Supermaxx

Battletech: Anabasis

Water was flung in every direction with each step the titanic machines took. The river churned and bubble as continual laser fire caused the surface to boil. Rockets screeched through the air, dirt on the walls of the channel being knocked loose by the sheer force of the flying projectiles. An explosion rocked the already damaged Wolfhound mech, flames washing over the cockpit like the bellowed fury of hell. In response, the hound puffed out it's chest, great beams of light bursting forth from the trio of cannons positioned there. The Panther and the Wolf stared one another down with unflinching valor. They loosed blow after blow upon one another, tearing at armor and turning their surroundings into slag.

Han Bjornson's teeth clenched tightly together, his hands wrapped about the sweat-soaked controls of his mech. That mechwarrior, so young and brash, carried a grim look of determination upon his face. He had never faced down an opponent like this one before. Back at the Nagelring he had only sparred with students as inexperienced as himself. Han believed he was fighting the best of the best then. The Commonwealth's academy had to field the best; that was it's reputation. Yet here Han sat, staring down a warrior that fought less like a man and more like a beast.

The Panther's pilot pushed his machine ever forward, never slowing or faltering in his charge. Han was on the back foot, trying to remain at maximum range to avoid the punishing barrages of missile fire coming from his foe's SRMs. The Wolfhound was an incredibly quick machine, far faster than the Panther that stood opposed to it. Under normal circumstances, Han could've ran circles around this guy. Yet he had foolishly charged into the river channel, where his hound's speed was robbed by the rushing waters that clung around it's heavy legs. The Panther had no such troubles; it's jumpjets allowed it to explode forth from the depths, rushing through the air and closing the distance with a flurry of rocket fire.

Every blast beat against Han's mech with a rage he could barely stand. He held as strong as he could, but it was a fight just to remain upright. Many of his own return shots went wide because Bjornson was unable to steady himself.

"Damn it..." He breathed, his chest heaving. The heat was unbearably ferocious. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest, sweat dribbling down the contours of his face. His single heat sinks couldn't keep up with the pressure he was putting on the cabin with his own lasers. If Han didn't finish this fight quickly, or pull away, he'd end up blacking out. It was a terrifying thought, but he was forced to let it linger in the back of his mind- he could focus only on surviving.

He sunk his teeth into his lower lip hard enough for the harsh taste of iron to leak into his mouth. Han pushed forward on his controls, reversing the direction the Wolfhound was headed in. "Damn you!" He howled, though his faceless foe could not hear his words. Bjornson wondered what the pirate inside that hunk of metal was like. Was he an ugly, bloodthirsty beast? Or merely a man forced into a life as bleak as this one? Questions that would never be answered, Han knew; but ones he could not help but let pass before his mind as he let loose another volley.

His large laser and three medium lasers flew in unison. They slammed into the front of the Panther, turning it's chest into molten metal. He could see coolant liquid coalescing with the fiery steel. He'd managed to damage the heat sinks, then. Good. Perhaps his enemy would begin to feel the heat that Han was under. Bjornson felt a surge of confidence fill his heavy chest. He could tell he was doing significant damage to his foe. 'Looks like I've finally got you, cretin.' He thought, his grim frown twisting into a wicked grin.

Pride came before the fall. The PPC on the Panther's arm, though heavily damage, was still functional- Han felt his heart sink the moment he watched it charge up. There was no reaction to be had except shock when the weapon's barrel was consumed by electricity and a beam of pure, unbridled energy cut threw the air. It struck the Wolfhound's left shoulder, nearly tearing the arm from it's socket entirely. The probe embedded within the limb went haywire, sending feedback flooding into Han's cabin. He screamed in pain at the high pitched noise his damaged neurohelmet gave off. Moments later, the whole machine reacted.

The Wolfhound stumbled before falling, the large laser's barrel digging into the mud at the bottom of the river. The mech was upon it's knees, it's arm hanging precariously by a small piece of unbroken metal, but it was clear it had been made useless by the critical blast. Bjornson felt himself fall forward, the harnesses digging into his shoulders and chest. His hands, shaky and cold, reached up to throw the damaged helmet from his head. The screeching didn't stop when he'd gotten it off. He could still hear a terrible, piercing ringing bouncing around in his skull. Han covered his ears with his palms, trying to steady his breathing as he waited for the sound to stop on it's own.

While he recovered, the boy was utterly and totally vulnerable. Han knew he could lose his life at any moment.

Yet, the killing blow never came. He turned his eyes to the viewscreens, watching as the enemy Panther climbed up out of the river. Someone else had engaged it. 'Thank God.' Bjornson allowed himself a brief moment of relief amidst the terror and fear of the situation. Once his hearing had returned and the ringing was at a minimum, Han lowered his hands. He caught sight of blood on one of his gloves and his heart leapt up into his throat.

'D-did I rupture an eardrum?!' He wondered, his hand going back up to feel around that side of his head again. A sharp pain came when his covered fingers ran over his skull. A cut, likely from when he'd torn the neurohelmet off. Another sigh of relief. He'd gotten lucky. Extremely lucky. One wrong move, and...and...

'Don't.' He had to tell himself, taking in a deep breath. He couldn't have a panic attack in the middle of battle. Bjornson, as calmly as he could, bent down to retrieve the helm he'd thrown away. After making sure he wouldn't cut himself on any misplaced edges, he lowered it back over his head, letting the sounds of battle roar in his ears once more.

Information flooded his mind. He knew now that it was Mattlov that had driven the Panther away, and the captain who was now tearing it apart at range. He saw, too, that the enemy Urbanmech was down, and the Thunderbolt was taking a heavy beating. Yet...friendlies had been damaged, too. The Rifleman's signal was faint, and Wulfhart's Griffin had suffered heavy damage as well.

It was a cause for concern, but with all the bogeys either down or heavily damaged, Han figured they would be alright.

Then Mattlov called out that the Thunderbolt was getting back up.

'Shit. Shit. Shit!' Han forced his Wolfhound to rise, the gun plucked up from the depths covered in mud, drenched in water and decorated with a spattering of plants. He slowly climbed up out of the channel, his mech's broken arm hanging limply at it's side as it climbed. He appeared over the edge, finally getting a view of the greater battle that had waged in his wake. He saw now that leaving the boy alone with the Thunderbolt was a mistake. His mech had been utterly brutalized. If the enemy was able to get back on him...

"Wulfhart, get the boy out of there, now!" Han roared a warning. "That Thunderbolt will tear him to pieces!" He raised his Large Laser up, letting his own artillery loose upon the behemoth of steel and hate. Concentrated fire was their only hope of destroying it before the thing was able to get up and retaliate.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

Water was flung in every direction with each step the titanic machines took. The river churned and bubble as continual laser fire caused the surface to boil. Rockets screeched through the air, dirt on the walls of the channel being knocked loose by the sheer force of the flying projectiles. An explosion rocked the already damaged Wolfhound mech, flames washing over the cockpit like the bellowed fury of hell. In response, the hound puffed out it's chest, great beams of light bursting forth from the trio of cannons positioned there. The Panther and the Wolf stared one another down with unflinching valor. They loosed blow after blow upon one another, tearing at armor and turning their surroundings into slag.

Han Bjornson's teeth clenched tightly together, his hands wrapped about the sweat-soaked controls of his mech. That mechwarrior, so young and brash, carried a grim look of determination upon his face. He had never faced down an opponent like this one before. Back at the Nagelring he had only sparred with students as inexperienced as himself. Han believed he was fighting the best of the best then. The Commonwealth's academy had to field the best; that was it's reputation. Yet here Han sat, staring down a warrior that fought less like a man and more like a beast.

The Panther's pilot pushed his machine ever forward, never slowing or faltering in his charge. Han was on the back foot, trying to remain at maximum range to avoid the punishing barrages of missile fire coming from his foe's SRMs. The Wolfhound was an incredibly quick machine, far faster than the Panther that stood opposed to it. Under normal circumstances, Han could've ran circles around this guy. Yet he had foolishly charged into the river channel, where his hound's speed was robbed by the rushing waters that clung around it's heavy legs. The Panther had no such troubles; it's jumpjets allowed it to explode forth from the depths, rushing through the air and closing the distance with a flurry of rocket fire.

Every blast beat against Han's mech with a rage he could barely stand. He held as strong as he could, but it was a fight just to remain upright. Many of his own return shots went wide because Bjornson was unable to steady himself.

"Damn it..." He breathed, his chest heaving. The heat was unbearably ferocious. He could feel his shirt sticking to his chest, sweat dribbling down the contours of his face. His single heat sinks couldn't keep up with the pressure he was putting on the cabin with his own lasers. If Han didn't finish this fight quickly, or pull away, he'd end up blacking out. It was a terrifying thought, but he was forced to let it linger in the back of his mind- he could focus only on surviving.

He sunk his teeth into his lower lip hard enough for the harsh taste of iron to leak into his mouth. Han pushed forward on his controls, reversing the direction the Wolfhound was headed in. "Damn you!" He howled, though his faceless foe could not hear his words. Bjornson wondered what the pirate inside that hunk of metal was like. Was he an ugly, bloodthirsty beast? Or merely a man forced into a life as bleak as this one? Questions that would never be answered, Han knew; but ones he could not help but let pass before his mind as he let loose another volley.

His large laser and three medium lasers flew in unison. They slammed into the front of the Panther, turning it's chest into molten metal. He could see coolant liquid coalescing with the fiery steel. He'd managed to damage the heat sinks, then. Good. Perhaps his enemy would begin to feel the heat that Han was under. Bjornson felt a surge of confidence fill his heavy chest. He could tell he was doing significant damage to his foe. 'Looks like I've finally got you, cretin.' He thought, his grim frown twisting into a wicked grin.

Pride came before the fall. The PPC on the Panther's arm, though heavily damage, was still functional- Han felt his heart sink the moment he watched it charge up. There was no reaction to be had except shock when the weapon's barrel was consumed by electricity and a beam of pure, unbridled energy cut threw the air. It struck the Wolfhound's left shoulder, nearly tearing the arm from it's socket entirely. The probe embedded within the limb went haywire, sending feedback flooding into Han's cabin. He screamed in pain at the high pitched noise his damaged neurohelmet gave off. Moments later, the whole machine reacted.

The Wolfhound stumbled before falling, the large laser's barrel digging into the mud at the bottom of the river. The mech was upon it's knees, it's arm hanging precariously by a small piece of unbroken metal, but it was clear it had been made useless by the critical blast. Bjornson felt himself fall forward, the harnesses digging into his shoulders and chest. His hands, shaky and cold, reached up to throw the damaged helmet from his head. The screeching didn't stop when he'd gotten it off. He could still hear a terrible, piercing ringing bouncing around in his skull. Han covered his ears with his palms, trying to steady his breathing as he waited for the sound to stop on it's own.

While he recovered, the boy was utterly and totally vulnerable. Han knew he could lose his life at any moment.

Yet, the killing blow never came. He turned his eyes to the viewscreens, watching as the enemy Panther climbed up out of the river. Someone else had engaged it. 'Thank God.' Bjornson allowed himself a brief moment of relief amidst the terror and fear of the situation. Once his hearing had returned and the ringing was at a minimum, Han lowered his hands. He caught sight of blood on one of his gloves and his heart leapt up into his throat.

'D-did I rupture an eardrum?!' He wondered, his hand going back up to feel around that side of his head again. A sharp pain came when his covered fingers ran over his skull. A cut, likely from when he'd torn the neurohelmet off. Another sigh of relief. He'd gotten lucky. Extremely lucky. One wrong move, and...and...

'Don't.' He had to tell himself, taking in a deep breath. He couldn't have a panic attack in the middle of battle. Bjornson, as calmly as he could, bent down to retrieve the helm he'd thrown away. After making sure he wouldn't cut himself on any misplaced edges, he lowered it back over his head, letting the sounds of battle roar in his ears once more.

Information flooded his mind. He knew now that it was Mattlov that had driven the Panther away, and the captain who was now tearing it apart at range. He saw, too, that the enemy Urbanmech was down, and the Thunderbolt was taking a heavy beating. Yet...friendlies had been damaged, too. The Rifleman's signal was faint, and Wulfhart's Griffin had suffered heavy damage as well.

It was a cause for concern, but with all the bogeys either down or heavily damaged, Han figured they would be alright.

Then Mattlov called out that the Thunderbolt was getting back up.

'Shit. Shit. Shit!' Han forced his Wolfhound to rise, the gun plucked up from the depths covered in mud, drenched in water and decorated with a spattering of plants. He slowly climbed up out of the channel, his mech's broken arm hanging limply at it's side as it climbed. He appeared over the edge, finally getting a view of the greater battle that had waged in his wake. He saw now that leaving the boy alone with the Thunderbolt was a mistake. His mech had been utterly brutalized. If the enemy was able to get back on him...

"Wulfhart, get the boy out of there, now!" Han roared a warning. "That Thunderbolt will tear him to pieces!" He raised his Large Laser up, letting his own artillery loose upon the behemoth of steel and hate. Concentrated fire was their only hope of destroying it before the thing was able to get up and retaliate.

- Squad 914: Beyond - Rebooted

---

Yosef Kaganavich

_{Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted....}

---

Sweat gathered at Yosef's brow. No matter how many times he would reach up to wipe it away, more would inevitably form. The humidity here was slowly draining all life from his body. Yosef Kaganavich was not accustomed to the heat. To try and compare the summers of Moscow to those here in India is to compare a campfire to a raging inferno. He had already rolled up the sleeves of his drab uniform and loosened the top few buttons, but it was yet not enough; Kaganavich wondered if he might catch fire if he stepped out into the bare sun for more than a few seconds.

"Why you would ever make any place so hot, I will never know." Yosef lamented quietly, a wry smile creeping over his hairy face. "Truly mysterious are your ways!"

Despite the unbearable heat, it wasn't all bad. This place was one of unimaginable beauty- like nothing Yosef had ever laid his eyes upon. Rolling hills of pure, unbroken green framed great swathes of towering trees. It was as if Yosef had stepped into another world entirely when the train passed through one of the Raj's cities. He tried to remember the details as best he could so that, when given the chance, he could paint a picture in a letter sent back to his mother and sister.

Dinah would've loved this place. She had more of a stomach for adventure than Yosef ever did. He could vividly imagine her dragging him by the hand from market stall to market stall, forcing him to eat strange foods who's names he could barely pronounce. Father would disapprove, of course- he'd worry that anything and everything served in a strange land would be non-kosher.

Yosef felt his heart ache. It was like a dagger driven straight through his chest; a burning, sharp pain that made the corners of his mouth fall heavy. He missed them all so dearly. He hadn't seen papa in nearly six years. The mail carrier had stopped bringing his letters ten months ago. It...had not been easy for Kaganavich without the guiding hand of Abram, but he'd managed to survive. He had focused on taking care of his family, and fulfilling the duty that his father left him. That, combined with the backbreaking work at the factory, had kept Yosef's mind occupied.

Things were different now. His brothers had been plucked up and forced to fight, and Yosef had been separated from his sister and mother. It had not been long since the fall of Moscow, and even less time had passed since he was forced to leave behind Dinah and Miriam, yet the impact was all the harsher. Yosef had no one to turn to anymore. No comfort to be found in the embrace of his momma- no duty in protecting his brothers and sister from the harshness of the world. He could not turn to his father for guidance.

For the first time in his life, Yosef was truly alone. He was alone and trapped on the other side of the world, so very far from home.

Then train came to a screeching halt, the shouts of officers and conscripts tearing him from his bleak thoughts. Yosef shook his head and wiped at his brow once more, rising from where he sat. He needed to get out and stretch his legs. Perhaps he could find something to do to distract himself from the burden of his own mind.

He descended from the train car, his boots smacking hard against the ground. It felt good to move on solid ground- Yosef had never been one for trains. He always felt a little sick whenever he spent too much time in one. The young man turned his gaze about the 'platform', eyeing the strangers gathered there. These were his fellow soldiers. Warriors of this 'Project' he had been assigned to. They were...an odd assortment, to be sure. They came from all over the world, with appearances and backgrounds as wide and varied as the flora he'd seen as they passed through the countryside. Many of those from Asian countries were almost alien to him- though Moscow was a large city full of all kinds of people, Yosef had never met someone from China or beyond. This would be a new experience for him.

It was equally exciting as it was frightening. The nervous recruit glanced from side to side, his hands clasping at the pockets on his trousers as he wondered how he might introduce himself to his fellows. He almost wished he had been called to help move the coal instead of being left to his own devices.

His standing about with that worried look on his face didn't last long, however, as he turned just in time to watch a particularly tall man slam his forehead against the top of the train door. Yosef couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. It reminded him of Elisha- always the clumsy sort who never looked where he was going. It was a reminder that set his heart at ease. He had to remember that these soldiers around him, despite their gruff appearances, were people all the same- they were to be his comrades in arms, so...it'd be best if he got to know them well. Perhaps he might find friends among them to fill the void in his heart.

Taking a few steps forward, Yosef approached the tall stranger. "This place is something else." He started, noticing how engrossed the man was with their surroundings. It was likely better to just ignore the man's earlier blunder, even if that was what brought Yosef over to him in the first place. "I didn't know the world could be so vibrant!" He brought a hand forward, offering it to the stranger. "I am Yosef. It is good to meet you."

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

Yosef Kaganavich

_{Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted....}

---

Sweat gathered at Yosef's brow. No matter how many times he would reach up to wipe it away, more would inevitably form. The humidity here was slowly draining all life from his body. Yosef Kaganavich was not accustomed to the heat. To try and compare the summers of Moscow to those here in India is to compare a campfire to a raging inferno. He had already rolled up the sleeves of his drab uniform and loosened the top few buttons, but it was yet not enough; Kaganavich wondered if he might catch fire if he stepped out into the bare sun for more than a few seconds.

"Why you would ever make any place so hot, I will never know." Yosef lamented quietly, a wry smile creeping over his hairy face. "Truly mysterious are your ways!"

Despite the unbearable heat, it wasn't all bad. This place was one of unimaginable beauty- like nothing Yosef had ever laid his eyes upon. Rolling hills of pure, unbroken green framed great swathes of towering trees. It was as if Yosef had stepped into another world entirely when the train passed through one of the Raj's cities. He tried to remember the details as best he could so that, when given the chance, he could paint a picture in a letter sent back to his mother and sister.

Dinah would've loved this place. She had more of a stomach for adventure than Yosef ever did. He could vividly imagine her dragging him by the hand from market stall to market stall, forcing him to eat strange foods who's names he could barely pronounce. Father would disapprove, of course- he'd worry that anything and everything served in a strange land would be non-kosher.

Yosef felt his heart ache. It was like a dagger driven straight through his chest; a burning, sharp pain that made the corners of his mouth fall heavy. He missed them all so dearly. He hadn't seen papa in nearly six years. The mail carrier had stopped bringing his letters ten months ago. It...had not been easy for Kaganavich without the guiding hand of Abram, but he'd managed to survive. He had focused on taking care of his family, and fulfilling the duty that his father left him. That, combined with the backbreaking work at the factory, had kept Yosef's mind occupied.

Things were different now. His brothers had been plucked up and forced to fight, and Yosef had been separated from his sister and mother. It had not been long since the fall of Moscow, and even less time had passed since he was forced to leave behind Dinah and Miriam, yet the impact was all the harsher. Yosef had no one to turn to anymore. No comfort to be found in the embrace of his momma- no duty in protecting his brothers and sister from the harshness of the world. He could not turn to his father for guidance.

For the first time in his life, Yosef was truly alone. He was alone and trapped on the other side of the world, so very far from home.

Then train came to a screeching halt, the shouts of officers and conscripts tearing him from his bleak thoughts. Yosef shook his head and wiped at his brow once more, rising from where he sat. He needed to get out and stretch his legs. Perhaps he could find something to do to distract himself from the burden of his own mind.

He descended from the train car, his boots smacking hard against the ground. It felt good to move on solid ground- Yosef had never been one for trains. He always felt a little sick whenever he spent too much time in one. The young man turned his gaze about the 'platform', eyeing the strangers gathered there. These were his fellow soldiers. Warriors of this 'Project' he had been assigned to. They were...an odd assortment, to be sure. They came from all over the world, with appearances and backgrounds as wide and varied as the flora he'd seen as they passed through the countryside. Many of those from Asian countries were almost alien to him- though Moscow was a large city full of all kinds of people, Yosef had never met someone from China or beyond. This would be a new experience for him.

It was equally exciting as it was frightening. The nervous recruit glanced from side to side, his hands clasping at the pockets on his trousers as he wondered how he might introduce himself to his fellows. He almost wished he had been called to help move the coal instead of being left to his own devices.

His standing about with that worried look on his face didn't last long, however, as he turned just in time to watch a particularly tall man slam his forehead against the top of the train door. Yosef couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. It reminded him of Elisha- always the clumsy sort who never looked where he was going. It was a reminder that set his heart at ease. He had to remember that these soldiers around him, despite their gruff appearances, were people all the same- they were to be his comrades in arms, so...it'd be best if he got to know them well. Perhaps he might find friends among them to fill the void in his heart.

Taking a few steps forward, Yosef approached the tall stranger. "This place is something else." He started, noticing how engrossed the man was with their surroundings. It was likely better to just ignore the man's earlier blunder, even if that was what brought Yosef over to him in the first place. "I didn't know the world could be so vibrant!" He brought a hand forward, offering it to the stranger. "I am Yosef. It is good to meet you."

Sticks And Stones [Post-Apoc/High Fantasy Hybrid]

While we're all underway, feel free to interact a bit with each other. It's good to get to know your companions so you know each other's names when you're being horribly slaughtered by otherworldly abominations adventuring together.

What role do you like to play in fellowship/party RPs?

@Inkarnate He's an eloquent guy, truly.

What role do you like to play in fellowship/party RPs?

Me tank.

Me hard head.

ME SMASH.

Sticks And Stones [Post-Apoc/High Fantasy Hybrid]

---

Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]

---

The call for a free round never failed to garner the attention the guardsman sought. His worn visage was upturned in a light smile as several people were quick to bound forward. The veritable charge was led by the mountain of a man that the veteran guard had spotted earlier. He had a feeling someone of his demeanor was here on business of this sort. The leather-clad stranger carried himself like a warrior- it was a walk the old soldier was well acquainted with. It was one he had once walked as well in his younger years, before his body and temperament were weathered by too many winters.

"Ahh, don't you worry- the man'll get what's coming to him soon enough." He scornfully replied, knowing full well that the steward's punishment would be a light slap on the wrist compared to the hell any man of lesser status would be put through for such a short coming. "Pleasure to meet you, Blackwall. I'm Sergeant Howle of the Royal Guard." Howle held out one hand toward Blackwall, offering a shake, while the other reached behind to take the first of the whiskey brought up by the barkeep. Howle passed it right on to the warrior in exchange for his summons.

The two younger guards accompanying the sergeant were quick to snatch up drinks of their own. The darker haired and fairer skinned of the two lifted the harsh liquid up to his lips, only to pause before he could drink at the sight of the next to approach them. He launched a sharp elbow into the side of the companion with him, wordlessly bringing the other man's gaze to follow his own. The next to come forward was easily ousted as a wizard, given her attire and the company she'd kept. Their was suspicion in the first man's eyes- though it was not mirrored by his fellow. On the contrary, his second's gaze was filled with a captivated fascination. Magic, and those that wielded it, was an incredibly rare thing to behold. Praetor City was one of a handful of hubs of activity that saw wizards pass through at all. Many cities would consider the presence of one magic user an omen, and a moment to be recorded in the history books. For most in Dall, however, magicians just meant one thing:

Trouble.

Neither of the two flankers spoke up as Tegan introduced herself, though for entirely different reasons. They took a step away and allowed Howle the floor, letting him take a step forward to offer yet another handshake to yet another adventurer. "His highness King Astius-" The sergeant emphasized- "Surely appreciates your answering his call." Howle silently figured the exorbitant pay offered to types like these ones was thanks enough, but it wasn't his place to comment; especially not when he was meant to be convincing these people to take the job for his lordship. One summons in hand, he looked to the other magician accompanying Tegan. "I'm not made of coin, but if your friend has his summons, I'll see what I can do." Howle's smile faltered just a little, wincing as he totaled up the costs in his head. The Steward was going to have to reimburse the sergeant for all of this, or there'd be hell to pay. For Howle, more than likely- but he'd be very upset about it.

"You all have my apologies, but I'm afraid you'll need to drink and walk. We're pressed for time as it is." Howle nodded. He silently tore the drinks away from his two guardsmen, sliding them back across the bar. A protest nearly started from both guards and the barkeeper, but a single glare was enough to choke down any words they might have for him. He didn't doubt the bastard across the counter owed the king anyway, and the two with him knew the captain would whip them both on sight if he caught them drinking on duty. With that, the group had to be off, returning to the keep in due haste. Any questions could be answered along the way, or deferred to the steward upon arrival.

---

"I'll have a cup brewed for you immediately, then." He insisted with a slight forward nod of his head. The gray haired captain turned heel, leading the way for the single adventurer back toward the castle keep. His smile, already characteristically thin, drooped into a frown when he heard the calls for a 'drink at the tavern' from the guard stationed at the front. His nose was further stuck up when the woman he was escorting mentioned that she was married. The captain made a mental note to take the man aside later and explain in no small detail the etiquette expected of the king's own.

He had always been a strict man of chivalry and code, and he expected his men to follow in his stead. Those that did not rarely remained in his guard for very long.

A slight turn of his head to look back at the oddly dressed treasure hunter, the royal guardsman answered the questioned offered him with a wiggle of his thick, gray mustache. "The nearest inn is the Lame Mule. It's a short walk from the keep up the main road." He explained, his voice echoing in the pit of his gut like a drum of war. It was a short, factual explanation- his own ill-feelings about the lowly establishment kept to himself.

"I'd personally recommend an establishment in the eastern district. The Flightless Pegasus, it's called. The best drinks you can get in Praetor. More expensive and out of the way, but the woman that owns it is wonderful." The captain added after a moment of hesitation.

Before them the great wooden doors of the keep were thrown open, the freezing cold air plowing into the warm exterior. It's halls of grand marble and sapphire curtains weaved from the finest linens and silks were a sight to behold indeed. No place on earth could match it's splendor- according to the men of Dall, at least, who were known for being totally objective and not at all self-absorbed.

Inside the castle hall, a handful of unfamiliar faces could be found. An odd, weasel-looking man stood near an equally shifty-eyed woman bearing heavy iron shackles. And then there was the robed man with a distant look on his face that they'd seen outside before. The captain judged them all quite harshly, though the only sign of his disapproval was the creasing of his wrinkled visage.

He cleared his throat, stepping forward to hopefully get their collective attention. "You have my sincerest apologies for the delay." The captain began. "And I would like to thank you for your patience. Steward Lethino will be overseeing your departure. If you'd all follow me, I'll lead you to him." The guardsman waved, beginning to move through the sparkling hall with the hope that they'd all fall in at his rear.

Superboy's Shitty Characters

---

Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]

---

The call for a free round never failed to garner the attention the guardsman sought. His worn visage was upturned in a light smile as several people were quick to bound forward. The veritable charge was led by the mountain of a man that the veteran guard had spotted earlier. He had a feeling someone of his demeanor was here on business of this sort. The leather-clad stranger carried himself like a warrior- it was a walk the old soldier was well acquainted with. It was one he had once walked as well in his younger years, before his body and temperament were weathered by too many winters.

"Ahh, don't you worry- the man'll get what's coming to him soon enough." He scornfully replied, knowing full well that the steward's punishment would be a light slap on the wrist compared to the hell any man of lesser status would be put through for such a short coming. "Pleasure to meet you, Blackwall. I'm Sergeant Howle of the Royal Guard." Howle held out one hand toward Blackwall, offering a shake, while the other reached behind to take the first of the whiskey brought up by the barkeep. Howle passed it right on to the warrior in exchange for his summons.

The two younger guards accompanying the sergeant were quick to snatch up drinks of their own. The darker haired and fairer skinned of the two lifted the harsh liquid up to his lips, only to pause before he could drink at the sight of the next to approach them. He launched a sharp elbow into the side of the companion with him, wordlessly bringing the other man's gaze to follow his own. The next to come forward was easily ousted as a wizard, given her attire and the company she'd kept. Their was suspicion in the first man's eyes- though it was not mirrored by his fellow. On the contrary, his second's gaze was filled with a captivated fascination. Magic, and those that wielded it, was an incredibly rare thing to behold. Praetor City was one of a handful of hubs of activity that saw wizards pass through at all. Many cities would consider the presence of one magic user an omen, and a moment to be recorded in the history books. For most in Dall, however, magicians just meant one thing:

Trouble.

Neither of the two flankers spoke up as Tegan introduced herself, though for entirely different reasons. They took a step away and allowed Howle the floor, letting him take a step forward to offer yet another handshake to yet another adventurer. "His highness King Astius-" The sergeant emphasized- "Surely appreciates your answering his call." Howle silently figured the exorbitant pay offered to types like these ones was thanks enough, but it wasn't his place to comment; especially not when he was meant to be convincing these people to take the job for his lordship. One summons in hand, he looked to the other magician accompanying Tegan. "I'm not made of coin, but if your friend has his summons, I'll see what I can do." Howle's smile faltered just a little, wincing as he totaled up the costs in his head. The Steward was going to have to reimburse the sergeant for all of this, or there'd be hell to pay. For Howle, more than likely- but he'd be very upset about it.

"You all have my apologies, but I'm afraid you'll need to drink and walk. We're pressed for time as it is." Howle nodded. He silently tore the drinks away from his two guardsmen, sliding them back across the bar. A protest nearly started from both guards and the barkeeper, but a single glare was enough to choke down any words they might have for him. He didn't doubt the bastard across the counter owed the king anyway, and the two with him knew the captain would whip them both on sight if he caught them drinking on duty. With that, the group had to be off, returning to the keep in due haste. Any questions could be answered along the way, or deferred to the steward upon arrival.

---

"I'll have a cup brewed for you immediately, then." He insisted with a slight forward nod of his head. The gray haired captain turned heel, leading the way for the single adventurer back toward the castle keep. His smile, already characteristically thin, drooped into a frown when he heard the calls for a 'drink at the tavern' from the guard stationed at the front. His nose was further stuck up when the woman he was escorting mentioned that she was married. The captain made a mental note to take the man aside later and explain in no small detail the etiquette expected of the king's own.

He had always been a strict man of chivalry and code, and he expected his men to follow in his stead. Those that did not rarely remained in his guard for very long.

A slight turn of his head to look back at the oddly dressed treasure hunter, the royal guardsman answered the questioned offered him with a wiggle of his thick, gray mustache. "The nearest inn is the Lame Mule. It's a short walk from the keep up the main road." He explained, his voice echoing in the pit of his gut like a drum of war. It was a short, factual explanation- his own ill-feelings about the lowly establishment kept to himself.

"I'd personally recommend an establishment in the eastern district. The Flightless Pegasus, it's called. The best drinks you can get in Praetor. More expensive and out of the way, but the woman that owns it is wonderful." The captain added after a moment of hesitation.

Before them the great wooden doors of the keep were thrown open, the freezing cold air plowing into the warm exterior. It's halls of grand marble and sapphire curtains weaved from the finest linens and silks were a sight to behold indeed. No place on earth could match it's splendor- according to the men of Dall, at least, who were known for being totally objective and not at all self-absorbed.

Inside the castle hall, a handful of unfamiliar faces could be found. An odd, weasel-looking man stood near an equally shifty-eyed woman bearing heavy iron shackles. And then there was the robed man with a distant look on his face that they'd seen outside before. The captain judged them all quite harshly, though the only sign of his disapproval was the creasing of his wrinkled visage.

He cleared his throat, stepping forward to hopefully get their collective attention. "You have my sincerest apologies for the delay." The captain began. "And I would like to thank you for your patience. Steward Lethino will be overseeing your departure. If you'd all follow me, I'll lead you to him." The guardsman waved, beginning to move through the sparkling hall with the hope that they'd all fall in at his rear.

- Squad 914: Beyond - Rebooted

@LetMeDoStuffMy submission for an alternate experimental gear for my combat engineer. There's some deviation from true history, obviously, but I'd hope that my explanation for that is adequate. Let me know what you think:

hider

Originally developed in secret by Louis Fieser and a team of skilled chemists at Harvard University and handed off to the British for use in Europe, 'napalm' saw it's first use by the Royal Air Force during the defense of England in 1942. Though it could not turn the tide of battle due to how little was produced at the time, the weapon, when deployed, was devastating. Water proved ineffective at dousing the gelling agent/petrol concoction.

When Operation Sealion proved successful, and the Wermacht overrun the English forces, stores of napalm were destroyed en masse to keep it from falling into enemy hands. It was only through a stroke of incredible luck that a Soviet spy embedded in the RAF was able to smuggle the material out. It was handed off to researchers in the Soviet Union and reverse engineered into what it is today.

Still in the experimental phase and freshly produced, Soviet leadership is searching for effective means of deploying the weapon. The Luftwaffe's ownership of the air makes copying the RAF's bombs less than ideal; instead, they turn to their infantrymen. The Napalm Grenade is a flexible, deceptively powerful device. Unlike other area denial incendiary weapons, napalm's unique makeup makes it useful even in wet or rainy environments, or when the enemy has access to wells or rivers for fire control duty.