POOHEAD189

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

A psychic link was a strange thing. Were one not careful, you could find things you shouldn't, but we were both seasoned enough to keep ourselves from compromising the other. I was wholly unprepared for the vision, however. Closing my eyes, I saw a wretched symbol that burned into my mind with a tainted aura. Somehow it left a horrid aftertaste in my mouth, as if the very sight of the mere shape could effect a mortal. Unconsciously, I found my hand gripped Emmaline's forearm, though to steady her or myself I cannot recall.

Once it was over, I exhaled involuntarily, but kept my composure. Had I seen something akin to it before? It wasn't like any chaos symbol I had ever seen. Certainly not a mark of the four entities or the dreaded unholy thirteen. It seemed almost xenos in nature, but it was very likely a chaos symbol I simply had not seen before. I had only been in the Ordo for two decades, and only five of them as an active field inquisitor.

When we broke contact, though I don't recall why I had initially reached, I kept her steady and held her shoulder with my other hand. I did not say anything, but nodded when she made eye contact and stepped back from her.

"Thank you," I said to her.

"Do you know what it was?" She asked, a normal question, even after glimpsing my initial thoughts. Sometimes it took a moment for a brain to process information before finding the answer to a question.

"I have a few ideas, but truthfully? I'm unsure." I admitted, sighing.

"That's a first," she quipped with an arched eyebrow. I regarded her and tried but failed to hide a grin. I admit I had been overly formal with her the last few days. Youth was a strange thing. We wish the entirety of it to be older and more respected and forget the gifts we have at the moment. I am ever to serve and am still very physically capable, but in those days I was at my peak. Hale and broad shouldered, I was cut in a way one could only gain through discipline and hours of exercise a day, though I was of good Elysiar stock. At that time I was too pre-occupied to see the bodacious woman before me, though I feel I had begun to see an inkling. No one who did not wish for the success of the mission would have sought me out and shared it with me. Perhaps I had treated her too much as a student and not enough as a teammate.

"I'm unsure of a lot of things," I admitted to her, showing a hint of the man I was past my steely visage. "But the minute I act it, someone might die."

After a pause, I shrugged as if to say 'what can you do?' and turned to put my grey top on that fit me like a comfortable glove. As I slid my arms through the shirt sleeves, I suggested something she no doubt was excited to hear.

"Let's think on it over a drink. Don't worry, I have the good stuff stashed in a secret place."

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

Two days later...

Sweat beaded off my bare back, huffing as I continued my workout. Wearing my dark brown military trousers and boots, I wanted to remain half in uniform in case something transpired on deck. The gym was spacious, big enough for the physical fitness of an entire crew. Machines and dumbbells and an auto-runner, along with mats and pull up bars decked the room out. To the left, there was a training mat for a sparring area that I would soon utilize in Emmaline's training. She was untrained in the arts of the psyker, but she knew more than she let on, at least a bit. It had taken me several days of observation to understand what was happening, but it only made me respect her skills as an actor. It was difficult to fool me when I had my eye on someone. It was why I suddenly up and made her draw three paintings simultaneously, each of one of the holy primarchs.

I spent many hours in the gym. In my eyes, it was important to be strong in mind, soul, and body. It had more applications than practical ones meant for combat. It released endorphins and was healthy for your mental state, something that was underappreciated for a psyker, even one of such a modest level as I. Once I reached seventy, I pushed off the ground with my hands and continued my push ups for another thirty, this time pressing against the floor with my knuckles.

Unless something peculiar occurred, I kept a strict regime when participating in the lull of warp-space travel. I lived by the day/night cycle of holy terra, eating, reading, speaking to Urien and training Emmaline at certain times of the day. I had given her the day off that day, letting her spend her time with Caiphon, whom I checked in on from time to time. Caiphon was a fine astropath and a good man. It pained me to see his body withering over the scant few years I had known him.

At the moment, it was five o'clock on the throne world.

I groaned as the burn moved through my arms and core, and I took a seat on the floor. My mind was muddled with Bahometus, and that fateful day with Hykophan. It wasn't good to make things personal, but my career started with the cult Hykophan had run, and it had led me all the way to discovering Bahometus and his cabals that undermind worlds like Tallarn and Gudrun. Four cells of chaos cultists and two minor daemons later, and I was still involved in this single conspiracy. When would it end, and when it did...what would I do?

I did not notice Emmaline stepping into the room until she announced herself.

Sails and Spells

Malcador was in trouble.

The sea had ruined his ship, and sent it aground more than once. Well, not his ship, exactly. Malcador was the resident mage, hired by one Haldemar Bodaventure to utilize his expertise in glyphs and language. Malcador seemed an incredibly astute and capable candidate. Handsome, debonair, intelligent, and charismatic, Malcador was one of the most promising up and coming sorcerers of the Mythrim Tethir, the great international guild of mages that was a nation in its own right. He had been recommended under strict and exuberant commendations. Unfortunately, Malcador also happened to be completely ineffectual on the sea.

When the crew had hit solid ground, Malcador stumbled off the gangplank and practically kissed the sand.

"Up lad, we've got a ways to go." Pikard said, the old boatswain walking with his roiling gait a man only used when either born in the saddle or the boat. He had a wide mouth covered in ubiquitous hair one might have considered a goatee if they were generous. He helped Malcador up, and they further caught up with the boating party. All who ventured from the boats consisted of a dozen men, armed with cutlasses and equipment such as ropes, grappling hooks, shovels, eyeglasses, and various other tools for the adventuring their expedition entailed.

Malcador stayed at the back, sick as a dog and weary. His normally suave demeanor was just surface level, if that. He had a sickly paleness to him, and he drank water only every moment or two to keep his stomach from rebelling against his sensibilities. They had warned him of tropical diseases they might gain on the island, but he had already been subject to such on the bloody boat. Damn, he wanted the gods to give him some kind of sign. A healthy stomach and a good woman would do, and maybe some rum. He was going to get his wish, but not in the way he had considered. But the Gods played tricks like that.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

For the first time, I looked at her as a woman rather than a danger. I could not help but give a wry smile at her suggestion, noticing the top barely contained her charms. "As much as the crew might enjoy I deny the request, I think your suggestion is prudent." I said, and offered her a hand to help her up. Once she stood before he, I shook her hand and met her eyes. "Welcome to the team."

---

2 days later...

The heretics we had acquired confirmed my suspicions, but added little past that. The first one I could use my will on, and he had granted me information on the connection to Hykophan from those years ago and the planet Moldar, but could not provide any information on Bahometus or the cabal. The second heretic had some resistance training to mental invasion, and so I conducted the fourth and eighth actions of interrogation, with physical abuse and chemical stimulants to aid my endeavors. After a few brutal hours, he gave up his knowledge of Bahometus, confirming the planet he was fleeing to was at least in the Orpheus Sector, where Moldar lived. Beyond that, he spoke of a man simply dubbed 'Balal Ignatius,' but whether it was a pseudonym or an alias, or whether he lied in other facets to throw me off, was annoyingly undetermined.

I had only conducted two sessions with Emmaline Von Morganstern. The first was a training exercise on how to first fortify her mind, involving meditation and small scale psychic prodding by me, and the second was a demonstration of various exercises she could conduct in her own time on how to better utilize her powers. The turning point would be if she could draw a small portrait of an apple on a canvas without using her hands. I expected to see results before we arrived in Moldar six days from then. Meanwhile, she was free to walk the ship and had access to my office and personal library.

I now stood in the main engine room, the roaring of the mechanical heart and the strange, whirring of the power source that fed the gellar field somehow soothing to my mind. In his most quiet moments, Inquisitor Kronus had told me he sometimes felt compelled to turn off the gellar field; to finally end it all and face whatever daemons may be foolish enough to board. He had never done so, of course. It was the same sensation as a man at the edge of a cliff with the sudden urge to jump. An invasive thought one would never truly perform. I had yet to feel something similar yet, but whether it was cowardice or my inexperience, I could not say.

Footsteps approached from the right, and Urien of Catoc approached with a cup. His beard braided, tattoos adorned his upper chest, partly bare from the mere apron he wore above the trousers he had on him.

"We mahke good time," He said, settling to stand beside me. He looked at me, and then at the engines where I stared. I wondered what he thought of them. "Tomorrow, angel of death will be sent to his heaven, then we get to Mordar."

"I expect nothing less from you, Urien. Once we get there, wait in orbit for a day or two until I can come up with a convenient disguise and the papers I will need."

"Ahf course, inquisitor. We go to uncertain doom with a new woman aboard." He said, going somewhere I wasn't initially following. "Drink?" He extended his arm with the cup in his hand.

I looked at him, and despite myself I gave a humored smile. Catoc was a strange world, and in Urien's tribe, a man could not offer a man a drink in most circumstances. He could offer it to a woman at any time, but to a man, one did not verbally ask to gift another man with a beverage unless they were going to war or marriage, which some might consider another form of 'passing on.' I laughed at his wit. "No, thank you."

Urien smiled, and swigged the drink down in one momentous gulp.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"Ancient Moldarian?" I mused, stroking my chin. I believed I had read of the planet before from Inquisitor Dolsan's report back as an interrogator. I have a photographic memory, and I sifted through my thoughts like files until I found what I recalled. An ancient civilization of xenos used to preside over the planet of Moldar before they were destroyed by the Great Crusade, followed by its replanting of human life in the years that followed. Some of the ruins still remained, and the peoples there were influenced by it, stylistically only, but shaped nonetheless.

"The scripts are not a complete match, but thematically the designs fit." Lazarus concluded. I was used to the skitarii enough to know he would not speak of such things without being certain.

"And three warp trails traveling to the south of the Segmentum Tempestuous, close to Moldar." I said aloud, and nodded. "Very well. Give the heading to Urien. We may drop Brother Baccus along the way."

"At once, Hadrian." Lazarus replied. "Do you go to see the woman?"

"I go to see the psyker, yes." I said, and turned tail with a military officer's curtness and made my way through the Caledonia. As I walked, I did not take the time I normally did to admire the artistry of the vessel. Old Oghma symbols and stone shrines of the Emperor were arrayed across its superstructure, and more than a few large pillars of brass glowed in the light. Servitors and ex-slaves, Urien's old friends, stalked the halls. The latter bowed or acknowledged me as I passed. Soon, I was on the bow of the ship and down the corridor I made out Brother Bacchus, the Red Scorpion standing vigil before the girl's cell.

"Inquisitor," He said in his booming tone, powerful even when speaking softly.

"I relieve you, Brother Bacchus." I said, but I hesitated for a moment, the astartes looking at me as he paused. "Forgive me, I did not give my condolences for Brother Glaviad. He was a staunch defender of the Imperium."

"It is our greatest honor to die fighting the arch-enemy, Inquisitor."

"Very good," I said, and we parted ways. He to the chapel, and I into the cell. The door was air-tight, the lights dim until I opened the portal. A sssshhhhp lit the air, and the woman, though in her cot, was awake. I did not speak to her immediately. Rather, I grabbed the second chair and pulled it over to the center of the room. Quietly, I sat down and pulled out a dataslate.

"Name?" I asked, pulling a pen out to redirect the information as it appeared on screen. At first the woman did not answer, so I simply asked again. "...Name?"

"Emmaline Von Morganstern," she said, pulling herself up, the blanket draped around her as if it was armor. I looked up at her from the dataslate, placing it on my lap as I crossed my legs in the masculine fashion. I was used to cold tasks, but there was at least some chance this woman was going to die by my hand, in the least in an indirect fashion. I should give her the respect of looking her in the eyes.

"Miss Von Morgenstern, had you been discovered by an arbites, you would have been given three choices. Imprisonment, a new life in Dasra with no prospects, or they would have abandoned you to your fate in the desert. As you were discovered by me, you have three different choices. Ones I would advise you think carefully on." I said, speaking clear and deliberately. I held no joy in this talk, but I knew I was doing the best for her I could, considering the danger she posed. "Your three choices are thus. Option one, I have the means to send you to become a member of the Adeptus Astronomica as an Astropath. A great service to the Emperor, but I will not lie. It will tax your body beyond what you think capable. You would not live to see fifty. Option two... well, the emperor can always use more good psykers. Not a pleasant prospect, the Black Ships, but it would keep the Imperium running. You do not strike me as the ecclesiarchal type however, which leads me to Option three."

I uncrossed my legs and leaned in, resting my elbows on my knees as my eyes bored into hers. "You work for me, as one of my team. Before you answer, do not delude yourself into thinking this is the easy way out. If you choose option three, you will be trained and subject to lessons and discipline. You will learn how to defend yourself beyond your psychic abilities, and you will throw yourself headlong into danger beside me. But..."

I snapped my fingers. An open flame appeared above my hand, floating in the air until I opened my palm, the fire dissipating into nothingness. "I will teach you how to control your powers in a way you cannot think to now. I will show you how to harden your mind, and keep daemons from possessing you. And if you luck out, you'll live for centuries with no want for wealth. So, Miss Von Morganstern, what will it be?"

I leaned back in my chair, appraising her with a professional air. Truthfully, I did not know what she would choose.

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

I looked at her from behind my veil and scrutinized the woman, and then grabbed the cloth that swathed my face and tossed it aside. The room was acrid with smoke and strange perfumes, but the air was refreshingly cool. Had I not been working, I would have given the woman a smirk, but none touched my face. Instead I probed her psychic form with my mind. I did not invade her consciousness, but estimated just what exactly she could be playing at. She had an incredible girth of the talent, that much was plain. But it was unrefined and cumbersome, likely what she could perform was but second nature and natural skill. I would not make the judgement there, but I felt the woman was of at least delta level, perhaps even gamma. How she had not been possessed by a daemon or burned herself out was either a miracle or incredible dumb luck.

I would learn such distinctions meant little when concerning Emmaline Grimelhausen Teobaldina von Morganstern.

Out of the smoke, a Tallarn heretic with three eyes and the tongue of a snake leaped at me with abandon, having lurked behind the ruined furniture for the right time to strike. He must have seen I was the one in charge of the outfit. I only caught a glimpse of him as he pounced, but I was less frightened of him and more cautious of the ozone that suddenly filled the air, time slowing as my eyes widened a fraction from what I knew was to come.

There were not many projectiles that could match the strength and ferocity of a bolter round, but the transuranium shell of a transuranic arquebus was certainly a contender. I felt the shockwave of the bullet's passing as it tore into the heretic, leaving naught but gibbets and blood to rain down around the central chamber. Blearily, I could see there was not only a hole in the wall I could fit my head through, but it pierced through the next two rooms and embedded itself into another six feet of solid stone. Such a projectile was made to punch through moderately armored tanks with ease, the resulting pressure killing the entire crew inside. Even Brother Bacchus would have a difficult time surviving a hit.

As my hearing returned, I could make out the heavy footsteps of Lazarus approaching from behind me, his arquebus still smoking from the well-aimed shot. It was impossible to confirm, as his mouth had long ago been replaced with an audio 'voice box' on his lower jaw, but in my eyes, I imagined he looked to be smiling at his handiwork. He did not get to use the weapon much, and for good reason. "I told you not to use that thing during indoor actions."

"Apologies Hadrian. You seemed preoccupied."

"You have your lascarbine for a reason."

"Had I reached for that instead, the chances of the attacker reaching you would have increased by 17%."

"You should have already had it on you."

"The damage of a lascarbine's shot is due to hyperburns significantly more than concussive fo-"

"I would have been fine," I insisted, pulling the barrel of the arquebus away from my vicinity. Reluctantly Lazarus handed the weapon over, but rather than keep it for myself, I leaned it against the wall a mere pace away from the skitarii. He unholstered his lascarbine with his dual mechanical arms that presided within his robes, distributing the weapon into his main arms of (mostly) flesh. Satisfied, I pointed at the woman. "Watch her, and give her some fatigues to put on. Brother Bacchus!"

Suitably drenched in the blood of mutants, the Red Scorpion astartes approached, placing a fresh magazine in his weapon. Had he the knowledge I did, I would not have been certain he wouldn't have killed the blonde then and there. The Red Scorpions were reliable for a monodominant, even one as...liberal as I. The Chamber Militant Grey Knights were specialized for incursions against daemons, and so I only called them as a last resort. Less casualties that way, as it was standard procedure to kill any imperial citizen not of the Inquisition to keep the Grey Knights a secretive ordo. Chapters such as the Red Scorpions and Black Templars served in their stead in normal circumstances, my late mentor had taught me. Puritanical to a fault, they abhorred the mutant, the heretic, and the xenos, and distrusted the psyker. He would not assault me, but I still did not actively display my power before him so as not to complicate the issue. The large meta-human approached. "Yes, inquisitor?"

"Lead the assault below with sergeant Al-Adun. Leave at least a two heretics alive so that I may question them. Expect a score of foes." I said, and he gave a dissatisfied grunt. I was in charge, but it was never advisable to order about a space marine as if they were your lackey. Of course, in this instance, the order wasn't the problem. Leaving heretics alive, was. Still, he did not argue beyond showing disapproval, saluting me and pressing forward. The Tallarns followed, having crossed the arms of their one deceased to keep dignity until he could be properly buried later.

As Bacchus went below, I lifted my saber and autopistol in the dueling fashion, stepping lightly over torn furniture and corpses, beginning a search of the upper rooms beginning clock-wise. The first was merely a storage area of food, of which I promptly burned due to the likely taint. Next was a room that had likely been a storage room, and instead of effects or traveling gear, it was filled with corpses. I prayed to the God Emperor and advanced, finding myself in the rooms that Lazarus had pierced with his rifle. The second room was merely a restroom. The bedroom itself had a wide, canopied bed. Four women lay scattered, sobbing and attempting to huddle together when I entered. Two men were dead. One from a saber cut to the neck, and the other had lost his torso from the stray shot that had punched through the stone. Gazing at the corpses, I ascertained the latter was more interesting. I tilted his limp head with my boot, recognizing him as the man we had pursued. Leaning down, I knelt beside the corpse and opened his eyes, checking for any overt taint. I opened his mouth, finding naught but yellowed teeth. Sliding his sleeve back, I finally caught a most unholy mark. Embedded into his flesh, the mark of Tzeentch was writ, the symbol itself...transformed. The symbol's flesh was not the flesh of the man, as if he had fused with something wholly alien to acquire it. In his clutched hand was something strange. An object of unknown material, green and black, in the shape of a T, if the greater line curved into the horizontal, with a chip at its butt. It smelled faintly of sulphur, and I deduced the man had procured it from the Tomb. I would not dare touch it with my bare hand, but with my gloved fingers I pulled it out of his grasp and stepped out into the central room, where the woman was now getting dressed. I tossed the item to Lazarus, who caught it with his third hand and immediately began examining it curiously.

"Most interesting, Hadrian."

"Run diagnostics on that. I want to know where it has been and what it does. And call the orbital astrotechs, giving us records of every warp trail leaving the planet in the last five hours, and call Urien. We need a pick up. Now."

---

Thirty minutes later.

The shuttle was a modified dropship, repurposed for quick transportation between the Caledonia Freighter and any inner-orbit travel. Urien had greeted them with the usual candor, glad he hadn't had to stay in orbit for more than a few days. I imagine now this entire affair must have been daunting for Emmaline, but at the time I did not consider it. The shuttle was large enough to accommodate two score guardsmen shocktroops, but instead it merely had myself, two heretics in stasis, Lazarus, Brother Bacchus who needed transport back to his chapter, and Emmaline. The woman had a knack for being positively distracting in any clothing, even a baggy military outfit, which I would later use to great effect in our missions. Ironically, it was likely the most untrue statement I could make at the time in the shuttle. I was too engrossed in thought of our current course of action, Urien was flying the ship, and both Lazarus and Bacchus were augmented to ignore their lesser human needs of base flesh.

Only once the Caledonia was in plain sight did I remember to ask Urien a pertinent request.

"Ah haulding cell, Adr-r-rian?" He inquired.

"Yes, have her escorted to one. But grant her a meal and make her comfortable. Brother Bacchus, would you do me the favor of escorting the crew that does so?"

"Is she so dangerous?" Bacchus asked suspiciously, having taken a moment to reply to see if I were making a poor joke.

"No, but one can never be too careful. I'll be by shortly to speak with her."

Wh40k: One Step Beyond - A Rogue Trader Adventure (Closed)

Grimri "Ironclad" Haldengard

Grimri chewed on his mustache, glancing to the others around him. His stomach growled, and then low and behold, the ratling had appeared. Grimri felt his hunger pangs were from some contagious disease the short fellow had spread to him. Or maybe he just hadn't eaten since the fighting had started, and anyone who has ever been in combat to the death knew killing brought quite the appetite. Maybe after this he could grab a bite.

But as for his employer here...

"I'm no' much fer ship combat or space maneuvering..." He said, skeptical on why they would want to hear his opinion. He supposed he would rather be consulted than not, but it wasn't really his purview. Even his engineering and crafting skills were more for ground-based vehicles and machines. Other than boarding actions, he was out of his element in space other than in the most strange and dire of circumstances.

"If we can get close enough t' board, I'm yer man. Otherwise, cannae help ye."

Crossing his burly armed, he looked to the assembled crew. No doubt the ecclesiastical members would cry to attack. As long as they didn't blow up in space, he wasn't against the notion. As he waited, he double checked his gun, making sure it was fully loaded and ready to be used.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Markus Storm

Yes, I drew this mf

Name

Age: 27 (175 AC)

Description & biography:
Born the bastard of a minor lord in the Storm lands, he wasn't even given a chance at the life of a Lordly house, having been rejected by the father he never knew. So he attempted to take his mother's maiden name for his own, Falenhearth, but inevitably he was called Storm as per the custom. He was very much treated like an unwanted dog growing up, his mother doing her best to provide for him working in the local winery. By age 8, he had felt very much like a burden to his mother, despite her professings of the contrary. Even at such a young age, he felt so very out of place in the small town.

The Seven smiled upon him, for on his ninth birthday he pleaded a local Knight to take him as his page. Markus was not even entirely sure of what that entailed, but he needed to go somewhere else. Do something else. The bandits of the region had been growing ever bolder, and the Knight knew it would continue as such. He accepted, and there was a transformation that occurred in young Markus when he picked up his first sword in the training yard. It felt natural, and he felt whole for the first time, as if the father who left had always been there in the form of the weapon in his hand.

The next eight years went by quickly. He learned how to saddle a horse and strap on armor, as well as less mundane skills such as archery, swordsmanship, horsemanship, and even the usage of the spear and mace. By age 17 he was seasoned as a killer, following the Knight into combat against a group of brigands. The combat was fierce, and Markus proved his valor slaying three of the rogues. But he was hit by a stray stone, knocking him to the ground. The last thing he remembered was his master leaving him to his fate.

Markus awoke amongst the brigands, and they offered him his life if he joined them. Markus did so, unable to really conceive how his liege would abandon him. For eight months, he helped them steal and kill when needed, though he wouldn't join in any sexual violence. He still had notions of chivalry, even if many knights themselves didn't follow such principles. One fateful day, the brigands were assailed again, this time by a larger contingent of knights. In the vanguard was Markus' old master, whom Markus managed to kill in single combat.

He didn't feel vindicated or brimming with justice. He felt sick.

What he considered a second father that had abandoned him, he killed by his own hand.

Markus didn't return to the lads. Thieving wasn't his game. He simply had no idea what else to do. Markus fled, and in five months he became a champion used in legal duels. Winning the lives of merchants and nobles that needed it, making contacts and even a few friendships until he found himself in Volantis. There he met a girl and fell in love, though she broke his heart and ran off with another man from her past. He joined a crew of privateers called the Red Sabers, sailing with them for three years, reaving merchant ships and growing happy and content. His life moved so quickly, he merely just lived it. One day he found himself on the shore, drinking with a textile merchant and swapping stories, and before he knew it the man hired him as a caravan guard. He accepted, and found he had missed the land. Where his life was to go from there, he didn't know. But as long as he had a blade, he could earn his keep.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Markus Storm

Yes, I drew this mf

Name

Age: 27 (175 AC)

Description & biography:
Born the bastard of a minor lord in the Storm lands, he wasn't even given a chance at the life of a Lordly house, having been rejected by the father he never knew. So he attempted to take his mother's maiden name for his own, Falenhearth, but inevitably he was called Storm as per the custom. He was very much treated like an unwanted dog growing up, his mother doing her best to provide for him working in the local winery. By age 8, he had felt very much like a burden to his mother, despite her professings of the contrary. Even at such a young age, he felt so very out of place in the small town.

The Seven smiled upon him, for on his ninth birthday he pleaded a local Knight to take him as his page. Markus was not even entirely sure of what that entailed, but he needed to go somewhere else. Do something else. The bandits of the region had been growing ever bolder, and the Knight knew it would continue as such. He accepted, and there was a transformation that occurred in young Markus when he picked up his first sword in the training yard. It felt natural, and he felt whole for the first time, as if the father who left had always been there in the form of the weapon in his hand.

The next eight years went by quickly. He learned how to saddle a horse and strap on armor, as well as less mundane skills such as archery, swordsmanship, horsemanship, and even the usage of the spear and mace. By age 17 he was seasoned as a killer, following the Knight into combat against a group of brigands. The combat was fierce, and Markus proved his valor slaying three of the rogues. But he was hit by a stray stone, knocking him to the ground. The last thing he remembered was his master leaving him to his fate.

Markus awoke amongst the brigands, and they offered him his life if he joined them. Markus did so, unable to really conceive how his liege would abandon him. For eight months, he helped them steal and kill when needed, though he wouldn't join in any sexual violence. He still had notions of chivalry, even if many knights themselves didn't follow such principals. One fateful day, the brigands were assailed again, this time by a larger contingent of knights. In the vanguard was Markus' old master, whom Markus managed to kill in single combat.

He didn't feel vindicated or brimming with justice. He felt sick.

What he considered a second father that had abandoned him, he killed by his own hand.

Markus didn't return to the lads. Thieving wasn't his game. He simply had no idea what else to do. Markus fled, and in five months he became a champion used in legal duels. Winning the lives of merchants and nobles that needed it, making contacts and even a few friendships until he found himself in Volantis. There he met a girl and fell in love, though she broke his heart and ran off with another man from her past. He joined a crew of privateers called the Red Sabers, sailing with them for three years, reaving merchant ships and growing happy and content. His life moved so quickly, he merely just lived it. One day he found himself on the shore, drinking with a textile merchant and swapping stories, and before he knew it the man hired him as a caravan guard. He accepted, and found he had missed the land. Where his life was to go from there, he didn't know. But as long as he had a blade, he could earn his keep.

@POOHEAD189

My guy is ready to be reviewed

I have no memory of this place

*throws welcome party*