Sarpedon

CIA: Supernatural Division. (Sanquin / Sarpedon)

Gerry shook his head when the supposed vampire when she quipped about the beverage he was being offered. Then he shook it again when she refused to shake his hand. He was about to give up when she gave him shit for trying to find out where her head was at. She said something about securing extraction and all that jazz. "You'd call it in, wouldn't you?" he shook his head, he got the impression that this woman was a little too by-the-book for him. She claimed she could work as a team though, that would be nice. And suddenly it was apparently her turn to find out where his head was at. He shrugged and took a deep breath, answering truthfully.

"If the objective is too much, you call up your FAC, and you tell them to stack warthogs every thousand feet and line up for gun runs. Unless you've got F-18's on station. Then you get them to drop a two-thousand pound JDAM on it. Or, if you're lucky, you'll have a Spooky or two in the air, and they can just rain down hell until the target fucks off. If they aren't there, you go look for 'em. And you deal with whatever is there." he shrugged. "If it shoots at you, put fire on it until it dies or fucks off. If it fucks off, run it down. Pretty simple shit. And if someone fucks up, you don't fucking call it in..." the last sentence he uttered a little quieter. He wasn't sure if the director could hear it or not, but he didn't much care. The operator stood up and moved to leave.

"Let's go get my new kit." he suggested to the man in charge, heading for the door. Even if the director had heard what he said, even if he knew exactly what was going through his head when he said it, the man wouldn't do anything. What would he do, anyway? By-the-book was nice, but the field didn't allow for that, and sometimes, even when it did, it wasn't the right way to go. Gerry didn't like the book, anyway. Books were heavy, and in a hostile environment, heavy was bad...

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

works for me.

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

oh fuck. that sounds fun. cool beans I'll be around

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

I'm a sword. I could also use rescuing. Where did Xiggy go?

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

Surtr Nothung awoke lazily. That wasn't quite true though. Being an inanimate object, it was hard for it to sleep in the first place. But if one were to call its previous state sleep, the state the blade was in now could definitely be called a lazy awakening. Getting its bearings the sword did what passed for a sigh when considering the functions of magical objects. It was still in the same room it had been in for the last very long while. It was not pleased by this, and the sword began to swear. No one could hear it, but it did so anyway, cursing away, turning the dusty air around it blue and green with his vehemence. The weapon was getting rather irritated now. It was tired of sleeping, tired of waiting. It lusted for blood. It wanted to kill someone, break something, watch an empire fall as he so liked to fall, violently, and with a great deal of blood. That required a wielder. Someone strong, someone skilled. Gram needed a champion, but he didn't have anything to choose from.

He supposed being a two-metre Flammenschwert didn't help. Greatswords were difficult enough to wield with skill, the kind of person that could swing him around and still be a lethal contender on the battlefield was worth at least two men. At least, that was the way it had worked the last time he had been on a battlefield. That had been a glorious time. He didn't know how many people he had murdered. But it was glorious. The sword began to rage again, its thoughts of the past renewing its desire for bloodshed. "Curse this place. Not even the dead walk down here. I hope I find the man who left me here. I'll disembowel him, let him bleed out as he tries to hold in his guts!" The sword was very enthusiastic about his violence. Being a weapon, it was only proper, but more than a few were still put-off by it.

"What kind of place is this? No denizens to carry me to battle... Who leaves a magical sword unguarded?" the blade wondered if his voice could carry to the surface. He did the magical-sword-equivalent of taking a deep breath, and then tried the magical-sword-equivalent of screaming, projecting his voice as best he could "Help me!" he bellowed, figuring that would attract the most attention. It would be confusing for anyone passing by, at first, since they wouldn't actually hear his voice, since he didn't actually have a voice. The sword's words were simply projected into the minds of any who could absorb them. He screamed again a moment later, and then waited another couple of moments before trying it a third time.

After about an hour of screaming every few minutes, Gram wondered if this was really what he was reduced to, sitting on a broken, profaned alter, trapped in a scabbard, screaming for help in a vain hope that someone would even bother to look for him. This was a horrible existence. He passed the time plotting a more horrible way to murder whoever had done this to him. Such treatment was unacceptable. No other race could even survive this long, so how they expected him to put up with it he couldn't fathom. After a few more hours passed, Gram resolved that once a day he would try crying out for help, and then he'd just have to spend the rest of his time trying not to go crazy. The weapon figured it was insane enough as it was, it didn't need to go more insane with loneliness and unfulfilled bloodlust...

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

aight, intro soon.

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

I demand you pm me these details so I can rectify them.

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

Name: Surtr Nothung (Black Wrath) prefers to be called Gram

Age: ~500 years give or take ~500 years

Gender: Sword. Identifies as male.

Race: Flammenschwert

Weapons: Weapons don't wield weapons, let's get serious here.

Equipment: A masterfully crafted leather scabbard, upholstered in steel and trimmed in gold. The scabbard is fitted for both a sling, and a sword-belt depending on the wearer's preference, and both are attached for the moment. The leather is equal in quality to the scabbard, and both straps are properly and appropriately fitted and trimmed.

Inventory: Swords don't have inventories, let's be serious here.

Appearance:

Obviously the sheath has more gold fittings and such, the sword belt is a pretty typical fancy sword belt. I suggest you watch Game of Thrones if you don't know what I'm talking about, this is pretty basic medieval stuff, use your imagination. You've gotten this far with it, I believe in you.

Background: Gram was forged in dragonfire under the supervision of a cabal of master bladesmiths. The greatest of them did the actual forging. He laboured constantly for days in the heat of the smithy, powering through fatigue, hunger, thirst, and the stench of the burning flesh of the children that were being sacrificed to keep the dragonfire burning in the kiln. Wrought from the guts of a fallen star, it is said to be without peer. Even lacking any enchantment, any obvious magical influence whatsoever, it has still proven unbreakable, and undullable. Despite centuries of slicing up pike hafts and crushing through helmets, Gram's edge is as sharp as the razor used to shave the man who was the king at the time of its forging. And thanks to the nature of its creation, the blade gained, not just these incredibly traits, but also the ability to think, to reason, and to communicate. It blames the magic in the fire, and the screams of the still-living children that were thrown into the fire, as well as the pure concentration of skill that was present when it was forged. No one really knows how the blade can do such things, however.

Personality: "Bloodthirsty" is a favourite word of past wielders when asked to describe the blade. Those not around when it was used for fighting tend to use words like "Smarter than expected" and "somewhat disturbing" along with the occasional "I thought it was kind of funny". In general, Gram enjoys dark humour and the slaughter of living things, not what one would consider a pleasant instrument of death, one would assume most weapons must think this way, or else they'd likely sink into depression trying to remain cheerful and optimistic. Gram has assured more than a few people that weapons that break, are weapons that sank into depression for one reason or another.

Job: Sword, Flammenschwert, Weapon of War, Slayer of Things, Breaker of Bones, Render of Armour, Destroyer, Life-Ender, Soul-Releaser, Killer.

Skills: Being a sword, being unbreakable, killing, breaking things, rending armour, being a weapon. The level of excellence with which these things are achieved is generally limited by his wielder.

Traits: Heavy, unbreakable, remarkably and eternally sharp, violent, rude.

Magic: Possessing no actual magical powers, Gram is simply magical by nature.

Talent: Death-Dealing

Strengths: Offense

Weaknesses: Defense

Theme: TBA

What say you, glorious leader?

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

sounds good, make derek approve it and I'll do up a sheet.

Tales of Eyreseum - The False King

If you like dark comedy, I'm down. I dunno if the sword will be light-hearted at all...