POOHEAD189

In Good Order (Sci Fi Anabasis)

Year: 4010 AD
Quadrant: Eastern
System: Achaemenid
Planet: Babylon 0412

Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back...

---

Xemaratus knew how to punch. His fist hit Brasidas' ribs hard, taking the wind out of him. But the Laconian was patient, knowing the Beotian was getting desperate. His jaw had been loosened, and Brasidas had weathered his worst hits. Now Xemeratus felt as Brasidas did, that the next few seconds would decide their fight. Brasidas feinted right, watching a split moment later when Xemeratus spun with a powerful kick. Had Brasidas caught it, he knew Xemeratus was good enough to use his other leg to kick whilst he caught himself on the ground. Instead, Brasidas did what all good Spartans did, and he simply stepped in and kicked Xemeratus's other foot the opposite direction, causing the spun to stall and fall short. Xemeratus landed just a glancing blow, and as he fell he took Brasidas' knee into his stomach, full force. The Hellenes around them beat their knees and pumped their fists, hooting and roaring. Xemeratus was thrown two strides by the blow to land outside the mat, stunned and likely with a broken rib or three.

Xyclophius tossed a towel to Brasidas, who caught it without skipping a beat and rubbed it on his sweat glistened face, feeling the dryness in his throat. The time to relax was soon at an end, when the alarm went off. It made the sound of a trumpet blaring, bringing brunt abruptness to ones ears that was hard to ignore. Not that anyone would ignore such a summons, as it announced the time when the generals were meeting with Artaxerxes II, the Overlord of the System they now found themselves in. As the men went to go into the great chamber, Brasidas went to clothe himself.

He passed into the 'locker room,' though it was merely an area of the barracks with their belongings placed in stasis boxes to keep everything undisturbed and without dust. He certainly wished he was in a more fortified building, the material of the base collapsible, made of a high tech nano-polymer of olympus steel. Very good for portability, with a semi-resistance to small arms fire and a stable structure. But not a true barracks or place to rest when not on campaign, even for a Spartan. They lived simply, but on Laconia, there were still walls and orbital defenses. Here they were packed together and exposed.

He slid his gear on, knowing that whenever the generals brooked the peace, they were going to be moving out. He preferred to be ready, and did all but grab his weapon or place his helm on, hustling to the great chamber where the meeting was to be broadcast on a live feet. Making his way down two corridors, he found himself amid the crowd that had just watched him defeat Xemeratus, all now muttering among one another and drinking watered down Ouzo.

Upon the center of the room was a dais, and a lectern that held a large receptor for what was a hologram, where any and all the soldiers would be able to see a clear audio and picture of what was occurring in that room from a 360 degree angle. Screens were used for singular tablets personally, but each column of the ten thousand Hellenes was gifted a lectern, originally to be used to receive their thanks and congratulation from their paymaster Cyrus, but he was slain not days ago. Now all they could hope for was a cordial agreement with an honorable king.

The Knight's Song

Torm Draufkrieg of Kademaer

Sex: Male

Age: 25

Appearance: Torm cuts a fine knightly figure, with a robust width of shoulder, strong arms and a commanding, chiseled face. His hair and look in his eyes give him a wolfish appearance, but there's a nobleness to his blue orbs. When he speaks, people feel compelled to listen, whether they be friend or foe. Sir Draufkrieg is moderately tall (6'1), large enough to be fearsome on the battlefield and carry his arms and armor on foot and horseback effectively. His hands are noticeably powerful and marred, and his hair is a rich brown, like autumn leaves in the sunlight as well as shadowed tree bark when indoors. Torm's complexion is ruddy but fair, with a permanent 5 o'clock shadow shading his chin and upper lip.

History: Born the son of a Blacksmith, Torm was taken in as a page from age 9 by the Lord of Kademaer, though he frequently visited his father until the fellow's untimely death when Torm was 16. He was trained and given his equipment, fully a knight with three battles under his belt when he was 21. At this point, the count of Kademaer arranged for him to be married to a noble lady, whom he entered a tournament for to win in her honor. Unfortunately, not only did he get first prize taken from him in the grand melee, but he found his steed's saddle had been tampered with and he was unhorsed in the joust fairly early. It was revealed the lady he was to wed had eloped with an earl and had sabotaged his equipment to see to it he would be found unworthy of her. Unfortunately, this had the side effect of making him an undesirable knight to his leige who had already come under harsh times with the war in Vrettonia, so he was cast out with naught but his horse and weaponry. He has been traveling for 2 years now, killing what monsters he could and keeping what towns he can safe in exchange for trifle prestige and food/bedding for the night.

Goal:To gain wealth, glory, prestige, and perhaps a lordship. Though what he truly wants is to simply be remembered as a good knight who performed good deeds.

The Knight's Song

Cascading rain piddled upon the wet road, filling the hoof prints left behind by the galloping steed. A caterwaul of wind rose higher and higher in the forlorn sky, as if the Gods themselves wished woe upon the Knight that made all haste. The trees of the Vatherlund Forest stood dark among the cacophony of the storm, save when lightning flashed in the distance and drew shadows across the leaves, giving the impression of leering, baleful faces staring at the cavalier, awaiting to rip him off of Lycurgus with their claw-like branches. No doubt a bard or a poet would have quite enjoyed that turn of phrase, but Torm was a bit too stubborn and single minded to pause on scenery. He knew there was little time to dally, and he drove his large Destrier faster along the rode, his steed's head rearing up like a serpent about to strike.

Another flash. The castle came into sight among the foothills to the east, terrible in its baroque and alien design. Whatever it was, it was kept by man nor orc, or fey witch. Looming almost into the cloudline, or so it looked from the ground, he couldn't imagine anyone resided in the thin spire. The stories told to him by the serfs had explained they would be in the great hall among the court of the Three Counts of Crimson.

Lycurgus's hoof beats suddenly became audible as they went from mud to cobblestone, passing the broken gateway and entered through the arch left in the wall. Even in the dark, Torm saw it looked much like any abandoned castle yard. A smithy to the right and a stables that fed into an undercropping was on the left, with a broken wagon and tossed about pails and tools, showing signs of a hasty retreat. Were the stories to be believed, he knew the retreat was not likely successful. He took no more than a moment to see before he kicked Lycurgus into a hard gallop, leaping over the wagon and barreling forward toward the great hall's doors, praying to the Evergod and bracing for impact.

With a screeching crash and a powerful whinny from Lycurgus, the doors were sundered and thrown open in the midst of what Torm could only describe as a masquerade from hell. It felt alien and utterly wrong in its atmosphere. The knight could see the dancers and musicians were continuing to play without so much as skipping a beat, rhythmically moving as if on a madman's strings. Had anyone deigned to look, they would see ne'er but a cloaked figure upon a horse, soaked from the tip of his nose, the only part visible on his face, to his traveling boots just below the cloaks trim. As it were, no humans looked his way. Only those three monsters atop the thrones, and their servants standing at attention. He could see none of their faces, but he felt their eyes on him, boring into his brain to search for any sign of weakness.

One of the servants, something robed in indigo with its face masked by a jester mask made of iron, welded onto whatever had once been its face. It approached him, sword at the ready as it tilted its head. The mask leered at him, smiling with an eerie calm. Five strides away...three strides...

Its sword, a thin arming sword made for dueling, whipped out to cut Lycurgus' throat. But the warhorse was too well trained, dancing back and putting Torm in line. It would look almost like magic when the Knight brought his flanged mace to bear from within his cloak, bringing it down into the head of the servant with a hard crunch that even dented the top of its iron mask. The others would watch as the servant's body dropped noiselessly to the ground, none moving. All stared from within their masks as the Knight dismounted calmly, placing the reins back upon Lycurgus's powerful neck. He bent down and removed the hood from the corpse, unsurprised when he saw the servant had simply been a body that had long rotted, with blackened and bloated skin where there was any, and bone where there wasn't.

It was then the music had stopped with a wave of the one of the Count's hands, and all was dead still when the interloper raised himself once again. He unhooded himself, his hair thick and brown, and his wolfish face well formed and unmarred by his hard life of travel.

"Make your prayers to your dark Gods, fiends. Tonight, your court ends."
@Penny

The Blackwood

Torsten would feel both heavy and weightless in what seemed to be an eternal instant. His body, formless to his mind, felt as if he were floating on air as the blackness permeated his mind. It took him more than a moment for him to feel his breathing again, and his body shifted. The movement brought a stabbing paint into his side, pinching his ribs into the meat of his body. It jolted Torsten awake, and he would feel more sore than he had felt in months if not years. His vision would illuminate with fire, returning to showcase a firepit and his two friends, Wolf and Oz. The smaller Wolf bit into a strip of jerky he chewed with gusto, whilst Oz sharpened a thick orcish knife he had taken off of one of the corpses.

Wolf would hear his grunt, ears twitching much like the canine of his namesake. The fire crackled, and Torsten would suddenly feel as heavy as he should feel. His side wrapped up and his throat dry and hoarse with every breath. Taking on all of those Orcs was something most would call foolish, but it seemed to perhaps work out for him and his newfound companions if he continued to breathe. Whether he would was up to the Gods, it seemed.

"So, you're finally awake." Oz said in the native Norgardian, not having even looked up to see Torsten's eyes. The whetstone he ran across the thick blade scraped every few seconds, as if it were a machine tracking the passage of time. "We didn't know if you were going to make it. We just had to stitch you up, and it'll be awhile before you can fight like your ancestors again. But you're alive."

Wolf went and grabbed a water jug, letting him know his intentions. "I'll be pouring some water down your throat, ok? Then I'll grab some jerky for you. If you want to get strong again, you'll need to sit back and take it."

He did just that, helping Torsten sit up, his back leaning against a tree before he helped feed him. The two men seemed healthy enough, though certainly worn out and scratched, with some minor bludgeoning damage to their arms. Luckily, they had regained their trousers from the dead orcs, though that now meant they were covered in blood and that a dead orc had been in them. It looked like they all could use a settlement at this point. Speaking of such.

"Tomorrow we'll be heading south to Riverview. A town on the Heathric. Before then, you can tell us what the fuck you're doing here, Torsten."
@Gunther

The Knight's Song

The Blackwood

@Gunther I'm not sure what you mean. Ill be posting when I can certainly, but I can't divulge what I'm posting before I do.

The Blackwood

@Tortoise Sorry it took me so long to go over your sheet.

She seems perfect for this sort of roleplay. Though please add a bit more to her personality, if you would.

@Duck That's difficult for me to answer. You do, of course, know that 20 copper commons is 1 silver and 20 silver is 1 gold. How about this... Generally you can consider a copper common 1-2 USD, and a Silver Lordling like 50$ bill, and Gold is either 100-200 USD depending on where you are. I know that is somewhat still vague, but I hope it helps quantify things.

Like you can usually buy meals by using commons, and very expensive ones with silver. A room at an inn will certainly cost silver or gold, depending on how swanky it is.

Does that help?

The Blackwood

"I have heard that bravery is much like beauty." Ithica said, whipping her head a bit like a proud stallion to get some of her hair's fringe out of her field of vision. She looked like she had decided to relax a bit on the drinking for a short moment. "It's in the eye of the beholder. I can't tell you how many times someone has thought I were brave when I was being foolish, or foolish when I was being brave. Perhaps it takes a bit of both to be a true hero."

She turned Kane's way, smiling casually. "I don't think anyone would know that more than you, you big grunt."

The Draconic Knight seemed distracted, watching over the crowd like a hound that had just caught a scent. Mira would catch the scent of sulfur in the air, supposedly coming from Kane's nostrils as small points of smoke wafted from them. It was extremely difficult to tell if he was angry or something else, but it was at just that moment when an older Dwarf walked out of the crowd. Mari would recognize him as the one that had been talking to the younger man Ithaca had mentioned before. The Dwarf looked like a well traveled adventurer, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes and a relatively lithe build (for a Dwarf).

There was no real chance of knowing why he had approached, unfortunately, as Kane and the fellow began conversing in a strange, foreign language. Though it seemed they were on even friendly terms than Kane and Ithaca, which likely made some sense. Ithaca and Kane likely traveled a lot, just not together, happening to meet here often to trade stories and news from distant lands. The prospective daughter of Rán would see the Dwarf wave for the Drogator to follow him, and the big one would stomp through the crowd with the Dwarf.

"Knowing Orek, they're likely about to go on some fool's errand deeper in the forest." Ithaca said, more to herself than Mari. Remembering the younger woman was still there, Ithaca cleared her throat. "Sorry, I get distracted." Her eyes went back to the departing two. "It's my job to know who is going where so I can save their ass if need be, or at least report missing persons. Not that those two are helpless. Po neither, if I know him."

Ithaca decided to start drinking again, taking another long, hardy sip. Her biceps prominent from the simple movement. "Anyway, I doubt you'd care on what they're doing. How long do you plan to stay in town?"
@Luminosity

Member Leaving Within 10 Minutes Of Joining This Forum.

That wasn't a mod, that was a GM for a roleplay. And judging by the screenshots I, a mod, was sent...he wasn't rude at all. "Free" doesn't mean you can jump in there without prepping a character and without the GM's consent. Do not disrupt another RP again please.

Thanks for stopping by though. We always love new faces :)
@Taco Kat 69

Scum & Villainy: Black Market Runners

@Lauder Might I trouble thee for a post?