master Hand floated in place, making just one motion. It spread its fingers wide in a flourish motion, creating a bubble shield around itself that then turned invisible, then relaxed. Once the entity was at ease, a most unwelcome, unnatural voice manifested in the vibration of the very air.

”Seekers of restoration, coveters of light. You have not yet balked from the arduous road you have undertaken. One light you have claimed of the thirteen. But if you imagined this one as easily taken, you are as foolish as that who bore the first. A monstrous thing waits before you, its otherwordly power a terror to behold. Yet before you throw yourselves to the slaughter, I will stop you here. Observe.”

Master Hand zoomed upward, then snapped its fingers. A blinding flash filled the area, and when it faded a tower stood atop Spiral Mountain. More importantly, six figures stood upon it. Four were adults, all holding rifles: an Assassin, a Sharpshooter, an Elder, and a Skinbreather. One was younger, a Boy wielding a strange-looking bow. The last stood above them all, a Giant taller than five men, with a colossal greatbow. Within the eyes of the six snipers burned the crimson of Galeem.

Over the head of the giant archer, Master Hand flexed its fingers. ”I have made these spirits' weapons Binary. Every shot, a zero or a one. Pass or fail. If your skills are found wanting, you will not proceed.” The entity floated upward, glowed, then disappeared. Yet its voice remained a moment longer. “Fire at will.”

The heroes had three seconds. All six snipers, save the giant, moved to the edge of the top of the tower. They crouched behind the battlements, peering through their scopes or down the arrows of their bows. Three red dots darted across the landscape, homing in on their targets. Euden's eyes were wide. “What's going on?”

Peach knew. Though no veteran of the battlefields, her time skirmishing against the rabbids taught her a thing or two about weapons. Luigi used a weapon capable of dealing high damage from an incredible distance, and these people were clearly preparing a similar attack. Two of them wielded bows, but Peach didn't doubt for a second that they'd compare to their rifle-shooting fellows. “Scatter!” she screamed, turning to run behind a nearby boulder “Get to cover!”

Euden panicked, still clueless about the enemy's weaponry, and turned to follow her. Slow on the draw and headed for cover that was too far away, he got painted by a red dot well before he got close to safety. The End shot first, but onlookers weren't in for an invisible bullet. Instead, a literal black arrow zoomed through the air. It caught Euden in the shoulder, blasting straight through him, and a golden light spread across him from the impact point. A split second later he fell to the ground, gray-toned and paralyzed as if turned to stone.

A handful of other shots peppered the heroes as they scattered. At the end of the volley came one of the Boy's arrows. It hit the ground late but exploded on impact in a golden dome several meters in diameter. The sight of it going off drove Tora to hunker down even farther into his patch of tall grass, terrified. “Princeypon gone in one hit!? M-m-meh, meh!” he stammered. “Quick Poppi! Change to Alpha!”

Hiding behind a tree nearby, Poppi nodded and transformed. In Alpha mode she had a smaller profile and stronger defense, not that it seemed to matter. The activity behind the tree caught the attention of the Giant, who without even looking took aim and unleashed his own arrow. Like a ballista bolt it hurtled through the air, and on contact ripped the tree to kindling in a tremendous blast. With a cry Poppi jetted away, and the Sharpshooter took aim. Her shot missed Poppi by a hair as the artificial blade dove behind a small hill, instead destroying a flower patch in a flurry of petals. Taking aim once again, the snipers prepared to fire on anyone who moved, and in the case of the Giant, made a distinct sound.

Note: the Ace Cadet's Palico Rescue Power did not activate to save Euden because the Dark Arrows do not deal damage, instead turning their targets into trophies by attacking their spirits. The Dark Arrows are slower than bullets and can be evaded but are very fast. Trophies can be revived if another hero touches their bases, but the process takes a moment. While not lethal, this Master Order is very dangerous thanks to both the snipers' Binary weapons and their teamwork. Mistakes will result in getting trophified, and on top of that, at least one hero will be incapacitated every GM update as the snipers' strategy progresses. For the sake of fairness this toll will prioritize characters from players with more than one. This toll can be waived if a sniper is successfully eliminated.

The North Road

Everyone followed Mort's gaze to watch the kid running off on her own. A collective exasperated concern settled over the assembly; clearly they couldn't let the girl annihilate herself. Most of them, starting with Zahir and Gallia, moved to try and stop her. Talic of all people flinched, instinctively trying to hide himself in a surge of panic, which Mort found more than a little interesting. He couldn't be scared of armed strangers, since he just waltzed into a gathering of them four strong. Since Mort couldn't in good faith suspect an allergy for teenagers he guessed that Talic might just be on the lookout. Bad nerves ain't a good look for you, big man, he thought, but he said nothing. Saying rude things to strong, selfsure people accomplished nothing unless one managed to be both a loner and masochistic at once. The correct response, Mort so often found, was silence.

At that moment there came a noisome sound from the woods. While unmistakably the bellow of some animal, it belonged to no creature Mort knew, and given his occupation as a well-traveled hunter that boded ill. How close? he wondered, though unable to tell. Sound could carry a long distance, but he would have been happier had he not heard anything. Though determined to slay the Beast, facing off against it under the cloak of night was tantamount to diving face-first into hell. A ferocious predator would have every advantage, and its would-be hunters none. They might not even see it as they got picked off one by one. The logical course of action seemed so obvious, so taken for granted even, that when Ardonne approached and asked about it he shot her an are-you-serious sort of look.

“Nah, we're planning to stumble through the dark and hop straight in its mouth. Just figured it'd be the...polite thing to do, you know.” He removed his darkened glasses, now a distinct liability with the sun going down, and slipped them into an underarm pocket. Judging by Ardonne's look, both in appearance and apparel, she'd never seen or had to prepare for a serious fight. Mort took a deep breath as Heddwyn offered that yes, in fact, the group ought to make camp outside the Beast's domain. For some reason he seemed to be looking at Gallia, as if the gone-soft stood as an authority on the matter. Mort had assumed from the beginning that the makeshift team would be making camp together; such a bonding activity could be the only possible justification for gathering right before sundown, the worst possible time to initiate a dangerous hunt. For the sake of the newbie Heddwyn explained that camping together would also increase the team's understanding and solidarity. Mort, meanwhile, took a quick hike around to scope out a spot.

A couple hundred feet away from the main path, and even farther from the edge of the trees, a number of large rocks lay in close proximity atop a knoll. They looked worked, probably by people breaking off stones to use for the cairns. Regardless they provided some security, as well as natural chairs, and the knoll beneath them gave anyone there a vantage point from which they could see the surrounding terrain. No surprises. The number-one rule for picking a spot to camp. A location needed to be either so secure that no intruders could breach it, or far enough away from cover so that a watcher could spot any threat before it got too close. Who knew, after all, if the Beast roved beyond the confines of its territory after dark. “That's a fine spot,” Mort said, pointing it out. No doubt anyone else with substantial wilderness experience under their belts would say the same.

The North Road

Luckily, Mort needn't wait long for reinforcements. Leaving Gallia to stare northward, he turned about to look back in the direction of the Province, watching those who came. Several figures approached in a scattered manner, one by one growing close enough that their details could be made out. First to add to the ranks of the hunting party came another middle-aged man, wearing a northman's haircut and a number of scars. This fellow Mort did not know, which meant he likely didn't hail from the Province's limited pool of warriors. Still, he was here, which was a fair sight more than Mort could say of the Province's warriors. No doubt other skills mulled about in that head of his. He said something vaguely poetic before expressing a desire for more reinforcements. What, don't think me up to the task? The idea of actually saying that made Mort chuckle. A whole army might not be up to the task. Not enough souls could possibly traipse up that road to make the hunt an assured victory. Whoever did would have to make do.

The next man to arrive Mort -and just about the whole countryside- could see a long way off. Scion of the line of Rastoch. A man of influence whose family bore repute in the Pigeon Capital, he could wield a rapier but Mort didn't know much more than that about him. He was...studious? Aloof? The bowman couldn't say. Then again, that weapon clutched in the tall man's hand looked a hell of a lot more like a spear than a rapier, so perhaps even the one thing Mort thought he knew didn't apply. He wondered idly what might be driving Talic to destroy the Beast, but in the end it didn't matter. So long as he couldn't use those muscles to pin the thing down with that spear, he would be the bowman's second-greatest friend.

One more arrived shortly thereafter, a man whose mask long ago became his identity. Zahir never wandered far from the village he championed, but despite his age the man seemed formidable enough as a warrior. In a battle against an unknown opponent, particularly one with an assuredly high kill count, experience meant a lot more than raw power. Mort, of course, sought to bring both to the table, but Zahir's long years made up the difference for him.

That made five. Three swords, a spear, and a bow. The makeshift team evidenced a pronounced skew toward close-range, with only Mort himself capable of striking from afar, and no mid-range fighters to speak of. Damn, Mort had hoped for a magician. Rare as they were, arcanists -with their relics, trinkets, and talismans- could make a world of difference in any battle, and a hunt would be no different. Even a loose cannon from the Chemist's Guild would have been appreciated, offering support and exploiting weaknesses with hurled firebombs and potions. No trapper, no handler, not so much as a bard or thrower of knives. Hell, even a broad-shouldered axeman to serve as a heavy hitter would make this assembly more dynamic. But no...this crew would live and die by its martial skill alone.

The others were speaking, making their introductions. Zahir revealed himself, prompting Gallia to do the same. She added a bit elucidating her determination to slay the Beast, which struck Mort as pretty unnecessary. Why else would we all be here? Still, her combination of conviction and gravitas managed to be reassuring. One could only hope one's allies would be giving it their all. 'Headwin' announced himself, short and to the point, and Mort decided to follow him up.

“Bowman,” he said succinctly, giving name and vocation together in one word. He looked around. Was this really it? Well, he had better get moving before second thoughts come creeping back. “No time to waste. You lead, I'll follow.”

Before anyone could lead, however, a sixth face turned up, but not to join the group. Given the occasion all eyes turned toward the young woman headed north a distance away. She seemed to notice them too, and picked up the pace. Mort's first impression labeled her as some sort of criminal, since who but someone with something to run from or hide would shy away from company going north? But she gave them a wide berth, knocking an arrow to her bow. Even in the unsavory light Mort could easily recognize the ranged weapon, and its presence made him look closer. He caught a better glimpse of the girl's face as she glanced his way again, and this time it seemed familiar. An intrepid kid with a bow in Fero could only be one of his trainees, since nobody stood as a better instructor of archery in the whole region than he. Mort ran through his memories of students past, recalling her presence but not her name. “The hell are you doing out here...?” he breathed. She looked to be on the hunt, but nobody in their right mind would be hunting this far north, on the edge of the Beast's dominion.

That made it obvious; this girl was not in her right mind.

Mort looked back at the others. He knew that a band of seasoned hands with no foolish, hotheaded youths was too good to be true. It could be anything spurring the girl on: a desire to prove herself, revenge, a deathwish. But going about it with the bow he put in her hand made it feel like Mort's responsibility. “Crazy kid's gonna get herself killed,” he remarked, implying that the group should get after her.

The North Road

We can make this work. Mort's not one to talk much anyway. One thing that might be helpful: Goodmode, are you planning to have someone drop by from the Pigeon Capital as some kind of coordinator or supervisor? If so, our characters could talk until such a person comes by to get the group into gear. If not, one of us can urge everyone to stop dilly-dallying and set off, starting us onward. It wouldn't be out of character for Mort to adopt such a role, so I'm not posting for him juust yet.

The North Road

If I might chime in, in addition to potentially making things (especially interactions) flow less well, a posting order introduces the problem of having to wait for people to take their turns, which is one of the chief obstacles in keeping an RP thriving in my experience. Reminders, complications, delays, et cetera. But who knows? Far be it from me to claim my way's the best.

The North Road

@Stitches, what do you say to a prior connection between our two characters? What if Ardonne was one of the youths Mort taught to show a bow?

The North Road

The horizon was going orange, the sky a deep royal blue and its clouds pink and purple. It would be a beautiful sunset over the western mountains, but today Mort wouldn't be watching it. Instead he kept his eyes ahead, fixed on the fields, slopes, stones, and trees that stood between him and the Northern Road. He took each step one at a time, moving deliberately and forcibly. Part of him wanted to turn back, and it spoke with a loud voice. Walking northward was nothing new, but today that woeful part of him knew it was being dragged somewhere it did not want to go. Like a cat into a bath, it struggled to escape, but Mort willed himself onward. That same voice, with its dulcet tones urging reason and caution, had saved his life twice. But these days he no longer felt alive.

Most every day for ten years Mort had at least glimpsed that setting sun, marking the end of another twenty-four hours for Fero Province. For a time each day felt like an achievement, a token of survival at the expense of those hunting him. Just living felt like a rebellion against corruption, against the cruel few that wanted him dead. He enjoyed the peace and plenty of the province, growing close to its residents and living his life, thinking of the deadly presence that lurked outside the borders a welcome barrier against the outside world. He hunted game, lent his strength to construction, and taught the young ones how to shoot. But after a time that existence ceased to satisfy. The same old fruit, the same old vegetables, the same old faces and places. What once brought him joy and fulfillment turned to ashes in his mouth. His body wasn't made for standing still after all. He'd had enough of it. He needed to wander. But no matter how many times he thought about leaving, he remembered the slaughter, and he stayed.

Ten years was a long time. He traced every corner of the province, scouring every yard until nothing new remained to him. Then, he languished. He drowned the spirit that starved for roaming and adventure with far more tangible spirits, and drifted apart from his friends. He never went bad, or slothful, but then again he never went anywhere. This, he came to know, wasn't living. That was why this time he would not turn and run.

Lost in his thoughts, the bowman only discovered how far he'd come when he spotted the first cairn. With a start he realized that he already stood close to the edge, the brink between Fero and the Northern Road. Behind him lay survival, but ahead lay life. Or death.

Mort looked around. Just one fellow member of the expedition seemed to precede him, a brown-haired woman in leather adorned with plating. Fero managed to be a large enough region that not everyone knew everyone, but in his isolation Mort made it a point to at least meet everyone interesting. The call of the nobles of the Pigeon Capital hardly constituted the first time embarking northward crossed Mort's mind. All those who might serve as reliable allies on any hypothetical expedition piqued his interest, and this one Mort knew. Gallia. Not a sociable woman who disclosed much of her past, but nobody could see her and not presume she'd been fighting from a young age. Though a mercenary like him, he mostly hunted beasts and ran security, while she spilled the blood of men on real battlefields...over a decade ago, at least. As far as Mort knew, that longsword on her back had been collecting dust the whole time the Beast's reign of terror lasted. In a place like Fero that nobody could either leave or enter, fighting turned out to be a distinct rarity. Mort kept himself sharp by hunting, teaching, and diligent training, having never put the thought of fighting a way out of Fero from his head, but Gallia? Could she even slay a bear?

With a grunt, Mort stepped forward to stand level with her, facing northward. Well, he didn't need her to slay the Beast, or even a bear. Just to forge bravely onward and stick in the Beast's jaws long enough for him to plant an arrow in its eye. He glanced at the bow he held, used now as an impromptu walking staff. Blackeye Longbow. Though long kept and lovingly maintained, it carried no grandiose name earned from some battle, or other ornamentation to hint at a past, just a brief description of its function. Like himself. Mort also looked around, seeing nobody else gathered. Some expedition. No caravan, no carriage, no horses, not even a wheelbarrow. Would an official from the Capital even show up? Fat chance. Mort doubted the nobles putting him up to this even went to the trouble of learning their newest toadies' names. After all, why spare the effort after all this time, all those disappearances? Nobody believed they could do it, that they could slay the Beast. Did he, even?

Mort gave a heavy sigh. Well, hopefully more people appeared soon. Two didn't make for much of a party.

Fire Emblem: Ashes of Sacrifice [Fall of the Empire]

Doing fine. I haven't had the material to make a worthwhile post with, but I'm still here. Keeping on keeping on. I'm happy to hear you guys are okay. Times are crazy.

The North Road

Taker of Long Shots

NAME: Morton Bowman

GENDER: Male

AGE: 39

APPEARANCE: Standing at six feet even, Mort is sturdily built, broad-shouldered and strong of arm. Though bald-headed, he sports a black goatee and a remarkable criss-cross scar across his face, but his eyes are commonly hidden beneath darkened spectacles. He wears a number of layers of clothes, including a black collared shirt, a blue guardsman's coat, and a green overcoat. Black greaves, gauntlets, and pants complete the ensemble.

BACKGROUND: To Mort, his early life feels like a dream. He can scarcely remember the specifics, only shapes, colors, and feelings. He recalls long days of green grass and trees, blue skies, and the weight of his weary head when the horizon turned orange and the clouds pink. Never did he know stillness, instead a constant stream of motion, but he knew safety in the shadow of his father. It had been a big shadow, its shade loving, but growing smaller over time. After days or even weeks of moving, he and his father would return, for at the end of the day, no matter where they wandered, they had a home. They were days of activity in peace, and Mort supposed it was during those years that he got acquainted with the feeling of a bow in his hand. But like all dreams, that time came to an end.

Bandits attacked the city. They pillaged it and set it to flame, killing those who didn't fall in line. When they were gone, the people began to rebuild. The duchess of the region, whose manor lay inside the city, promised that it would never happen again and consolidated her control. She enacted strict restrictions and increased security, conscripting capable citizens to become part of the militia. Mort was among there number, and a a soldier of the militia honed his skills with the bow dramatically. He specialized as a sniper, striking from afar with a longbow, and he took pride in using his skills to keep the city safe. But the militia didn't just secure the city from outside threats. Mort began to grow disenchanted with the militia as time and time again it received orders to use force against the city's own citizens, and those of the region. All the while, the duchess grew richer and more powerful, her critics and political enemies alike going silent. People fought and starved in the streets. Things were bad, and they could not continue.

It didn't take long for Mort to question the duchess' authority. He began to snoop around, trying to find evidence of corruption, but he was caught in the act and arrested for insubordination. When brought before the Duke he was given the chance to recant, but instead Mort attempted to fight his way free. Instead he was defeated by his militia comrades, men and women he'd known for years, and the duchess herself carved an X into his face before ordering his execution. On the way to the prison, however, Mort's father ambushed his captors and slew them. Together they hatched a plan, and on the day of Mort's execution, his father marched to the gallows in his stead. When the Duchess appeared to announce his sentence, Mort planted an arrow in her eye from a roof across the plaza. Father and son planned to escape together in the ensuing chaos, but the daring rescue went awry and his father was wounded. Faced with the prospect of dying alongside his father, Mort fled at his bidding, and ran far, far away.

Going by 'Bowman', he took work as a mercenary in a far-away land. He employed his skills for money to survive, eventually winding up as one member of an escort for a merchant caravan headed toward Fero Province. After spending a few days there the caravan prepared to return, and as usual Mort followed a ways behind it. It was on that return trip that Mort witnessed the Beast. Through his binoculars he caught incomplete glimpses of the thing as it tore the caravan to pieces. He knew that he should try to fight it, but instead he chose to save his own skin and flee back toward Fero. He warned the people of the horrific Beast, but unable to describe it in more detail, he couldn't stop others from going out and never coming back. Since then, Bowman became a common face in the province, a reliable hunter when not addled by drink. Ten years he regretted his second act of cowardice, awash in loathing and guilt, always wishing that he could settle the score with the Beast that came to symbolize his own failure but never daring to. When at long last the crown could stand isolation no more, Mort volunteered to join the expedition. This time, he thought, he did not value his life so much that he would turn away. This time, Mort promised, he would take the long shot. He would accomplish the mission, or die trying.

MOTIVATION: To kill the Beast and escape the anathema that is the province's isolation, or die trying.

GEAR: Blackeye Longbow, binoculars, hunting knife, bedroll, meal haversack (mess kit and ration storage)