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Goius Sillius
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Posted in the name of Her Majesty the Empress of Sythus.
Sergeant Jan Helmski Krazowicz
[Kathar - City Walls and Immediate Fields >>> Kathar - The Rusty Brewer]
Jan’s breath steamed in the nighttime air as he, mounted on his trusty steed Zarogiem, crested over a grassy hill and beheld the great walls of Kathar, the capital city of the Empire and home to the palace wherein the Empress resided. At the sight of this, he stopped for a moment, and pulled up the visor of his sallet helm as he decided that he was in a safe place. The sweat from his battle with the assassins mere hours ago was all but gone, and deliberately had he slowed his pace for Count Saffeud, Corporal Askopov and the others to catch up, even stopping at times and at length, but no-one in his party rejoined him, no matter how long he waited. Thus, he found himself arriving at Kathar alone.
“Come on, boy,” he spurred his steed forwards and descended from the hill. Lonesome, Zarogiem’s individual hoof-falls were loud and stark against the damp loam, and Jan could hear his chainmail mesh clattering against the plate as he bobbed along with his steed. As he drew closer to the walls, following the road, he began, little by little, to feel dwarfed by them. Their Brobdingnagian proportions utterly rendered him as tiny and insignificant before their mighty breadth. Hell, some of the bricks were even larger than him and his horse combined! Arrogant towers with pointed spires caught the silver light of the full moon and cast stark shadows which bathed Jan in a midnight black as he passed through them. The gates were closed, as was the norm during nighttime, but security was uncomfortably tighter than usual as he, upon reaching those gates, was subjected to an unnecessarily long questionnaire to prove his identity as a soldier under Count Saffeud’s service. When those grand double doors of iron and wood were inched apart for his entrance, Jan voiced his concerns at the nearest armsman:
“Why is security so tight tonight?”
The young city guard made a look of incredulity, scowling. “Why wouldn’t it be?”, he spat.
“What do you mean?”, Jan replied, truly ignorant and making himself look rather dumb.
“You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“The Empress is dead!” The words rolled off of the armsman’s tongue cleanly, surprising himself that he didn’t stutter as Jan absorbed this terrible news and helplessly hung his jaw agape for the briefest of moments as he tried to gather the words to say next.
“The hell? Since when?”
“‘Bout ten minutes ago. Assassins done her in, in her Palace -- at least, that’s what I’m hearin’.”
Jan looked away and put an armored finger to his chin in thought, before whipping his head back to the gate guard.
“Wait,” he smirked, “are you pulling my leg, armsman?”
“Oh sod off. The hell would I be jokin’ about something like this? Damned curfew’s been put in place for all civilians. Gon’ be five minutes until the city guard’s gonna be rolling down the streets, plucking out every man out of armor for questioning. Good thing you’re wearing plate.”
Jan sunk his head to muster up whatever feelings of grief he had for the death of his ruler. Yet, he could find none, for the palace, the dukes, the kings and the princes and their princess whores -- they were all so removed from his simple life of a soldier. So, he simply shook his head with a halfhearted, dismissive frown curling his lips.
“Well, that’s a real damn shame. I think I liked the Empress.”
“Yeah, she was a real beaut, that one.”
“You've seen her before? I haven’t.”
“Just could get a glimpse of her at noontime during the Parade. Let me tell you -- she looked like a real angel! Don’t know why anyone would want to cut up skin that white.”
“She doesn’t have a son, does she? No heir?”
The gate guard shrugged. “No heir as far as I know, but an announcement came that they were looking for a ‘true heir’. I don’t know why they deliberately said ‘true’, and I’m no clever man, but frankly, this all sounds like that petty war between Lord Saffeud and Stoutheart. Noble greed, you know? Speaking of which, isn’t that the Schmertzen seal? You one of Saffeud’s men?”
He pointed at the swords-and-lion symbol stenciled onto Jan’s right pauldron which he had managed to make out in the somewhat dim torchlight, with his chin. “That I am,” the sergeant confirmed. “Saw combat in that war, too.”
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“War,” said the armsman. “What’s it like?”
“It’s good,” Jan immediately answered. “It’s exciting. There’s competition in the battlefield: it’s either you or the bastard before you who dies that day, and you feel this rush, you know? It’s a great feeling. The loot is great, lots of gold to be had on the bodies of the fallen. And to drink from the cup of glory when you and your lord are victorious is a sensation which I believe not even the finest whore in all of Sythus can rival.”
The armsman smiled. “That sounds nice.”
“How old are you, guardsman?”
“Sixteen. Volunteered for the city guard. Haven’t seen combat myself, though. But I hope I will. Being a guard and wearing armor like this is nice and all, but admittedly, it’s pretty damn boring. The only people I get to spear are drunks who can’t fight back. I want real opponents, people who can give me a challenge.”
Jan grinned at the young boy’s enthusiasm. By the Nine, the Land needed more boys like this one right before him!
“If this whole thing does end up in a war for succession, then there will be plenty of blood to spill. Keep that spear close; sleep with it at your bedside. You will need it. Oh, and, by the way, before I forget -- where might I find The Rusty Brewer?”
“Round the stables to the right and walk right up by the old church. Big sign over the door, you can’t miss it.”
"Thank you. You have a good night now, gate guard."
"You too, cavalryman."
And with that, Jan entered the city proper, dismounting, and then parking Zarogiem at the gate stables, soothing the beast by brushing its snout. This being the entrance of the city, it was both a commercial and residential district of sorts, where market stalls, abandoned due to the time of day, sat by the sidewalk, and the first floors of many houses were stores all their own, proudly displaying businesses ranging from medicine to smithwork. Candlelight from the windows of surrounding buildings and from the streetlamps bathed glum stonework in orange. He paid no particular attention to the bell tolls that enacted the curfew just newly impressed into the city.
Jan’s armored heels clattered on the road of brick and cobble as he searched for his destination, which he quickly discovered and made way towards. A group of guards walked down towards him from the pub, with whom he exchanged salutes and greetings with.
“Evening, guardsmen.”
“Evening to you, comrade. What’s your business here?”
“I’m here on orders from Lord Saffeud. You will thus understand why I shan’t tell you anything more.”
“Ah. Carry on then, sergeant. Have a good night.”
“You as well, guardsman.”
Jan found himself just before the front door of the pub. He paid no heed to the old man partaking of tobacco as his armored hand reached for its handle, but he felt his wrist grasped, and he whipped his head to the side to see that the old man had moved against him.
”Hold on fer a minute, boy,” Jan found his accent strange. ”Curfew’s been put in place. You can’t drink at this time, unfortunately.”
The sergeant took a moment to think. “Are you the bartender?”, he asked.
”That I am.”
“Then I am looking for a man named Lukas.”
The old man shifted his pipe to the other end of his mouth. ”Go upstairs, first door to your left.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Yurik made a strange face in response. ”What’re you thankin’ me for? Hahaha! You’re too polite. Go on up there, laddy, you’re a bit late.”
Jan, now paying little mind to him, entered the warm interior of the pub, fully decked in partial plate armor. It weighed down on him and heated him up, yet, he did not want to take it off, as he did not feel secure. He felt that he was about to involve himself in a mess perhaps as tangled as that hunt for the Erthanti cult, and had second thoughts on participating. But he squashed those, for he had sworn an oath and his sense of loyalty refused, scoffed at the thought of even disobeying an order, especially when he himself was hand-picked by his lord to accompany him in this quest. He thus decided with finality that would rather fall on his sword than be branded a dishonorable coward and shamed for life! And so, he lifted himself upstairs. He gripped the door handle firmly and pressed the door open, stepping inside the room and taking a glance around to discover a variety of personalities, most of them looking rather sinister in their own way.
“Well,” he began, initially unsure of what to say. “I am Sergeant Jan Krazowicz of the Dradovkan 2nd. My lord has tasked for me to find a man named Lukas in his place.”
He retrieved the Empress’ letter from a pocket he had sewn into the underside of his surcoat, and waved it about.
“He may or may not be dead, but I assume he is, forgive my insolence. We were ambushed by assassins in Ullanski Forest. I humbly ask for the man named Lukas to enlighten me to the situation. I do not know the contents of this letter as I cannot read. I'll...,” he thought, "then immediately ride back to Schmertzen Castle and, in the event I don't happen upon him living, or not at all, inform Lord Saffeud's family of... whatever my lords and ladies before me are planning."
[Kathar - City Walls and Immediate Fields >>> Kathar - The Rusty Brewer]
Jan’s breath steamed in the nighttime air as he, mounted on his trusty steed Zarogiem, crested over a grassy hill and beheld the great walls of Kathar, the capital city of the Empire and home to the palace wherein the Empress resided. At the sight of this, he stopped for a moment, and pulled up the visor of his sallet helm as he decided that he was in a safe place. The sweat from his battle with the assassins mere hours ago was all but gone, and deliberately had he slowed his pace for Count Saffeud, Corporal Askopov and the others to catch up, even stopping at times and at length, but no-one in his party rejoined him, no matter how long he waited. Thus, he found himself arriving at Kathar alone.
“Come on, boy,” he spurred his steed forwards and descended from the hill. Lonesome, Zarogiem’s individual hoof-falls were loud and stark against the damp loam, and Jan could hear his chainmail mesh clattering against the plate as he bobbed along with his steed. As he drew closer to the walls, following the road, he began, little by little, to feel dwarfed by them. Their Brobdingnagian proportions utterly rendered him as tiny and insignificant before their mighty breadth. Hell, some of the bricks were even larger than him and his horse combined! Arrogant towers with pointed spires caught the silver light of the full moon and cast stark shadows which bathed Jan in a midnight black as he passed through them. The gates were closed, as was the norm during nighttime, but security was uncomfortably tighter than usual as he, upon reaching those gates, was subjected to an unnecessarily long questionnaire to prove his identity as a soldier under Count Saffeud’s service. When those grand double doors of iron and wood were inched apart for his entrance, Jan voiced his concerns at the nearest armsman:
“Why is security so tight tonight?”
The young city guard made a look of incredulity, scowling. “Why wouldn’t it be?”, he spat.
“What do you mean?”, Jan replied, truly ignorant and making himself look rather dumb.
“You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“The Empress is dead!” The words rolled off of the armsman’s tongue cleanly, surprising himself that he didn’t stutter as Jan absorbed this terrible news and helplessly hung his jaw agape for the briefest of moments as he tried to gather the words to say next.
“The hell? Since when?”
“‘Bout ten minutes ago. Assassins done her in, in her Palace -- at least, that’s what I’m hearin’.”
Jan looked away and put an armored finger to his chin in thought, before whipping his head back to the gate guard.
“Wait,” he smirked, “are you pulling my leg, armsman?”
“Oh sod off. The hell would I be jokin’ about something like this? Damned curfew’s been put in place for all civilians. Gon’ be five minutes until the city guard’s gonna be rolling down the streets, plucking out every man out of armor for questioning. Good thing you’re wearing plate.”
Jan sunk his head to muster up whatever feelings of grief he had for the death of his ruler. Yet, he could find none, for the palace, the dukes, the kings and the princes and their princess whores -- they were all so removed from his simple life of a soldier. So, he simply shook his head with a halfhearted, dismissive frown curling his lips.
“Well, that’s a real damn shame. I think I liked the Empress.”
“Yeah, she was a real beaut, that one.”
“You've seen her before? I haven’t.”
“Just could get a glimpse of her at noontime during the Parade. Let me tell you -- she looked like a real angel! Don’t know why anyone would want to cut up skin that white.”
“She doesn’t have a son, does she? No heir?”
The gate guard shrugged. “No heir as far as I know, but an announcement came that they were looking for a ‘true heir’. I don’t know why they deliberately said ‘true’, and I’m no clever man, but frankly, this all sounds like that petty war between Lord Saffeud and Stoutheart. Noble greed, you know? Speaking of which, isn’t that the Schmertzen seal? You one of Saffeud’s men?”
He pointed at the swords-and-lion symbol stenciled onto Jan’s right pauldron which he had managed to make out in the somewhat dim torchlight, with his chin. “That I am,” the sergeant confirmed. “Saw combat in that war, too.”
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“War,” said the armsman. “What’s it like?”
“It’s good,” Jan immediately answered. “It’s exciting. There’s competition in the battlefield: it’s either you or the bastard before you who dies that day, and you feel this rush, you know? It’s a great feeling. The loot is great, lots of gold to be had on the bodies of the fallen. And to drink from the cup of glory when you and your lord are victorious is a sensation which I believe not even the finest whore in all of Sythus can rival.”
The armsman smiled. “That sounds nice.”
“How old are you, guardsman?”
“Sixteen. Volunteered for the city guard. Haven’t seen combat myself, though. But I hope I will. Being a guard and wearing armor like this is nice and all, but admittedly, it’s pretty damn boring. The only people I get to spear are drunks who can’t fight back. I want real opponents, people who can give me a challenge.”
Jan grinned at the young boy’s enthusiasm. By the Nine, the Land needed more boys like this one right before him!
“If this whole thing does end up in a war for succession, then there will be plenty of blood to spill. Keep that spear close; sleep with it at your bedside. You will need it. Oh, and, by the way, before I forget -- where might I find The Rusty Brewer?”
“Round the stables to the right and walk right up by the old church. Big sign over the door, you can’t miss it.”
"Thank you. You have a good night now, gate guard."
"You too, cavalryman."
And with that, Jan entered the city proper, dismounting, and then parking Zarogiem at the gate stables, soothing the beast by brushing its snout. This being the entrance of the city, it was both a commercial and residential district of sorts, where market stalls, abandoned due to the time of day, sat by the sidewalk, and the first floors of many houses were stores all their own, proudly displaying businesses ranging from medicine to smithwork. Candlelight from the windows of surrounding buildings and from the streetlamps bathed glum stonework in orange. He paid no particular attention to the bell tolls that enacted the curfew just newly impressed into the city.
Jan’s armored heels clattered on the road of brick and cobble as he searched for his destination, which he quickly discovered and made way towards. A group of guards walked down towards him from the pub, with whom he exchanged salutes and greetings with.
“Evening, guardsmen.”
“Evening to you, comrade. What’s your business here?”
“I’m here on orders from Lord Saffeud. You will thus understand why I shan’t tell you anything more.”
“Ah. Carry on then, sergeant. Have a good night.”
“You as well, guardsman.”
Jan found himself just before the front door of the pub. He paid no heed to the old man partaking of tobacco as his armored hand reached for its handle, but he felt his wrist grasped, and he whipped his head to the side to see that the old man had moved against him.
”Hold on fer a minute, boy,” Jan found his accent strange. ”Curfew’s been put in place. You can’t drink at this time, unfortunately.”
The sergeant took a moment to think. “Are you the bartender?”, he asked.
”That I am.”
“Then I am looking for a man named Lukas.”
The old man shifted his pipe to the other end of his mouth. ”Go upstairs, first door to your left.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Yurik made a strange face in response. ”What’re you thankin’ me for? Hahaha! You’re too polite. Go on up there, laddy, you’re a bit late.”
Jan, now paying little mind to him, entered the warm interior of the pub, fully decked in partial plate armor. It weighed down on him and heated him up, yet, he did not want to take it off, as he did not feel secure. He felt that he was about to involve himself in a mess perhaps as tangled as that hunt for the Erthanti cult, and had second thoughts on participating. But he squashed those, for he had sworn an oath and his sense of loyalty refused, scoffed at the thought of even disobeying an order, especially when he himself was hand-picked by his lord to accompany him in this quest. He thus decided with finality that would rather fall on his sword than be branded a dishonorable coward and shamed for life! And so, he lifted himself upstairs. He gripped the door handle firmly and pressed the door open, stepping inside the room and taking a glance around to discover a variety of personalities, most of them looking rather sinister in their own way.
“Well,” he began, initially unsure of what to say. “I am Sergeant Jan Krazowicz of the Dradovkan 2nd. My lord has tasked for me to find a man named Lukas in his place.”
He retrieved the Empress’ letter from a pocket he had sewn into the underside of his surcoat, and waved it about.
“He may or may not be dead, but I assume he is, forgive my insolence. We were ambushed by assassins in Ullanski Forest. I humbly ask for the man named Lukas to enlighten me to the situation. I do not know the contents of this letter as I cannot read. I'll...,” he thought, "then immediately ride back to Schmertzen Castle and, in the event I don't happen upon him living, or not at all, inform Lord Saffeud's family of... whatever my lords and ladies before me are planning."
The damnable machine mocked him as it bathed his face with its neon green light. Gerald had lost patience, trying simply to retrieve his drink, yet fate had seen him unfit for dark mocha, and so he was reduced to curling his lips into an ugly snarl and banging at the infernal contraption with a gauntleted fist. But, just as he was about to turn back, the can had managed to drop into receiving slot, and he retrieved it with a hand that shot out forth like a striking snake.
“A-ha!”, he cried triumphantly. “Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”
The sergeant opened the can and drank heartily. He shook his head as he sighed in contentment. “Ahh~~!”
The curve of a dumb smile was on his face, but it eased out into a straight line of indifference as he looked to the side to behold one bulkily-clad man in white who had rounded the corner and stopped in awkward astonishment at Gerald’s gross public display of his love for coffee. He was rather fat, the stranger, and his face was plump and round, much like his belly. ’Probably an engineer,’ the sergeant thought, as he gave the man a crisp salute, which was returned.
“‘Ey,” greeted the man.
“Hello,” reciprocated Gerald.
They did not maintain eye contact as they went their separate ways.
’Well, that was slightly embarrassing,’ concluded the sergeant, whilst taking a swig of fine Turkish roast. ’Note: don’t do that again.'
“A-ha!”, he cried triumphantly. “Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”
The sergeant opened the can and drank heartily. He shook his head as he sighed in contentment. “Ahh~~!”
The curve of a dumb smile was on his face, but it eased out into a straight line of indifference as he looked to the side to behold one bulkily-clad man in white who had rounded the corner and stopped in awkward astonishment at Gerald’s gross public display of his love for coffee. He was rather fat, the stranger, and his face was plump and round, much like his belly. ’Probably an engineer,’ the sergeant thought, as he gave the man a crisp salute, which was returned.
“‘Ey,” greeted the man.
“Hello,” reciprocated Gerald.
They did not maintain eye contact as they went their separate ways.
’Well, that was slightly embarrassing,’ concluded the sergeant, whilst taking a swig of fine Turkish roast. ’Note: don’t do that again.'
Edit 1: If someone could fix my syntax, I'd totally be grateful.
Edit 2: Oh, it's full. Well, if there are slots open, PM me. I'd be glad to join.
Edit 3: Post fixed and cleaned up.
Name: Jan Helmski Krazowicz
Age: 26
Appearance:
Race: Human, Half-Demon (Host and Partially Soulbound to Egradel the Magnificent)
Allegiance: Supporter of the Immortal Nine
Class: Warrior, Demonic Shock Troop
Profession: Soldier, Light Cavalryman
Biography:
Jan Helmski Krazowicz was born to two farmers, Drodovko Krazowicz and Imelda Krazowicz, as the 2nd eldest of five siblings, with the eldest being his older brother and the rest, his sisters. Life was simple: he helped his parents and siblings tend to the wheat fields and the vegetable garden, getting into trouble at times as he played with the other village children. Times both hard and relatively easy came and he weathered all of them out, as peasants like himself should. His childhood was normal, and the local priests even taught him how to sing a few Ecclesiastic hymns!
One event of great shame was when he was found fornicating with a girl he fancied -- behind the local church -- and by his father, no less. Valentina and him were scolded loudly and at length, and they could not bear to look Drodovko in the eye, partially because he did not give them a chance to dress. But such passionate and daring things were what adolescence was about, and they kept seeing each other behind everyone’s backs.
Drodovko was no fool and suspected it, but he pretended not to know. He could not admonish the fourteen-year-old Jan once more. How could he, when he himself was guilty of such things at his son's age, prolific, even? Let boys be boys, he decided, and, to the young couple’s great and welcoming surprise, he arranged for the two to be married when they reached the legal age of 16.
But a draft had come. Count Kasloz Saffeud, Jan’s lord, had pressed a claim on the title of a fellow count whose demesne neighbored his . Scouts travelled to the villages and towns under his domain and they picked young, able-bodied men to fight and die for the Count’s cause. Jan, to his great displeasure, found an armored gauntlet pointing at him. He protested that he was only 15, that he was not of legal age, but the man in armor said that it did not matter. Those who refused were punished, as was the norm in Jan’s medieval society, and so, after saying wistful goodbyes to his lover under the silver light of the full moon -- and oh, how romantically did they make love beforehand -- he graciously received the weapons and armor gifted to him by his fellow villagers and went to Castle Schmertzen’s mustering grounds.
He endured three months of training from gymnastics to sparring. His body, already hardened by the intense labor of working the fields, became stronger as he was subjected to mud-crawls, fistfights and hundred-meter dashes in full gear and armor. He forged strong bonds with his comrades in training and drank the night away with them in contentment. Being a young man driven by hormonal urges, he also wasted away much of his salary on whores.
The Battle of Fedorov Fields saw him taking part in logistical raids against Count Alfred Stoutheart. Armed with a crossbow, a board shield, a spear, and feeling moderately secure in his light armor of mail and a kettle hat, he, along with two dozen others, charged from the underbrush of Aliasce Forest into the narrow dirt road that guided a slow-moving caravan into the town of Yarrick. He does not want to admit it, but he relished in his first kill: the lead horseman could only hang his jaw agape as Jan’s spear tore through his chest and pierced his heart. With astonished eyes, the young Jan looked at the corpse as it fell from the stirrups. In the din of screams and metal clanging against metal, he looked for another target, which he quickly acquired.
Of the twenty men of the caravan, ten were killed, four were maimed for life, and the last six surrendered before they could be harmed. Jan mainly fought in skirmishes until the main and actual open-field battle at Fedorov Fields. However, he did not see much action there as his regiment was assigned to a reserve position, and Count Stoutheart’s line broke and routed when Count Saffeud himself and his personal bodyguard charged from the flank.
He participated in the siege of Castle Yarrick, helping to construct defensive palisades against defender missile fire, but the siege was lifted in but a mere seven days as Count Stoutheart surrendered. However, when Count Saffeud entered his rival’s court, expecting complete submission, he was suddenly assailed by Stoutheart and whatever knights remained of his bodyguard. Jan was present at the time and helped to defend his lord, suffering a wound in the thigh, but managing to spear a knight through his vision-slit. Saffeud personally beheaded Stoutheart for this last act of defiance that cost him quite a number of his men.
Of those that survived and were not rendered disabled by the attack, Saffeud offered promotions. As a mage was healing Jan in the sick tent, the Count suddenly brushed through the tent flap and declared that Jan was now a professional soldier with the slightly prestigious position of light cavalryman. From that day on, he was expected to soldier for his lord until death or told otherwise; never would he be demobilized.
With the petty war over after a year, Jan underwent retraining. He was given a steed to care, a heraldic kite shield and his very own arming sword. He was trained under an excellent stablemaster who knew when and how to be harsh and lenient to his students. In just four weeks, he was able to ride gracefully in formation. In just a few more, he could fight comfortably while mounted. Even if his armor did not have gleaming plates yet, he felt rather satisfied with himself.
At age 17, almost nearing his 18th birthday, he returned to his home village of Worsowa, hoping to marry his sweetheart, Valentina. However, he found himself betrayed when it was revealed that she had married Yarrick’s mayor’s son. Grumbling, he left the village almost immediately after greeting his friends and family and handing a portion of his monthly pay to his parents. Vladislaw, his older brother, was already married to Tina; and his sisters were, too, married, save for the youngest at age 12, who was only betrothed. In a time where marrying at 16 was the norm, he was feeling rather behind in life. But heartache kept him from finding love, and he was in under no obligation to marry as his siblings already were, so he did not hurry.
For seven years, then, he was involved with the Inquisition into investigating the possible existence of an Erthantis-worshiping cult within the area of Count Saffeud’s domain. Reports of uneasiness and strange noises around select areas from the local populace came increasingly, such that the nobles actually had to intervene. To unearth the conspiracy, Jan was volunteered by Inquisitor Thaddeus himself and taken from his Eastern homeland to the West, entering the capital city of Kathar for the first time, and then back again, and then to the South, in a sort of wild goose chase for clues and suspects. He was praised by Thaddeus for staying with the cause even after the nobles had become unsupportive due to the costs, time, and the intrusive nature of the operation. He fought summoned demons on quite a few occasions and slew one crazed mage himself, though suffering great injury from one of the dying woman’s offensive fire spells.
In the final battle, against a traitorous priest named Basilius Aggnathaea, Jan was knocked out and captured by heretical forces. He was dragged into the deepest cave of the cavernous expanse wherefrom the cult operated. Stripped of his armor, he was nailed to a cross, the pain jolting him awake but his agonized screams overpowered by the insane chanting of the black-robed figures that surrounded him.
With the cross propped up at the center of a chalk-drawn ritual circle, Basilius began to shout in a language Jan could not understand, a language otherworldly. Mocking, laughing imps flew around the tortured man and nipped at his exposed flesh with their little fanged teeth. Basilius convulsed and began to have seizures as he neared the end of his litany, such that five of his underlings had to steady him. The symbolically-placed candles around the crucified Jan were suddenly and ominously snuffed out as the mad priest uttered the final word of the litany.
The tortured Jan felt something pushing against his stomach from the inside, something warm. But before he could speculate as to what it was, the shaking old man already had the tip of a longsword almost against his navel. With Jan screaming at death so close, Basilius was slain by a distant Inquisitor Thaddeus with a crossbow bolt to the neck. The long minutes came by with a brutal battle he was too wounded to pay attention to. The cult members tried to retrieve him but all were slain to the last man. Rescued, Jan was immediately put in the care of the best mages the Inquisitorial Palace in Kathar City could provide.
Jan was also brought before High Priest Fingar, the future Arch-Traitor, himself, for exorcism. Thaddeus was worried that Jan might have had evil influences pressed onto his soul. Taken blindfolded into one dark, damp room of a dungeon, he was tricked into thinking the ceremony performed before him was holy when, it was, in fact, not so. Though Fingar spoke suspiciously the same utterings as Basilius did, Jan suspected nothing as he trusted the Priest with his life, being an inborn follower, as a peasant should before someone who was both a noble and a spiritual leader. No Inquisitorial personnel were present during Jan’s “exorcism,” which was, in truth, a partial soulbinding. As such, the 25-year-old illiterate peasant soldier from the peaceful farming village of Worsowa became a sleeper agent. However, there was no codeword for activation as his profession as a soldier would see him at the forefront of the violence to come. When slain, or when tricked and convinced by the demon himself, Jan Helmski Krazowicz and Egradel the Magnificent shall bind together soul and body to coalesce into one of the most powerful and brutal soldiers to ever walk the land, loyal only to Erthantis and whose existence is centered only upon death.
Jan returned to Castle Schmertzen with hearty congratulations and gracious promotion to Cavalry Sergeant from his lord, Count Saffeud. A year came and went without him noticing himself becoming more aggressive but smiling, drinking, and taking whores noticeably less. His peers, lords and friends understood that this was an effect of the mad missions the Inquisition took, for if a man was forced to swear an oath of secrecy, then what came to Jan’s eyes and ears must truly be terrible indeed, such that it was best not to speak of it but the barest of details. Yet Jan’s personality would have made him more reclusive, not more aggressive. No-one, not even Jan, knew of the taint that slowly grew within him.
When he returned to Worsowa to share with his family the gold he made working with the Inquisition, his father brought up the subject of marriage. Jan laughed and said, “Father, the battlefield is my spouse, and the sword, our child. I am enjoying my life as it is, free like a man like myself should be, making gold, drinking heavily and fucking whores every night. I do not need someone who would but slow me down, burdening me with a bastard and emptying my coinpurse as I rise through the ranks. I would rather not marry, father, for Knighthood, chaste and pure, is my goal.”
At this, his father laughed, for he could not believe that the crybaby he had raised could come up with such an answer. The aging man smiled, gripped his son’s shoulder, and said that he was proud of him. During his visit, Jan also purchased fine arms and plate armor from Vladislaw, his brother, who had become the village blacksmith and was filling out orders from Count Saffeud's marshall and Jan's commanding officer, Captain Iosif Avtokratoraz. He also bought clothing from his sister-in-law, Tina, one of the village's clothiers, as what he owned at the time were just about to amount to rags.
The one night that shook the whole Empire finally came: just a few hours before the Empress’ assassination, at nighttime, Count Saffeud personally picked the men he trusted the most within his castle for a secret mission, and Jan was one of them. Wanting to travel fast, Saffeud chose only cavalrymen. He assembled eighteen knights, four not of his personal bodyguard, and two peasant cavalrymen. His scorn for his own family made it so that he did not invite his sons along, and so, in the dead of night, his party of 21 followed him under the gaze of the twinkling stars, ignorant of the nature of their mission, simply out of unquestioning loyalty.
In the middle of the journey, though, they were assailed by assassins. Outnumbering his party two to one, Saffeud knew he could not possibly win this one; he did not even have a mage with him! It was not late into the battle, then, that the count suffered a grievous wound. He fell off his horse, and his men formed a protective circle around him. Just barely clinging to consciousness, he could see Jan fighting the hardest of them all, yelling, screaming and cursing, every blow he delivered seemingly stronger than the last as he cut down men like pigs at a slaughtering block.
It was such that he beckoned Jan to him, and the young man kneeled before his dying lord. He was handed a letter with the wax seal of the Empress Herself! There was grim humor as Jan asked out loud,
“You were screwing the Empress behind everyone’s back, my lord?!”
Saffeud could not help but laugh as much as his lungs would allow at that point. He quickly corrected Jan, saying that it was not so, that he was entrusted via the given letter to gather along with willing heroes and adventurers at a set mustering area to combat the Erthanti threat which loomed just over the near horizon, and that, since they were all about to die, he wanted Jan, as his last hope, to ride, and ride as fast as he could to that mustering area: an inn on the outskirts of Kathar called 'The Rusty Brewer' and to ask for a man named Lukas there. And he did so immediately, putting the letter in his breast pocket as he dodged arrows, bolts and javelins as his steed sprinted away through the forest undergrowth, knocking down veiled assassins to the ground, breaking their bones.
Managing to escape his assailants, he begins his new adventure with cold sweat lacing his skin, a tired steed, and a uniform and weapon both coated in the blood of the slain. He reigns in Zarogien, his noble stallion, and lets him walk to regain his strength. Lifting up the visor of his sallet helm, he looks up to the night sky and the gleaming orb of the full moon, contemplating, the look of his blue eyes ever so sharp, what fate had in store for him.
“For the Empress,” he mutters, and once more, he rides with purpose.
Personality:
“We cannot allow them to live. They are dishonest people and even if we put them in chains, they cannot learn honesty, for the trait is inborn and cannot possibly be taught. Slit their throats and then burn their bodies; the Nine -- praise be Their Names -- shall know Their own.” - Jan, age 26, after a victory over a 40-man company of bandits, half of whom surrendered.
Gone were Jan’s optimism, mercifulness and romanticism the moment Egradel had entered his body. Now, he is without compassion for those who oppose him, preferring to kill rather than to let live the surrendered. Egradel constantly suggests to Jan by injecting thoughts into his mind which he cannot distinguish from his own. Though still fond of drink, gold and wine, he finds such pleasures to be less and less enjoyable, and more and more does he look to his sword, to his steed, and to the readiness of his comrades. In other words, he is molding to become the perfect soldier: without pity, without remorse, without hope -- little by little does he accept that he is already dead, and that war is all but a game; a game where there is much joy and loot to be had, if one has the proper mindset...
Weapons of Choice:
-Arming Sword
-Heraldic Kite Shield
-Zarogien, his War Horse
-Partial Plate Armor
Powers & Abilities:
Relationships:
-Egradel the Magnificent, partially soulbound and host to;
-Drodovko Krazowicz, father;
-Imelda Krazowicz, mother;
-Vladislaw Torune Krazowicz, older brother;
-Tina Sophia Krazowicz, sister-in-law;
-Helga Krazowicz-Petrenko, younger sister;
-Irina Vladiminora Putina, younger sister;
-Anka Sylwia Jussepski, younger sister;
-Count Kasloz Saffeud, lord and army commander, deceased;
-Captain Iosif Avtokratoraz, commanding officer;
-Corporal Dmitri Askopov, best friend and fellow Dradovka Cavalryman, deceased;
-Valentina Williams, ex-girlfriend;
Other:
Jan Krazowicz, having been born a peasant, has not received proper education and is thus illiterate.
Edit 2: Oh, it's full. Well, if there are slots open, PM me. I'd be glad to join.
Edit 3: Post fixed and cleaned up.
Name: Jan Helmski Krazowicz
Age: 26
Appearance:
Race: Human, Half-Demon (Host and Partially Soulbound to Egradel the Magnificent)
Allegiance: Supporter of the Immortal Nine
Class: Warrior, Demonic Shock Troop
Profession: Soldier, Light Cavalryman
Biography:
Jan Helmski Krazowicz was born to two farmers, Drodovko Krazowicz and Imelda Krazowicz, as the 2nd eldest of five siblings, with the eldest being his older brother and the rest, his sisters. Life was simple: he helped his parents and siblings tend to the wheat fields and the vegetable garden, getting into trouble at times as he played with the other village children. Times both hard and relatively easy came and he weathered all of them out, as peasants like himself should. His childhood was normal, and the local priests even taught him how to sing a few Ecclesiastic hymns!
One event of great shame was when he was found fornicating with a girl he fancied -- behind the local church -- and by his father, no less. Valentina and him were scolded loudly and at length, and they could not bear to look Drodovko in the eye, partially because he did not give them a chance to dress. But such passionate and daring things were what adolescence was about, and they kept seeing each other behind everyone’s backs.
Drodovko was no fool and suspected it, but he pretended not to know. He could not admonish the fourteen-year-old Jan once more. How could he, when he himself was guilty of such things at his son's age, prolific, even? Let boys be boys, he decided, and, to the young couple’s great and welcoming surprise, he arranged for the two to be married when they reached the legal age of 16.
But a draft had come. Count Kasloz Saffeud, Jan’s lord, had pressed a claim on the title of a fellow count whose demesne neighbored his . Scouts travelled to the villages and towns under his domain and they picked young, able-bodied men to fight and die for the Count’s cause. Jan, to his great displeasure, found an armored gauntlet pointing at him. He protested that he was only 15, that he was not of legal age, but the man in armor said that it did not matter. Those who refused were punished, as was the norm in Jan’s medieval society, and so, after saying wistful goodbyes to his lover under the silver light of the full moon -- and oh, how romantically did they make love beforehand -- he graciously received the weapons and armor gifted to him by his fellow villagers and went to Castle Schmertzen’s mustering grounds.
He endured three months of training from gymnastics to sparring. His body, already hardened by the intense labor of working the fields, became stronger as he was subjected to mud-crawls, fistfights and hundred-meter dashes in full gear and armor. He forged strong bonds with his comrades in training and drank the night away with them in contentment. Being a young man driven by hormonal urges, he also wasted away much of his salary on whores.
The Battle of Fedorov Fields saw him taking part in logistical raids against Count Alfred Stoutheart. Armed with a crossbow, a board shield, a spear, and feeling moderately secure in his light armor of mail and a kettle hat, he, along with two dozen others, charged from the underbrush of Aliasce Forest into the narrow dirt road that guided a slow-moving caravan into the town of Yarrick. He does not want to admit it, but he relished in his first kill: the lead horseman could only hang his jaw agape as Jan’s spear tore through his chest and pierced his heart. With astonished eyes, the young Jan looked at the corpse as it fell from the stirrups. In the din of screams and metal clanging against metal, he looked for another target, which he quickly acquired.
Of the twenty men of the caravan, ten were killed, four were maimed for life, and the last six surrendered before they could be harmed. Jan mainly fought in skirmishes until the main and actual open-field battle at Fedorov Fields. However, he did not see much action there as his regiment was assigned to a reserve position, and Count Stoutheart’s line broke and routed when Count Saffeud himself and his personal bodyguard charged from the flank.
He participated in the siege of Castle Yarrick, helping to construct defensive palisades against defender missile fire, but the siege was lifted in but a mere seven days as Count Stoutheart surrendered. However, when Count Saffeud entered his rival’s court, expecting complete submission, he was suddenly assailed by Stoutheart and whatever knights remained of his bodyguard. Jan was present at the time and helped to defend his lord, suffering a wound in the thigh, but managing to spear a knight through his vision-slit. Saffeud personally beheaded Stoutheart for this last act of defiance that cost him quite a number of his men.
Of those that survived and were not rendered disabled by the attack, Saffeud offered promotions. As a mage was healing Jan in the sick tent, the Count suddenly brushed through the tent flap and declared that Jan was now a professional soldier with the slightly prestigious position of light cavalryman. From that day on, he was expected to soldier for his lord until death or told otherwise; never would he be demobilized.
With the petty war over after a year, Jan underwent retraining. He was given a steed to care, a heraldic kite shield and his very own arming sword. He was trained under an excellent stablemaster who knew when and how to be harsh and lenient to his students. In just four weeks, he was able to ride gracefully in formation. In just a few more, he could fight comfortably while mounted. Even if his armor did not have gleaming plates yet, he felt rather satisfied with himself.
At age 17, almost nearing his 18th birthday, he returned to his home village of Worsowa, hoping to marry his sweetheart, Valentina. However, he found himself betrayed when it was revealed that she had married Yarrick’s mayor’s son. Grumbling, he left the village almost immediately after greeting his friends and family and handing a portion of his monthly pay to his parents. Vladislaw, his older brother, was already married to Tina; and his sisters were, too, married, save for the youngest at age 12, who was only betrothed. In a time where marrying at 16 was the norm, he was feeling rather behind in life. But heartache kept him from finding love, and he was in under no obligation to marry as his siblings already were, so he did not hurry.
For seven years, then, he was involved with the Inquisition into investigating the possible existence of an Erthantis-worshiping cult within the area of Count Saffeud’s domain. Reports of uneasiness and strange noises around select areas from the local populace came increasingly, such that the nobles actually had to intervene. To unearth the conspiracy, Jan was volunteered by Inquisitor Thaddeus himself and taken from his Eastern homeland to the West, entering the capital city of Kathar for the first time, and then back again, and then to the South, in a sort of wild goose chase for clues and suspects. He was praised by Thaddeus for staying with the cause even after the nobles had become unsupportive due to the costs, time, and the intrusive nature of the operation. He fought summoned demons on quite a few occasions and slew one crazed mage himself, though suffering great injury from one of the dying woman’s offensive fire spells.
In the final battle, against a traitorous priest named Basilius Aggnathaea, Jan was knocked out and captured by heretical forces. He was dragged into the deepest cave of the cavernous expanse wherefrom the cult operated. Stripped of his armor, he was nailed to a cross, the pain jolting him awake but his agonized screams overpowered by the insane chanting of the black-robed figures that surrounded him.
With the cross propped up at the center of a chalk-drawn ritual circle, Basilius began to shout in a language Jan could not understand, a language otherworldly. Mocking, laughing imps flew around the tortured man and nipped at his exposed flesh with their little fanged teeth. Basilius convulsed and began to have seizures as he neared the end of his litany, such that five of his underlings had to steady him. The symbolically-placed candles around the crucified Jan were suddenly and ominously snuffed out as the mad priest uttered the final word of the litany.
The tortured Jan felt something pushing against his stomach from the inside, something warm. But before he could speculate as to what it was, the shaking old man already had the tip of a longsword almost against his navel. With Jan screaming at death so close, Basilius was slain by a distant Inquisitor Thaddeus with a crossbow bolt to the neck. The long minutes came by with a brutal battle he was too wounded to pay attention to. The cult members tried to retrieve him but all were slain to the last man. Rescued, Jan was immediately put in the care of the best mages the Inquisitorial Palace in Kathar City could provide.
Jan was also brought before High Priest Fingar, the future Arch-Traitor, himself, for exorcism. Thaddeus was worried that Jan might have had evil influences pressed onto his soul. Taken blindfolded into one dark, damp room of a dungeon, he was tricked into thinking the ceremony performed before him was holy when, it was, in fact, not so. Though Fingar spoke suspiciously the same utterings as Basilius did, Jan suspected nothing as he trusted the Priest with his life, being an inborn follower, as a peasant should before someone who was both a noble and a spiritual leader. No Inquisitorial personnel were present during Jan’s “exorcism,” which was, in truth, a partial soulbinding. As such, the 25-year-old illiterate peasant soldier from the peaceful farming village of Worsowa became a sleeper agent. However, there was no codeword for activation as his profession as a soldier would see him at the forefront of the violence to come. When slain, or when tricked and convinced by the demon himself, Jan Helmski Krazowicz and Egradel the Magnificent shall bind together soul and body to coalesce into one of the most powerful and brutal soldiers to ever walk the land, loyal only to Erthantis and whose existence is centered only upon death.
Jan returned to Castle Schmertzen with hearty congratulations and gracious promotion to Cavalry Sergeant from his lord, Count Saffeud. A year came and went without him noticing himself becoming more aggressive but smiling, drinking, and taking whores noticeably less. His peers, lords and friends understood that this was an effect of the mad missions the Inquisition took, for if a man was forced to swear an oath of secrecy, then what came to Jan’s eyes and ears must truly be terrible indeed, such that it was best not to speak of it but the barest of details. Yet Jan’s personality would have made him more reclusive, not more aggressive. No-one, not even Jan, knew of the taint that slowly grew within him.
When he returned to Worsowa to share with his family the gold he made working with the Inquisition, his father brought up the subject of marriage. Jan laughed and said, “Father, the battlefield is my spouse, and the sword, our child. I am enjoying my life as it is, free like a man like myself should be, making gold, drinking heavily and fucking whores every night. I do not need someone who would but slow me down, burdening me with a bastard and emptying my coinpurse as I rise through the ranks. I would rather not marry, father, for Knighthood, chaste and pure, is my goal.”
At this, his father laughed, for he could not believe that the crybaby he had raised could come up with such an answer. The aging man smiled, gripped his son’s shoulder, and said that he was proud of him. During his visit, Jan also purchased fine arms and plate armor from Vladislaw, his brother, who had become the village blacksmith and was filling out orders from Count Saffeud's marshall and Jan's commanding officer, Captain Iosif Avtokratoraz. He also bought clothing from his sister-in-law, Tina, one of the village's clothiers, as what he owned at the time were just about to amount to rags.
The one night that shook the whole Empire finally came: just a few hours before the Empress’ assassination, at nighttime, Count Saffeud personally picked the men he trusted the most within his castle for a secret mission, and Jan was one of them. Wanting to travel fast, Saffeud chose only cavalrymen. He assembled eighteen knights, four not of his personal bodyguard, and two peasant cavalrymen. His scorn for his own family made it so that he did not invite his sons along, and so, in the dead of night, his party of 21 followed him under the gaze of the twinkling stars, ignorant of the nature of their mission, simply out of unquestioning loyalty.
In the middle of the journey, though, they were assailed by assassins. Outnumbering his party two to one, Saffeud knew he could not possibly win this one; he did not even have a mage with him! It was not late into the battle, then, that the count suffered a grievous wound. He fell off his horse, and his men formed a protective circle around him. Just barely clinging to consciousness, he could see Jan fighting the hardest of them all, yelling, screaming and cursing, every blow he delivered seemingly stronger than the last as he cut down men like pigs at a slaughtering block.
It was such that he beckoned Jan to him, and the young man kneeled before his dying lord. He was handed a letter with the wax seal of the Empress Herself! There was grim humor as Jan asked out loud,
“You were screwing the Empress behind everyone’s back, my lord?!”
Saffeud could not help but laugh as much as his lungs would allow at that point. He quickly corrected Jan, saying that it was not so, that he was entrusted via the given letter to gather along with willing heroes and adventurers at a set mustering area to combat the Erthanti threat which loomed just over the near horizon, and that, since they were all about to die, he wanted Jan, as his last hope, to ride, and ride as fast as he could to that mustering area: an inn on the outskirts of Kathar called 'The Rusty Brewer' and to ask for a man named Lukas there. And he did so immediately, putting the letter in his breast pocket as he dodged arrows, bolts and javelins as his steed sprinted away through the forest undergrowth, knocking down veiled assassins to the ground, breaking their bones.
Managing to escape his assailants, he begins his new adventure with cold sweat lacing his skin, a tired steed, and a uniform and weapon both coated in the blood of the slain. He reigns in Zarogien, his noble stallion, and lets him walk to regain his strength. Lifting up the visor of his sallet helm, he looks up to the night sky and the gleaming orb of the full moon, contemplating, the look of his blue eyes ever so sharp, what fate had in store for him.
“For the Empress,” he mutters, and once more, he rides with purpose.
Personality:
“We cannot allow them to live. They are dishonest people and even if we put them in chains, they cannot learn honesty, for the trait is inborn and cannot possibly be taught. Slit their throats and then burn their bodies; the Nine -- praise be Their Names -- shall know Their own.” - Jan, age 26, after a victory over a 40-man company of bandits, half of whom surrendered.
Gone were Jan’s optimism, mercifulness and romanticism the moment Egradel had entered his body. Now, he is without compassion for those who oppose him, preferring to kill rather than to let live the surrendered. Egradel constantly suggests to Jan by injecting thoughts into his mind which he cannot distinguish from his own. Though still fond of drink, gold and wine, he finds such pleasures to be less and less enjoyable, and more and more does he look to his sword, to his steed, and to the readiness of his comrades. In other words, he is molding to become the perfect soldier: without pity, without remorse, without hope -- little by little does he accept that he is already dead, and that war is all but a game; a game where there is much joy and loot to be had, if one has the proper mindset...
Weapons of Choice:
-Arming Sword
-Heraldic Kite Shield
-Zarogien, his War Horse
-Partial Plate Armor
Powers & Abilities:
- Dradovka Cavalryman: Jan Helmski Krazowicz is a member of the Dradovka Light Cavalry. He is adept at mounted combat and riding and excels at skirmishes, raids and scouting missions.
- Stannisdra Spearman: Jan Helmski Krazowicz has served as a peasant spearman in the armies of one of the Duchies of the western parts of Highwayman’s Hold and as such is comfortable with polearms ranging from the humble spear to the fearsome billhook, but this does not extend to pikes: a weapon type he doesn’t have experience in.
- Demonic Intuition: Through subtle cues, Egradel is able to steer Jan into the most effective but the most brutal and bloody of choices, then soothes his conscience by convincing him that there was simply no other way. This makes Jan a sadistic fighter and a competent tactician.
- To Kill for the Sake of Killing: Egradel the Magnificent is excited by the carnage of battle and provides boons to Jan varyingly depending on the severity of the surrounding struggle. At its highest point, reached when fighting something fierce such as a dragon or when facing an army, Jan is an utterly deranged sociopath who can barely distinguish friend from foe and barely even notices pain no matter how grievous his wounds. He will not feel fatigue and every single one of his strikes will be at his hardest and swiftest, much to his physical detriment.
- Unknown to Death nor Known to Life: When Jan is mortally wounded, his psyche is dazed to the point where Egradel can do a partial takeover and keep him alive and fighting still. Jan’s eyes will glow a bright red to reflect his possession and will have all the effects of the highest state of To Kill for the Sake of of Killing, except for being unable to distinguish friend from foe, for Egradel’s intellect is broad and deep, and thus he is able to think.
- Demonic Ascension:
Relationships:
-Egradel the Magnificent, partially soulbound and host to;
-Drodovko Krazowicz, father;
-Imelda Krazowicz, mother;
-Vladislaw Torune Krazowicz, older brother;
-Tina Sophia Krazowicz, sister-in-law;
-Helga Krazowicz-Petrenko, younger sister;
-Irina Vladiminora Putina, younger sister;
-Anka Sylwia Jussepski, younger sister;
-Count Kasloz Saffeud, lord and army commander, deceased;
-Captain Iosif Avtokratoraz, commanding officer;
-Corporal Dmitri Askopov, best friend and fellow Dradovka Cavalryman, deceased;
-Valentina Williams, ex-girlfriend;
Other:
Jan Krazowicz, having been born a peasant, has not received proper education and is thus illiterate.
This is very interesting for me. I've been looking for a fantasy RP, and this one looks great! You have my guaranteed cooperation.
Tovarische, I think the next time Gerald will do something significant will be when the Evols do their first steps to break out. Until then, it's patrols and coffee.
Through the rotating fan of the Brobdingnagian ventilation port above, ominous red light streamed downwards and bathed a dark figure walking down a lengthy, suspended catwalk into looking rather malevolent. Gerald, having personally taken Rilyn and Ami away to their obscure fate, now strolled through one of the deepest parts of Purgatory. Steam dissipated from great big plumes unseen through the darkness of the abyss below into a showery mist at the sergeant’s altitude, materializing into droplets of clinging water on the meshed floor that he walked on. The surrounding architecture was industrial and archaic, almost reeking of fantasy, for the platform Gerald walked on was a centerpiece to a massive void of utterly nothing but humid air that stretched between great walls of rusting metal, serving as a bridge between two grim-looking, wheel-operated doors that towered over the height of the average man.
The incessant rumble of whatever arcane technomancy was conducted how many dozens of stories below him vibrated even through the railing of the platform. Every ten seconds or so, there was a distant, high-pitched, mechanical whine. Gerald’s appearance shifted from dark thief to crimson demon as the ventilation fan’s blades blocked light at an interval. Breathing with the help of a gas mask and insulated from the hot environment by his armored suit, his assault rifle was slung over his breast, ready for his right hand to take the grip, angle the weapon, and fire at anything deadly right in front of him. But of course, he knew, that there was no danger here. After all, this was, perhaps, the area just before the most secure part of Purgatory.
This routine patrol, he thought, was a mere formality.
With lightly clanging steps, he reached the door opposite of where he had come from. The mechanism strained against him and he found himself putting actual effort into opening the thing. Politely closing it, he walked ten steps and happened upon a lift. His eyes glanced down at the controls and their panel whose yellow paint was almost all but gone, and he concluded that they would be at home more in a 1960’s Soviet gulag than in the modern world people lived in today.
He found some amusement in the observation. The juxtaposition of something so ugly-looking and crude to the technological sophistication that occurred almost anywhere else in this whole place was something to ponder about.
Quickly, he pulled one knobbed lever downwards. For three seconds, there was nothing, but then a roar shook from the floor to his feet. Then, with the motor growling, he, in a way, began his descent into Hell.
“This is Blue Actual reporting no hostile contact at level Zeta Zero; beginning descent to level Zeta Minus One, over,” he transmitted.
“Copy, Blue Actual,” came the reply of a feminine voice.
They kept a few vending machines near the engineer’s quarters at Z -1. As he was brought down from the steamy fog to an underground citadel of conical mountains of cement, tubes, radioactive material and wiring, Gerald wondered if they had some coffee.
The incessant rumble of whatever arcane technomancy was conducted how many dozens of stories below him vibrated even through the railing of the platform. Every ten seconds or so, there was a distant, high-pitched, mechanical whine. Gerald’s appearance shifted from dark thief to crimson demon as the ventilation fan’s blades blocked light at an interval. Breathing with the help of a gas mask and insulated from the hot environment by his armored suit, his assault rifle was slung over his breast, ready for his right hand to take the grip, angle the weapon, and fire at anything deadly right in front of him. But of course, he knew, that there was no danger here. After all, this was, perhaps, the area just before the most secure part of Purgatory.
This routine patrol, he thought, was a mere formality.
With lightly clanging steps, he reached the door opposite of where he had come from. The mechanism strained against him and he found himself putting actual effort into opening the thing. Politely closing it, he walked ten steps and happened upon a lift. His eyes glanced down at the controls and their panel whose yellow paint was almost all but gone, and he concluded that they would be at home more in a 1960’s Soviet gulag than in the modern world people lived in today.
He found some amusement in the observation. The juxtaposition of something so ugly-looking and crude to the technological sophistication that occurred almost anywhere else in this whole place was something to ponder about.
Quickly, he pulled one knobbed lever downwards. For three seconds, there was nothing, but then a roar shook from the floor to his feet. Then, with the motor growling, he, in a way, began his descent into Hell.
“This is Blue Actual reporting no hostile contact at level Zeta Zero; beginning descent to level Zeta Minus One, over,” he transmitted.
“Copy, Blue Actual,” came the reply of a feminine voice.
They kept a few vending machines near the engineer’s quarters at Z -1. As he was brought down from the steamy fog to an underground citadel of conical mountains of cement, tubes, radioactive material and wiring, Gerald wondered if they had some coffee.
Making post now, tovarische.
EDIT: Posted, comrades.
EDIT: Posted, comrades.
Still here, tovarische. I've got some stuff to take care of first. Will try to post tomorrow.
Glory to Soviet Union, comrades. :)))))
Glory to Soviet Union, comrades. :)))))
Still here, tovarisch.
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