Current
This site's like Old Broadway...I'm seeing a young man sittin' in an old man's bar, waitin' for his turn to die.
1 yr ago
I would sooner face outright phobia again than be given a half-hearted apology by the same systems which did nothing in the face of injustice and to now seek to make profit from our suffering.
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1 yr ago
I will never celebrate Pride Month for being stabbed in the leg and shot in the neck while it is sponsored by Chase. I will never mistake complacency for forgiveness nor acceptance.
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1 yr ago
Pride Month is celebrate by those who have never struggled. Those of us who have - those who have been harassed, assulted, detained and debased - have no such pride in it. There is only ire and spite.
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1 yr ago
So sorry if I'm not enthused. It's just that there's nothing to be happy about now, and people just buy rainbow stuff from the same corps who need us kept down to sell them in the first place.
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Bio
“There was a time when I was master of the universe. As I was staying ageless and motionless before my computer, flying untouched over human frenzy, cities rose and crumbled under my thumb, tiny people ran hurriedly to their death on the roads I had built and time flew at my command.
Then it all stopped, and I had to become one of those running specks. They call it 'life.'”
Skills: Lionheart What he might lack in immediate physical fortitude, Kazik more than makes up for through his empowering tenacity, becoming so fierce through trial and tribulation that caution is thrown to the winds while the lion's heart does roar. There is no reason, then, to fear danger, rather than to become the danger itself. While working through strain - such as through fatigue or torture - Kazik is able to substitute his Willpower for Toughness when making checks. He may extend this ability to his fellow companions whilst they are able to hear him speak, for a few inspiring phrases can seem to reach far and well.
Freerunning Through innumerable close calls, Kazik has learned that, perhaps the best approach to conflict is to live to see another day...or to approach the issue from a more unconventional angle. Fleet of foot and sleight of hand, Kazik is able to transition between running and climbing with remarkable swiftness, and small obstacles prove to be essentially no barrier to one of his liking.
Guns Training The modern age encroaches upon everyone, and Kazik knows too well that he is no exception to the steady progress of the modern world. Though he still spends the majority of his focus upon his swordplay, he has paid heed to become adept in the usage of muskets and other firearms. While he may not be a crack shot by any definition, Kazik's accuracy and handling is well enough to be considered competent in the use of guns.
Equipment: Czaszkan Janissary Sword Throwing Knives Dragoon Pistol Salve Applicator Appearance: Kazik possesses a very distinct Czaszkan face, if he does have a few more rounded features that seem to have weathered down his apparent age. Creating such a sharp contrast, this resolves itself in making him appear quite rugged for a man his age. At an average height of 178cm (5’10”), Kazik’s only truly discernible feature is his midnight oceanic hair color, if that fact is more readily marred by the verisimilitude of hair colors throughout the world. His build is quite athletic, if it takes a more lean than burlesque side to the definition.
His dress is one he much prefers to keep well-kept, even going as far as to "dress up" in the sense of the word. Clear from the lack of stainage nor tearing nor presence of seams upon his clothing, it is obviously clear that Kazik takes pride in his appearance. Though he does seem to have a taste for the finer parts of life, within those same confines he is certain to retain a sense of pragmatism to his dress as well, for the often harsh Cascadian climate brews cold winters and teeming summers, and thus Kazik's dress tends to lean along a heavier side. Along with heavy, forearm-coating gloves and a suitable overcoat, beneath he chooses to wear a distinctly stylized blue and white vest, adorned with a light, long-sleeved shirt beneath. An extensive double-belt adorns his waist, outwardly around his vest, and inwardly around his trousers and greaves, to which he attaches his holster, pouches, and scabbard.
Personality: The characteristic sternness of the Czaszkan may be off-putting to those unfamiliar with the culture, yet for whatever odd reason, Kazik holds himself with such an aura that he bear some manner of grin upon his face at nearly all moments, save for the most melancholic or choleric of experiences. It almost carries with it a refinement, as if only contoured from years of constant practice starting from what must be his moment of birth. Yet, that same discipline, readiness, and jovial characteristics transpire well into his decision-making...if abated by what can be a fiery temperament.
Though wrong to say he lacks discipline - far from it - Kazik's overt ambition and bravery easily translate into recklessness and impulsive behavior. In truth, the same starry-eyed demeanor that seems to make him so driven too drives him toward danger. Yet, to say that he almost seems to seek out danger is perhaps not the best way he would describe the sensation; he simply insists that the precariousness is a side-effect of circumstance. After all, what could you possibly have to reach without running into peril? Therefore, Kazik implores it wise to face such risk standing tall.
Biography: Though he is fond of a story, his must begin in the rather sleepy hamlet of Ostrelce. Ostrelce in its prime was thoroughly one-dimensionally in its remarkability, for within that village lay the Chelsow Estate. Now, as was talk of the loquacious folk of the town, the Chelsow Estate was, in every aspect, the residing summer locale for the Czaskzan Royal Family on their outings from the otherwise turbulent Castle Zeidik. Naturally, during those summer months, what would be an otherwise sleepy little hamlet on the outskirts of Kolzow blossomed into what very well may have been the most burgeoning of trade markets with so great a celebration as the grace of the Royal Family. As the Starosta Dynasty had a well-earned reputation for their opulent - and perhaps profligate - spending habits, naturally, such rumors attracted all knack of enterprising men and women...some more honest than others.
As he would tell you, the knack of the township with such influx turned any schoolchild into an urchin, and Kazik was only one of many to follow such a trend. Now, of course the trend was indeed mischievous, for even the youth of the hamlet knew full well the intent of their actions, but who would condemn them for having a bit of fun and making a bit of money on the side? Kazik certainly had more than his share of fun, along with his consort of friends and acquaintances, he would say, yet, there was something distinctly off. It was never deep down, for Kazik even in his youth would speak endlessly on the matter, even so noting that more lay on the horizon than trifling scores squandered from the scraps of the wasteful. He claims he argued often with his parents and sister dear, certain that he was making the wrong decision, yet Kazik, in so typical of a story, couldn't wait longer, and set his eyes upon the long horizons.
As he had attempted to, there was but one obstacle in his path; A declaration of war. Quite the obtrusion it would turn out to be.
Even a decade after its passing, Kazik finds himself hesitant to speak at length about the war. In close whispers, around a warm fire and cold drink, he might hush on events recalled with well-remembered remorse, hopeful just one more sip might somehow make amends. Yet, with such mystery comes into vision a puzzled portrayal of his events during that conquest, which paint perhaps a less grim picture. From such limited knowledge, Kazik narrates that he did his best being an informant during the war, any officer or commander he met insisting that he refrain from putting his life on the front lines - where he thoroughly believed he belonged - on account of, of all things, his social status. The constant rejection dismayed him greatly, but, as Kazik would insist, there came a time where he knew that resistance to Danesland would be futile, and allowed the course of nature to pass through, once and for all.
Despite his attachments, Kazik knew there would not be a steady future for Czaszka for the foreseeable future. It pained him to confess such an obvious statement, even with ever aspect of his rightful mind telling him otherwise. Kazik would market himself as a useful fighter whenever he could, making all manner of contacts and associates throughout Ferreir, and just as seemingly unable to truly find any one band, guild, or crew to latch upon. Stroke after stroke of rotten luck came over Kazik, disaster inevitably striking every manner of organization he came to work for, either finding himself on the wrong side of history, or attracting too much attention to themselves in the wrong eyes. After a particularly nasty fetch gone wrong in Fioretza, Kazik noted himself thoroughly out of options, and began to wander North.
In that time of travel, there would be an event twofold to change the direction of his path; Now, how quite he met Charlotte is an ever mutable story, for whenever the topic does arise, Kazik's flushed blush and sly grin does always betray the ever-so-obvious intent that he is spending his time concocting some manner of fable to get a rise out of his inquirer. The constant remains that the two appear inseparable for now, for better or worse, and to that bond Kazik is committed toward working alongside her. The both were correct in their insistence that their traits well complimented one another in their field of work, and such a complimentary duo did inevitably draw the eyes of a party that required their...expertise. And who aside from Aira? Who better a fit? And what better an offer, he thought, than to see the New World, to see the riches it offered, with a letter of immunity to any who dared oppose?
The offer to come from Aira seemed far too good to be true; A Letter of Marque from the Governor, and a full crew to take as they pleased? With his name on the plaque?
"Well, what could go wrong?" He said, knowing full well the shattered history that lay behind him.
Name: Charlotte Mòrag Faulkner
Age / Date of Birth: 24 / February 3rd, 1757
Gender: Female
Sexuality: The answer seems to change every time you ask.
Magical Dabbler: Although Charlotte is far from a formal practitioner, she has a basic understanding of most magical systems, and enjoys dabbling in magic from time to time. A mage she may not be, but the few spells she is capable of casting may prove invaluable when tacking problems necessitating a thaumaturgic approach.
Quicksilver Tongue: A thorough master of carousing, one of Charlotte's most practiced expertises is that to make others feel well within good company with her at their side. As she will say, it isn't all about looks, but it isn't not, either. A combination of well-picked words, a few drinks on her, and a few exchanged stories, whoever chooses to make her their conversationalist companion for the time can find that Charlotte can extract useful information from them at near shocking ease. Such information inevitably comes in handy later.
Foresight: Thinking ahead remains among Charlotte's best skills, for the ability to plan and organize quickly shows itself invaluable once the turmoil begins to broil over. From there, allies and enemies become clean-cut, the viable options everclear as a plan well-executed falls into play. When given time to observe and analyze a given situation, Charlotte is able to formulate plans and accurate conclusions.
Equipment: Smallsword Rally Sash Dueling Pistol Disguise Kit Appearance: Even as a privateer, Charlotte remains under the firm belief that first impressions are everything, and accordingly goes to great lengths to maintain her form and figure. Though she possesses skin and hair color most would call unremarkable, Charlotte does well to adorn herself with jewels where she can; some fine earrings, a nice necklace, and a few other glittering baubles all about do well to draw the immediate attention of others. Couple it with a well-practiced disarming smile, and Charlotte will long say that she's quite well mastered the art of the first sight.
Personality: No matter what she might think of the person in front of her, Charlotte will make dividends to ensure that she make a good first impression with people. Past that, it tends to vary based upon their value and reciprocation. After all, first impressions are everything, for in Charlotte's experience, the first opportunity is oftentimes the only opportunity, and Charlotte does well to intend for that to be rectified. Typically, Charlotte is often warm and approachable to the point of flirtation, and in due process does her best to make herself both relatable and affable. These expressions, contrary to the skeptic, are not necessarily exclusive to her attempts at first contact, as putting on such a vivid show must embrace some degree of empathy within her. No, these actions are part of her as a fundamental person...though how much these warm actions wax or wane, as with most people, will be determined by her relationship with her.
Notions of utility aside, it isn't to say that Charlotte is lacking in empathy, or that she is only driven by sociopathic urge to maintain only those of some use around her. Easily, it is describable as a learned behavior, one which she has more or less been urged - some might say "forced" - to subscribe to in order to ensure her well-being. Dear friends to Charlotte are treated well and even with generosity, for Charlotte, as much as she does value the usefulness of others, hesitates on aborting such relationships as soon as they turn sour, both in part to a sense of bonding for as much as it does make her seem herself only capable of tenuous bonds.
Biography: Born to a semi-functional, semi-wedded couple in the city of Aberness, even as far as the first day of her birth, she had her work cut out for her. By the workings of a faulty, novice doctor, Charlotte's birth had been mispracticed, and as soon as the young woman would see light, she would very well have to fight for her very life. Her whines were muffled, coarse and interrupted by an incessant cough, with each shortening breath drawing closer to an abrupt end. Through no small feat did the infant persevere through the malbirth, of which her parents gave a most appropriate half-rejoice.
Yet, her life was far from comprehensive at the age of 1 hour. There was much, much more in store for the fledgling Charlotte. But, all credit to the woman, she, as she so competently showed at her coming, displayed she possessed the fortitude and constitution both to endure through the hardships at hand, for in Aberness, they would seem to escalate aplenty. Her parents would remain together - if only for the children, a fact they both made audibly known whenever the chance arose - and provide a dilettante level of parenting preferable to urchinhood. Obvious, then, was it that Charlotte would do well to find her own role models and tutors. After all, it took a whole village to raise a child, and Aberness was full of such villages.
From a young age, Charlotte took up work wherever was possible, whether that be as courier or crier or pickpocket through the bustling abbeys of Aberness. For that short while, with friends who always seemed to come and go, Charlotte found the work steady, yet always kept a few sterlings at her ready, knowing full well that such steadiness would likely go like a coming wave. Yet of course, coming of age to be a woman, Charlotte had already dismissed the notion of marriage twofold; First on account that she much preferred to do the work herself, having grown fond of the uncertain yet thoroughly intriguing nature of working the most basic rungs of society. On second account, in spite of the homely appearance of the young Miss Faulkner, there remained good reasons as to why she had not attracted a suitor with more than passing interest in the prospect of matrimony.
The bulk of her adolescence spent her time working around one of Aberness' more unsavory taverns, perhaps not best to her immediate health, yet Charlotte was fully crafty enough to quickstep around any peril. In truth, that was what she loved doing; A strange bar hosting strange folks with strange whispers, drawing enough strangeness to turn to adventure at any notice. Through song, dance, disarming smiles, and clever reallocation of purses, Charlotte memorized the ins and outs of socializing, and for every sterling she earned - rightful or not - two more stories did reach her ear from all manner of mariner. For just seconds, she could put past her immediate odds, so enthralling were the tales spun so expertly by these men and women of the sea. Why, out on that endless ocean blue, there were bound to be endless riches, coupled with an equally infinitesimal number of escapades to be had. Why work in some hole in the wall when she could be out living a life of splendor?
That twofold pattern resounded once again; Charlotte possessed few skills worthy of seafaring, and her only true option would be to be pressed into the lowest quarters of the ship. In earnest, she considered the prospect, so enticing was the idea of it all that she would throw herself into near-servitude for so meager a chance at seeing the world belong Aberness' taverns. Though she wouldn't get her chance at piracy true, she at least earned passage to Aira following occurrences perhaps best left unspoken. To that, Charlotte thoroughly was a stranger in a foreign land, but this was only a trifling concern; after all, she had lived her entire life working around strangers, for what were a few strangers but friends who didn't know it yet?
And of course, her fancy wordplay would inevitably grease up the those in a most favorable position. Her request was simple, if expensive; a few good men, a fine vessel, and a Letter of Marque, all to go after the country she once called home.
A Letter of Marque from the Republic of Aira? Right where your journey to the New World begins.
Though, perchance one did not know about the New World would do one well to heed the tales that long stem from Cascadia. Among the Old World rumors, there is a constant peddling that the New World would be a free land, one of infinite possibility, ripe with riches for the taking which hang so low that one must only walk to attain their righteous fortunes.
These whispers, like all others, are only part true. Cascadia herself is a bountiful and beauteous land, true, yet the tale that these lands are up for grabs is, as tales tend to be, embellishment. Long before there were settlers from the Mediterranean lands of Fioretza nor the highlands of Calleighn, prodigious empires and proud nations called the region their proper domain, and only through conflict and resolution have these lands ever exchanged lands. The natives of Cascadia have in their codices a body of legend which may very well dwarf any mythos of the Old World, documented or forsaken, and in those oft-preserved stories remain the tales of mighty rulers who ruled over the sun itself, of mythics and heroes who stood as insurmountable champions, the slayers of foul spirits and fell gods, and from their victories, carved empires of unparalleled wealth and prosperity. Alas, as the stories of all account, from settler to pilgrim to native wise-man again, the larger the empire, the greater the fallout. And, perhaps, as the stories of the keen do say, that there exists few worthy successors to these ill-spoken dominions would suggest there is a particular wisdom toward the modest lifestyle of many a Cascadian tribe.
And what are the boundless rumors without envy?
Surely, there cannot be any denial that any of the Old World who have lasted to this year are not in some ways jealous of the achievements of the mighty Dudatihna, Xia’pct, Altepeme, or Yona Empires, said to have stretched through Cascadia and Ambrogia alike, even to lands far to the East in locales yet unexplored to the Old World. Even if many dismiss the ruins which dot the landscape as a bygone legacy or the vibrant fables of Cascadia as nothing more than fairy tales, that they so willingly subscribe to the ancient Hero-Kings, Warrior-Queens, and Saviors from Dragons of ages long past show it naught but ridiculous at best.
Yet what none in the Old World can rightly deny is the sheer bounty Cascadia has to offer. Motta flower and juniper grow abundantly in the otherwise frigid Cascadian climate that cultivation of the otherwise exotic crops is a near moot endeavor, for the crop will inevitably grow far beyond the normal boundaries of one's land grant to where management becomes an impossible task. The virgin forests which dot Cascadia's many coasts stretch far into the interior, and the boreal hardwood within grows from rich, volcanic soil, giving it an unmatched hardness, sheen, and durability. Clusters of iron and copper ore burgeoned from the earth like weeds grew in an empty field, and so precious were the many minerals in Cascadia that it was reported back that the whole of the Holt Mountains were constituted of near-pure silver. To such an end, it was unavoidable that countless farms and estates established themselves along Cascadia's coast...and, as envy so does, has stemmed countless conflict within and without.
Many of the natives soon tired of their mistreatment for money, and would form the Confederacy of Cochise in lieu of the many splintered nations which dotted much of Cascadia. The many estates have formed houses and wealthy families from their profit, who seek to have their industry unperturbed or burgeoned, no matter the cost. The disenfranchised and unscrupulous alike prey upon the many exports of Cascadia, for her constant churn of wealth outbound make their work a steady and lucrative - nevermind free - trade. Many within their capacity find uses for such mariners, who in turn are rewarded handsomely for their expertise. Likewise, many such brigantine tasks on Cascadia's mainland require those with a certain finesse, for there exists much intrigue along the the settled coasts of Cascadia - and even more spoilage.
You, under the employ of two co-captains, are privateers to the United Republic of Aira, administrators to the Province of New Bretagne. Though this may seem restrictive, true pirates, as the co-captains would tell you, are simply privateers flying under one fewer flag. Yet, with your Letter of Marque, you possess a level of legal immunity many would be envious of. Couple this with an adventurous life, flexible hours, and as much pay as you can pillage, your adventures of Cascadia will certainly be that to spark legends all their own...
Creating a Character
Creating a character for Fire Emblem: Sword and Sail is a fairly streamlined process, in my personal opinion. Though the character sheet is quite long - and can easily be considered intimidating, there's a few basic steps i've outlined that should assist in the process.
Think of a character you want to play. Don't be concerned about what roles need filling! The game is intended to be played by any assortment of cast, and although there are stats in effect, they are only there to provide clarification for what your character is capable of achieving.
Think of what your character is like as a person. What are their goals and ambitions? Their worst fears? What makes them angry? What's their favorite thing to eat? Do they drink themselves to sleep before noon, or are they straight-edge? If they're from the Old World, what made them want to leave?
Don't be worried about stats. This RP is intended to have multiple solutions to every problem you come across. Don't be worried if you think your stats won't be high enough! With a little ingenuity or teamwork, you can get through any problem!
That said, try to make stats that represent them as a person. The option to raise and lower stats is there, certainly, but more often than not, you might find min-maxing your character to be overkill in many situations. The best attribute you can have is your own ingenuity!
Portrait: Picture of your choosing that you believe closest represents your character.
Name: Your character’s name, as well as any honorifics or titles, should go here.
Age / Date of Birth: The RP’s first events will start on April 22nd, 1781. If you intend to use a character under the age of 16, you should speak with me first.
Sexuality: Your character’s sexual and/or romantic preference. Do note that this field is optional, and that if you want to make it explicit that you are not interested in your character shipping, I would advise you to leave this field blank.
Class: What class the character is. Please note that equivalences of Cavaliers, Pegasus Knights, Wyvern Riders, etc. are all made through conjoining them with *skills* in riding their respective mount.
Stats: Your stat spread for your character. Remember, you have 18 points to spend, and all of your stats have an initial value of 10. Need help with setting stats? Use Eclogia's handy calculator!
Skills: Skills are noteworthy abilities, talents, or feats that your character possesses that would significantly affect their ability to adventure. Examples of skills would be: Riding a mount in combat conditions, handling wild animals, extensive diving training, parkour/freerunning skill, weapon proficiency, and so on. Keep in mind that some minor or day-to-day skills are not necessary for a skill slot, and can be explained well enough with investment in stats or through your character’s backstory. For example, the ability to run long distances is implicit if you have 16 Toughness, but with a score of 8, explanation through a Skill would be near-necessary! If you are ever uncertain about what constitutes as a skill, feel free to ask! I’ll be happy to provide assistance through Discord. List 3 or 4 skills that your character starts out with.
Equipment: The important tools and gear in possession of your character. Obviously, you can have an assortment of minor day-to-day things on your person without much fuss. In addition to the items outlined by your starting class, you're free to pick two other pieces of equipment your character might possess.
Appearance: Their physical appearance in terms of things such as build, facial features, muscle mass, skin tone, usual demeanor, et cetera. It’s worth describing their typical attire both in and out of battle and/or adventuring circumstances, as well. If you’re in need of inspiration or of what’s appropriate, 18th century fashion will be something to enter into your search engine of choice.
Personality: Rundown of their typical attitude, worldview, and how they generally react given a standard situation.
Biography: A description of your character’s background, upcoming, and general history. This should be a few paragraphs in length, generally speaking. If your character has secrets or other hidden facets about them, you should let me know in private conversation so I can make note of and account for them.
What They Mean: In general, the stats of a character are the general attributes that can be quantified for the sake of more concrete arguments when using actions. They help give a clear sense of whose characteristics are comparable to whose. In short, stats assist roleplaying by more concretely defining what a character is and isn’t capable of.
It is impossible under normal circumstances for a character to have 0 in any stat, unless they are either dead or otherwise immobile in some capacity. Stats of 9 to 11 are varying definitions of average, while stats greater than 15 are both immediately recognizable and likely dictate what a person does for a living. Conversely, stats that are 6 or less severely handicap that character, and are likely the result of grievous injury, malbirth, or other physical harm. It is impossible for a human character to attain a natural score of greater than 20 in any stat, just as it is impossible for a human character to have less than 3 in any respective stat.
At character creation, you cannot have a single stat have a score higher than 18, or two stats both with scores higher than 16.
You are allowed 18 points to spend, with each of your character’s stats starting at 10. After 14 in a stat, it costs 2 points to increase a stat by 1, and past 16, it costs 3 points to increase a stat by 1. (EX: Increasing your Dexterity score to 17 costs 11 points (1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 2 + 3))
Conversely, lowering a stat below 10 will give you additional points to spend at varied intervals; the ratio is 1-to-1 until a score of 8, and 2-to-1 until a score of 6. (EX: Lowering your Strength score to 6 gives you 3 points to spend (1 + 1 + 0.5 + 0.5))
The exception to this rule is when purchasing Luck; Luck starts at a score of 0, and costs a flat 2 points in order to raise it by 1. You cannot have more than 5 starting Luck.
Below is a table which represents what each stat corresponds to a relative adjective.
Strength: Strength is a measure of your character's lifting ability, power, and ability to exert force through raw muscle. It assists with actions such as moving objects, melee attacks and maneuvers, and climbing.
Willpower: Willpower is a measure of your character's mental fortitude, memory, and perseverance. Willpower is the primary determinant of one's magical capabilities, but can also be used to resist magical effects.
Dexterity: Dexterity is a measure of a character's coordination, balance, flexibility, and reflexes. It determines accuracy, fine manual work, and keeping upright.
Speed: Speed is a measure of a character's quickness, alacrity, and movement capability. Speed will assist characters in covering ground quickly as well as perform acrobatic or evasive maneuvers.
Toughness: Toughness is a measure of a character's pain tolerance, natural healing ability, and physical health. High toughness allows characters to stave off poison, tolerate blows, hold their breath, and remain conscious.
Luck: Luck represents an uncanny ability for events to go in that character's favor. Unlike other attributes, Luck is not an inherent characteristic, and can be "spent" in order to reverse fortunes or guarantee success.
Myrmidon: Even as the world marches steadily forth into the Age of Sail and Steam, adherents to swordplay are as plentiful as they are valued. Old traditions die hard, but the swiftness and discipline of swordplay make the myrmidon well-suited for the chaotic confines of naval combat. Wielders of every tool the family of swords has to offer - from the massive zweihander to the swift mariner’s cutlasses to refined rapiers - are myrmidons, and with their diligence they make for deadly adversaries up close.
Class Skill: Critical Strike
Edge alignment, thrusts, timing, composure. All of these arts are skills demanded from the practitioner of swordplay. Thusly, myrmidons are capable of delivering devastating blows when catching their foes from flanks, or when riposting after a failed attack.
Starting Equipment:
Sword of your description (Scimitar, rapier, etc)
Throwing knives or Parrying dagger
Musketeer: In every armed force save the most impoverished or remote, muskets have long replaced the pike and shield as the key weapon of war. Massed volleys of torrential gunfire eclipse the shot of archers, and the fearsome thunder of a bayonet charge make the clunky formations of pikemen seem sedate in comparison. The musketeers of this age are powerful and versatile combatants, capable of dispatching foes from afar with keen shot, while fighting in melee armed with bayonets.
Class Skill: Discipline
The battler of the modern era lives and dies by her charge, and knowing the moments when to strike with their allies is a lesson hard-pressed into even the most basic of recruits, if not solidified in their first encounters. Musketeers are more effective when in vicinity of their companions, and will provide guidance and deterrence through suppressive fire and evasive maneuver.
Starting Equipment:
Musket or carbine
Bayonet
Brigand: Whether they be mountain men responsible for patrol in the most hazardous of off-roads or militiamen relying on their cunning and strength to stave off a superior force, there will always come a need for the brigand. The axes they brandish are simple but deadly instruments, and the astonishing pace at which they slip from cover to terrain overwhelms some of the most ardent formations, and the havoc which these men unleash as their axes shatter defenses and supports perhaps drives the spirit of warfare. Brigands are certainly among the strongest of soldiers, yet to mistake that power for brutishness underestimates their oft-hidden cunning, and is typically their foes’ last mistake.
Class Skill: Intimidate
Fear is the soldier’s greatest bane, and the terror these men unleash is a weapon refined to a razor’s edge. Masterful shock troops and enforcers, the brigand is able to instill panic into their foes, often forcing their adversaries to take cover or retreat to safer ground while the lunatic before them beckons a fell battle cry.
Starting Equipment:
Steel axe
Grappling hook or Grenada (Primitive grenades)
Hunter: The thrill of the hunt is among humanity’s most ancient pursuits, and wherever Mother Nature can provide for her children, there will be hunters to reap her gracious gifts. Whether they stalk their game in untamed wilds or bustling avenues, the pathfinding abilities of a hunter are unparalleled. Bows are far less sonorous as their contemporary counterparts, and it is in that niche that hunters are able to unleash the element of surprise upon their unsuspecting game.
Class Skill: Target
When set on a dedicated victim, a hunter may go to extreme lengths to track and take down their quarry. Against their chosen target, they may shadow and strike them with ease, if they may find themselves requiring ignorance of any who ally themselves with their foe.
Starting Equipment:
Bow or Crossbow of your description
Bolo or Bowstring silencer
Rogue: Although the time of knights and dragons has long since passed, the thieves and spies of their age long transcend that chain. Whether they be unscrupulous burglars or prized informants, for as long as there is civilization, there will come a demand for the services of a shadowy sort.
Class Skill: Tools of the Trade
The cloak and dagger never truly go away, for the Rogue will always be called upon to break locks, disarm traps, and interlope through guarded passageways. This unique expertise gives the Rogue near-unparalleled versatility, both in and away from the heat of danger.
Starting Equipment:
Dagger or Throwing Knives
Smoke bombs or grappling hook
Mage: If anything, renaissance and enlightenment have not deterred us from the use of magic, but instead, have morphed the two into one. Science and magic are seldom discerned from one another, for it is the mage who spends her long hours in study of the magic that courses through all thoughts and things like they so steadily seep from an aquifer. Through their practice, a mage is able to provide a variety of useful spells, and find themselves in employ in any variety of occupations.
Class Skill: Prepared Incantation
Common is it in thaumaturgic instruction to constantly evaluate and document one’s thoughts, for this resonance can give way to insights once unseen. By utilizing a journal, tome, or scroll with their own observations, mages can replicate effects they notice, even if only in passing.
Starting Equipment:
Foci of your choosing (Scrolls, tomes, magic wand, etc.)
Disspeller or Silver band
Cleric: For as long as there is injury, there will need caretakers, and long have the ways of biomancy mended their wounds. For as much of tenants as they are students, the cleric is a master of the magical forces that flow through living things. Though they had long been relegated to the rear guard, endangering themselves only with the lives of their patients, their knowledge of the body can easily turn to damage, and when inflicting debilitation on those unsuspecting, clerics will oblige.
Class Skill: Quick Salve
Extended study of the human body, conjoined with medical practice, means that medicines, tonics, and other drugs applied to their patients are performed in a much faster procedure, with their subtle magic augmenting their effects to be more potent.
Starting Equipment:
Medical salve
Tonic alembic or Lazarus grenades
Shaman: Whisperers of forgotten tongues, secret rites, and abandoned wisdom, the shaman adheres to teachings old as the earth herself, and with communion and study, prove themselves as invaluable allies. Their traditions may be shunned, their works neglected, their wisdom denounced, yet only the most arrogant or ignorant would reject the ways of the natural world. After all, magic still flows well throughout the world, and bold is one to so readily ignore a hex as naught but gentile superstition.
Class Skill: Trance
Setting themselves deep into meditative study, the shaman enters a trance in which they mediate between this world and our others. As they become a vector for spirits and energy, their spells become more potent for a time, if they grow unresponsive whilst they allow themselves to be conduits.
Starting Equipment:
Grimoire of your choosing (Voodoo doll, locks of a witch’s hair, bones of a saint, etc.)
Hexer’s censer or Musing glass
Nomad: As the world only grows larger, those who take upon few homes but those made with whatever they may carry often remain the same, or find their ranks swelled with those wishing to experience lands unknown. Nomads are curious and acute folk, often accustomed to natural perils and long weeks of hard marches. They are natural explorers and evaluators, and their wise guiding hands can be the difference between a night spent in safety or one not spent at all.
Class Skill: Awareness
With honed senses like that of eagles and foxes, Nomads are adept at finding the hidden, especially in unfamiliar surroundings. Whether they be lurking bandits, waiting to strike, or trapdoors hidden between decrepit tree trunks, a nomad’s greatest asset is their perception.
Starting Equipment:
Musket
Hand axe or Tomahawk
Trapper’s toolkit or Animal baits
Merchant: Merchants are more than peddling salesmen looking for easy coin; They are keen investigators, sharp-tongued persuaders, and thorough task keepers. Whether they act as debt collectors, appraisers, prospectors, or fences, merchants are as ubiquitous as they are insightful. Some are less timid than others, however, for robbery and extortion are common opposing forces for any merchant, and their stores and wares require protection either they or their allies will need to provide.
Class Skill: Despoil
Wherever coin, goods, or treasure can be found, merchants can be sure to find a little more. Many are thorough scavengers, and can easily appraise the value of most goods.
Starting Equipment:
Pistol or throwing knives
Lustergrapher or Fractulator or Black salts
Performer: Bards, clowns, jesters, chroniclers, poets, dancers, and singers all comprise of the oft-overlooked role of the performer. Where there are people, there is the need for a good smile in the face of arduous labor and strain. With their charming moves, enchanting appearances, and captivating words, the performer may not be the most direct combatant, yet are invaluable in restoring the morale of their comrades, while also proving quite incandescent in their interactions with others.
Class Skill: Perform
Whether through spoken word, refined dance, or charming gesture, performers are able to encourage their allies to fight to their fullest, reminding them that there is someone there always rooting for them, no matter the cause.
Starting Equipment:
Pistol or smallsword
Instrument of your choosing (Guitar, gold baubles on clothing, war standard, drum, etc.)
Brawler: Few would argue about the professional standards of brawlers, but fewer would dare question their uncanny ability to turn the innocuous into the instrumental. Desperados and craftsmen, the brawler refines their skills in combat such that anything becomes a weapon, anything a barrier, and through that ingenuity they have found themselves the victor behind countless brawl and squabble.
Class Skill: Sunder
The key to improvisation lay in one’s ability to innovate - and one’s ability to force their opponent out of their comfort zone. Brawlers are unique in forcing their foes to drop their held items, and through either creative or brute use of force, can force their foes to lose hold of their tools.
Starting Equipment:
Jitte or Sai
Brass knuckles or Truncheon
Adept: Fusion of the martial and magical, the adept draws upon the energies of their surroundings in deep chants, engaging their words as they embibe their powers upon others. Some are inquisitors, others medicine men, yet one thing remains clear; Through their staves and foci, none can provide such rallying cries to others as the Adept can.
Class Skill: Chant
Through their signature chants, songs, prayers, or dances, adepts focus their latent magical energies through staves, and imbue various abilities into their allies. All that is required is a thorough wallop with their instruments.
Starting Equipment:
Inscribed staff
Ritual band or Runic sygils
Full Name: United Republic of Aira
Demonym: Airan
Government: Parliamentary Republic
Current Leader: Premier Emile Ackers Langenberg
Capital: Hagendam
Provinces: New Bretagne (Cascadia), Aquidam (Ambrogia)
Climate: Humid Continental; Warm summers, cold and rainy winters.
A more recent competitor to the land race in the New World, Aira has nevertheless managed to pick up the slack in just a short 90-odd years, becoming one of the most ingrained factions in both Ferreir and Cascadia. A highly industrial and densely-populated state, Aira’s small holdings in Ferreir made them long clamor for new colonies and lands to call their own, yet when the initial discovery of the New World came to, found themselves always playing second fiddle to Fioretza to maintain diplomacy with the then-allied naval superpower. Aquidam nevertheless remains a principal and well-developed nation in an otherwise Fioretzan-dominated Ambrogia, yet is comparatively incredibly modest compared to the titanic takings of Peruzia and Salvatica.
The adventurous spirit that so dominates Aira’s very winds rivals that of Fioretza’s most keen minds, for the everlong placement of Hagendam’s ports upon the Dreis Beak ensured for years it was a popular stopping point for any sailor to Ferreir. Among their crowning achievements was the pioneering of democracy as far back as 633, even as their neighboring monarchs did revolt at the thought of a common assembly. This tradition has maintained everlasting status, only interrupted to conquest, and even still practiced behind the closed doors of its many taverns and public houses.
The air of an Airan is that of modern progress, for they are known worldwide as shrewd diplomats, sharp traders, and bright-eyed explorers. Yet, it is in those same traits that foreigners find these acute strengths as naught but concealed daggers, perched to be drawn at a moment’s notice.
For now, Calleighn teeters as they hold onto their mighty empire, poised upon so narrow of threads that their greatest achievement now hangs by the fortune - or perhaps laziness - of their neighbors to not seize upon so great an opportunity. Their adversaries would suggest the Cauls to be an unrefined, nasal peoples, for such armchair squabbles are so easily attributed to lessening the characteristics of those more successful than themselves. Still does this centuries-old empire fight with the same fervor known for when they repelled invader after invader to their alpine isle, for Cauls, when set upon a goal, latch down upon their prize with the deathly talons of a mighty hawk, magnified a thousand fold.
Their political situation has always been an odd one, for Calleighn’s influenced has, many a time, waxed and waned like the coming tides. Just as they seem to be the “sick old man” of Ferreir, they have unleashed some latent genius to retain their hold on the world for just a while longer. Calleighn may seem as callous allies at best, yet beneath this often-belligerent exterior possesses years of courtship expertise, for a land as rugged and harsh as hers requires wit alongside muscle. For centuries, Calleighn has managed to retain their holdings throughout their homeland. While their many allies have come and gone, inevitably capitulating under the stresses of change, Calleighn remains steadfast in their holdings.
This same steadfastness is oft-taken as stubbornness, or regression, in extreme cases. Many readily stereotype the Caul as being too set in their ways for their own good, and just as many have come to regret their words as Calleighn seemingly finds new ways to adapt to the challenge ahead, just as they did when they were naught but fledgling tribes in an alpine highland, long, long ago.
Full Name: United Kingdom of Mauria
Demonym: Maurian
Government: Constitutional Monarchy
Current Leader: Chancellor Khalida Salazar
Capital: Ishraq
Provinces: Mutarrif (Ambrogia), Isla Ambarina
Climate: Dry Mediterranean; Hot summers, mild, rainy winters.
Diplomacy with Mauria resolves itself in one of two fashions; Bitter resentment, or steadfast alliance. To say nothing of other nations, Mauria’s rivalry with Fioretza remains infamous, dating back thousands of years when the first empires rose from the simple tribes of yore. It is said that even the most wizened historian cannot accurately trace the animosity between the two to a point, for much of that history has inevitably been rewritten, slandered, or overconfided to such a degree that determining the true accounts of even their most famed conflicts is an impossible task. To their enemies, Mauria’s incredible ability to remain as a thorn in their side typically has led to them harboring antipathetic relations for decades now, itself compounded by multitudinal factors; One historiographer of Aira described it as, “A political war within a territory war within a resource war within a holy war.”
Mauria’s distinct ethnic population distances itself from much of Ferreir’s population. Combined with the unique religion of Maya focusing itself within Mauria’s territory, these tensions have gone on for centuries, for when one enters Mauria, they seem to find themselves in a different world altogether. Its people are hardy, yet jovial, disciplined, yet easygoing, all while sporting the unique identifiers of Maurian culture. Many a Maurian has a distinctly darker skin tone than that of your average Ferreian, their hair too much more clumped and naturally jagged than that of the typical Airan or Fioretzan.
Many a fundamental difference - from cultural clash to religious difference - strikes the tension between Mauria and her neighbors. Yet, those who can set aside themselves to look into Mauria for what it is often find that they are more similar than many make them out to be.
Zuria finds themselves in the most compromising position possible in the Old World. They both lay claim to the largest amount of territory in Ferreir, but also find themselves near-completely landlocked, reliant on the sole seaport of their capital of Mullen, itself an isthmus of land between the greater Fioretzan Coast and the Maurian northern holdings. They hold onto their capital for dear life, the great fortress-city of Mullen being the epicenter of their forever entrenched position, as the lifeblood of a grand nation flows hundreds of times through that narrow passage. Seldom a locale in great Zuria would not feel the impact of even the slightest disruption in trade, and the zeal at which Zuria defends her trade routes has almost instigated many a war. Yet while they continue to antagonize their Fioretzan neighbors to the south and make few consolidations with Danesland to the north, Zuria seems to know it has no favorable position with which to wage war, and instead seem to patiently wait - or perhaps have seen the futility of wishing to have their own colonies given the political realities - for their opponents to wear themselves thin.
The reasoning lies in the quintessential means by which Zuria is governed; By the Constitution of Regreb, Zuria’s chief executive power comes from its Council, who in turn are various Ministers of Zuria’s many compartmentalized departments. Whilst there exists a multitude of means by which to become a Minister, that many of these aforementioned ministries are chiefly concerned with business in Zuria, and as a result, tend to more thoroughly dominate Zurian politics whilst the Minister of Education and Minister of Culture voice their displeasure at the Ministers of Timber, Iron, Coal, Arms, Agriculture, Rare Metals, and Vices having their plurality of often-coinciding voices outspeak their own. Naturally, given the clear majority of mercantile-related ministries, their concerns tend to be the foremost concern for Council.
Though they can be seen as pressing, in truth, Zurian culture tends to be warm and festive. Many Zurians are quite welcoming to strangers through their land, and appreciate hearing the many tales that travellers bring to share. Famed for its many festivals, gallas, and holidays, Zuria has, at least, the blessing to have a constant influx of partygoers for which to gain attraction towards their country. Far from an uncommon circumstance it is for travelers to come as far as Southern Peruzia to attend one of Zuria’s holiday celebrations, for Zuria always treats her guests with honor.
Full Name: Federation of Great Danesland
Demonym: Danes, Danic
Government: Federal Republic
Current Leader: Chancellor Bernhard Krass Mauser
Capital: Abernich
Provinces: Zahlslund (Cascadia)
Climate: Subarctic climate; Mild summers, cold and long winters.
The Danes are a serious and hardy folk, accustomed to hardship and the punchline of many a cruel joke. Danesland has scant mountains to protect her, and what rivers there are of her run so shallow, there is nary a current in all her territory that one may not wade across at greater than waist height. A thick, continental jungle of millenia-old trees infatuate the land with such intensity that even a swarm of locusts thicker than a maple tree’s viscous sap, a razed forest they could not make.
Though it was the birthplace of the Prusar religion, due to the difficulty of movement throughout the Danic country, its alma mater would locate westward to Czaszka. Influences of the strict North Prusarian church still have left their distinct marks upon the nation, of course, the most notable being their distinct lack of tolerance towards the violation oaths, laws, and other promises; Even what seem as casual remarks toward meetings or promises are held as absolute, and shirking these obligations is seen as highly disrespectful, and even deceitful. This omnipresent air of principle pervades Danic culture in almost every sense.
Founding one of the first successful republican models with their 1514 Revolution, Danesland’s model of federalism has perhaps arisen from necessity rather than ideological tenant. Danesland is an arduous country to reliably navigate through, and so even its indigenous population is ever-reliant upon using the many streams, rivers, and other marine throughways as means for infrastructure. Rivers are inarguably far more difficult to construct than roads of comparable volume, thus automatically limiting much of a Danic kingdom’s ability to grow and prosper. Any central figure was just as limited by his subordinates’ abilities to travel, and thus a model of intermittent congregation was seen as much more favorable. In addition to King Mueller XIV not keeping his word, of course.
While in current times Danesland struggles with the management of their newfound Czaszkan Republic - as well as the continued losses of a reliable means of access to their sole colony of Zahlslund - the country seems to be in a state of internal focus, seeing themselves as having too many burdens of their own accord to be in a position to deal with any more on an international scale.
Full Name: Empire of Czaszka
Demonym: Czaszkan
Government: Monarchy (Defunct) / Federal Subject (Current)
Current Leader: Ambassador Konrad Bosko
Capital: Kolzow
Provinces: None; Czaszka is now a province of Danesland.
Czaszka is often remarked as, “The Folly of Ferreir”. Most recently, the country fought its last war with Danesland, and as a reward for losing, find themselves as the most current federal state of Danesland. Even prior to its capitulation at the hands of the Danes, the nation was often ridiculed for being a land, “stuck in the past”. Even as Czaszka produced many fine kings in days past, their sluggish response to a rapidly modernizing world soon spelled their doom. At the height of their Empire, they did gaze over the marvels they had wrought, and from there, only stagnantly watched as the world around them advanced. As kingdoms fell and republics and trade empires rose, The Last Kingdom long fell victim to its own stubbornness.
Even in its final days of sovereignty, Czaszka did little to appease their neighbors. While their population burgeoned, and still claimant to a sizable kingdom, confrontation after confrontation arose from the pride of an old empire, and soon, what once was an invaluable ally was now considered by their supposed friends a liability, at best, dead weight, at worst. A burgeoning Danesland at their side, The Last Kingdom remained too stubborn to give way to the rising republic, even going as far as to openly denounce them before the gatherings of Ferrei States. Such was the folly of an arrogant crown, refusing to let go of the past, that they led their entire people to war against the Danes, insistent upon finding any reasoning for war, no matter how faulty.
Czaszka was large and held many within her borders, yet, no endless tide of soldier could hold against the superior organization - and level heads - of the encircling Danes military. Poor decisions, ridiculous priorities, impossible requests; These were all the makings of a thoroughly doomed Czaszka, for even as the enemy approached closer and closer to her capital, many among her ranks rightfully saw the end of the kingdom drew closer. The royal family itself endlessly and bitterly argued over the course of the war, such that it was said that the Castle Zeidik never slept for so rigorous was the tumult that its ancient, stone-hewn walls quaked.
Danesland’s armies pressed closer to Kolzow, and no closer were they to any goal, especially not ones they themselves had set. Every reasonable officer had by then long surrendered to the approaching Danes, seeing the futility of fighting beneath a mad king to their graves, and in their place only took the inexperienced yet steadfast. In late June of 1771, for the first time in her history, Castle Zeidik fell to an invading force. There were few left willing to fight the Danes throughout Czaszka, so thorough was her conquest that it is spoken the men and women of even their elite Hussars - who stood as her protectors for eight hundred years - gave as much mind to the approaching Danes force as they might a falling leaf.
Even as Danesland were reasonable beyond all doubts in their negotiations, what remained of the royal family were so assertive in their demands that, come the time to rebuild Czaszka, it was in no position in any of the 210 minds of the Danesland Senate to grant the region autonomy. Attempts to negotiate with the late King Starosta XII were abortive at best, and so it was unanimously decided that Czaszka would be annexed into Danesland. Some accounts even suggest the people rejoiced at the end of the Starosta Dynasty.
Endless rumors persist that Loyalists to the throne - and much of the royal family herself - have fled to all manner of locales in the New World; Peruzia and Cochise are the most popular of all possibilities, yet no power has taken accountability for hosting any member of the royal family, nor any of the numerous rebellion movements within or without Czaszka.
Full Name: Social Republic of Fioretza
Demonym: Fioretzan
Government: Mercantile Republic
Current Leader: Premier Adrian Portelli Sapienti
Capital: Ocella
Provinces: Peruzia, Salvatica, Berugana
Climate: Hot Mediterranean; Hot, dry summers, mild, rainy winters.
Fioretza has always possessed an uncanny knack for managing to stay one step ahead of the curve, compared to its neighbors, for Fioretza owns perhaps one of the most invaluable assets. The Cauls may be fierce, the Danes hardy, and Aira mercantile, yet from all of these needs comes that of supply; Fioretza holds such domain in spades. It is the alma mater of thousands a scientist, countless scores of thaumaturgists, untold authors, and innumerable artists. The land righteously proclaims itself to be the cultural hub of Ferreir, for what other nation could claim to compete with so many titles? As their domain stretches far along the southern coasts of Ferreir, they have always had favorable position to launch trade, for it is almost written in the lifeblood of Her people to become explorers and tradesmen, they say.
If one word summarizes Fioretza above any other, that would be, “versatile”. Truly, there is little that Fioretza has not found itself famed for at any point in its history, nor is there a challenge Fioretza thus far deems beyond its capacity. This energetic - some would say arrogant - demeanor thusly seems to define Fioretzan culture, in many ways always seeing what could be in store for them around the next corner. This same drive to excel in all they perform drives itself back, in some ways, as expectations for a Fioretzan are often high and the price of failure sometimes too great for ambitions of their scale. A Fioretzan is seldom unwilling to share their successes in life, to the degree of even seeming boisterous to others, and taking hold of such drives throughout one’s life is a pivotal aspect of Fioretzan culture.
Founded in 1597, the current Fioretzan republican model is built upon the framework of an old aristocracy, in which the needs of the artisan and mercantile classes are put first and foremost. If production is not a Fioretzan value, as they say, then there would be no drive to explore, to find, and most of all, to found the great Fioretzan Empire as they have done today. Though this may all combine in such a form that it often is the result of antagonistic relations with many a prospective partner, Fioretzan decorum often dictates that such dissent is but one of the many courses of friendship, thoroughly confident that, in due time, their relations will blossom back to full once again.
Much of the interior of Princeland has been contested, first between Aira and Calleighn in the War of 1711, then from the First and Second Cascades Wars, then culminating in a territory conflict with Fioretza in the Savona War. While the territory has waxed and waned under the pressures of strife, its bustling harbors and healthy industry has remained open for business throughout it all.
Recent hardships have gotten the best of much of the province, however, for an ever-increasing number of dissatisfied miners, farmers, and loggers find the pressing constriction of an ever-encroaching developed world to be unaccountable for the spacious New World they set out to make. Some grow so discontent with the rapid pace of change that even once-prolific businessmen go out of business, finding themselves outpaced and outplayed by entrepreneurs from far away, and set out to lands eastwards in search of their promised virgin lands, in direct violation of the Treaty of Balhbule’.
Old World charm combined with New World spaciousness, New Bretagne rivals Peruzia as the crown jewel of Cascadia. Much like its southern rival, the province is highly developed along its coast of the Myriadic Ocean, boasting several noteworthy harbors and naval fortresses. The interior of the province lays dotted with several small estates, yet the mining operations of the Holt Mountains yield prodigious quantities of iron, making New Bretagne’s steelworks nearly unparalleled throughout Cascadia. Couple this with the bountiful forests along the gentle slopes along its coasts, and New Bretagne becomes a near-unparalleled powerhouse among the colonies.
Peruzia, administered by The Social Republic of Fioretza, is a titanic region that stretches as far south as the Tropic of Cancer. Along its well-supplied, mediterranean coasts lay countless vineyards and ranches, the influence of their colonizers well-apparent in their elegant masonry and highly contoured architecture. Although only the northmost tip of Peruzia is located in the Cascadian region, Fernetti’s Horn is home to perhaps the largest port in all of Cascadia, as well as the site of many well-developed indigo plantations, nourished by the volcanic soil of Mount Morrigan.
Nestled largely in Blau Valley - named for the arctic winds that pass down through the valley that gives a distinctive bluish hue for much of the spring’s grasses, as well as the abundance of hot springs and geysers - Zahlslund takes a shape that hugs much of the Manchek River. Automatically, this limits their ability to export in large quantities, so the denizens of Zahlslund are largely self-regulating and self-sufficient as a result. Life in the central province is far from elementary, the harsh and lengthy winters of the region drawing an end to any endeavors in farming with remarkable haste. With the good fortune of wildlife in abundance, however, residents of the region are able to make good use of the region’s fauna, and pelts remain the largest export to date, though attempts at mining the many mountains are underway.
Although it technically lay under the flag of outlying Danesland, the Territory of Zahlslund is, for all practical purposes, fully self-governing. While the Manchek River is formally declared a neutral zone by all parties in Cascadia, the relative shallowness of its waters necessitates that only flat-bottomed ships can effectively make passage through to Zahlic port, automatically limiting the territory’s effective export quantity. The sizable Belchier Island remains under the Danes’ municipality, yet the lengthy travel between Manchek Delta ensures passage is treacherous under the constant fire of pirates and privateers.
Full Name: Tribal Confederation of Cochise
Demonym: Cotsch, Cochisic
Government: Tribal Confederacy
Current Leader: Siqiniq Nukilik
Capital: Kisarviksak (Closest equivalent)
Climate: Subarctic; mild, rainy summers, long and very cold winters Following the Second Cascades War, the Cochise Confederacy - a coalition of Cascadian indigenous tribes - had emerged the victors of the conflict, and through the Treaty of Balhbule’ had to be formally recognized by foreign powers. Their lands in the far north of Cascadia are an arrangement of endless boreal forests, culminating in a frigid tundra coated in permafrost. These virgin forests are the envy of industrialists and entrepreneurs alike, yet the many leaders of Cochise are yet unwilling to allow many to undergo such endeavors.
To the frustration of their neighbors, Cochise is the state most willing to turn a blind eye to the affairs of bandits and pirates, denying their pursuers entry into the state under the pretense of war. Many of an unscrupulous ilk find themselves rooted in one of Cochise’s many isolated islands, nestled in ice-stormed coves and tidal caves. In many ways, the Cikqua Archipelago is half hunting ground, half battlefield, as bounty hunters, kingsmen, and enterprising buccaneers seek riches or refuge amidst the tumultuous climate of the Northwest.
In general, magic can be broadly defined as, "The ability of an animate being to control thaumaturgic energy in order to manipulate realspace". Every living being has some degree of latent magical power - barring odd exceptions - yet it typically requires many hours of study and practice in order to gain magical ability to the degree depicted in any game. Although cantrips - such as creating a spark or a flame the size of a match - are quite elementary and can be done by almost anyone, complex spells involving the manipulation of energy to any moderate degree necessitate memorization and understanding of thaumaturgic energy in one of various pedagogies. In addition, the extensive use of magic is incredibly stressing on the body, and larger, more complex spells will fatigue the user's consciousness, and overexertion often leads to coma, memory loss, dissociation, and dulled senses. Typically, rest is the most appropriate means of recovering one's energy when casting magic for extended periods of time.
In many ways, magic can be divided into one of four types: Animancy, Biomancy, Cosmancy, and Tripumancy.
Animancy is the study of controlling the natural elements of the world, as well as many of its natural, inanimate phenomenon. The forces of lightning, fire, wind, and similar phenomenon. Easily one of the most widespread of magical practices, animancy has many schools of study which all have various scientific dogmas used to explain the natural world around us. As such, the art has undergone quite the renaissance in the past few centuries, often being used alongside the most cutting-edge technologies to prove long-theorized devices.
Biomancy is the manipulation of bodily function, and as a result, has naturally been under heavy scrutiny. Obviously treading fine moral lines, biomancy has nevertheless been invaluable as the preferred magic of doctors and clerics, as well as madmen and heralds of plagues, and has understandably saved just as many lives as it has ended.
Cosmancy remains to be the most nebulous of the magical arts, for while it relates to the control of spacetime - and by extension, fates, probability, and probability - it has long been stigmatized as entirely destrictive witchcraft. As such, accomplished cosmancers often regard their art as secret and only teach their findings to their closest associates, leaving much of the potential of the art to still be discovered.
Tripumancy is the rough ability to act as a magical medium for thaumaturgic energy, refine said energy for a short period of time through intense activity, then transfer the now-refined energy to another being through physical contact. Stemmed in innumerable traditions, the most common means of practice revolves around highly specialized, engraved staves, combined with some means of chant, song, or dance, then transfer via their staves, usually through the form of a very physical - and painful - whack to their victim of choice.
@Double There definitely is magic in the game, so don't worry. It's split along the varied classes in four ways: Mages, Clerics, Shamans, and Adepts, all with distinct spells and roles. How exactly magic works is being ironed out, but the best analogy I can make for it is it works mostly like Shadows of Valentia, where you learn/memorize specific magical spells at the cost of your own lifeforce.
As an anecdote, in-world magic is very much seen as a hard "science". There's specific fields of study for it, and it's explained as a natural force in the world, much like how gravity and heliocentric astronomy were revolutionizing academia at the time; The same is true for Natural Magic. You could even see it as an extension of physics.
When Signor Marco Antonucci discovered gunpowder in 1514, the medieval era was decreed thoroughly over. Castles now lie dormant. Knightly orders are little more than frivolous social clubs. Kings and queens gave way to the rise of the republic and merchant house. Century after century, decade after decade, the Old World saw the fall of many a kingdom, and from their ashes rose the constitutional assembly and parliament. In a single generation, the playing field gave genesis to the Modern Era, the age of knight and dragon seeming like a withered husk in comparison.
Most importantly, a modern age required modern supply. The feats of the most modest modern state make the most accomplished Hero-King of yonder wither in inadequacy, for this new age of science and reason has given birth to a new world where all save the most isolated of hamlets may see traveling patrols and faraway supply alike. Only in the most remote of locales do the threat of banditry ever cross the citizen's mind in the Old World, for the ever-lengthening arm of the law reaches forth with paved road and deliberate canal. The fields of Ferreir have proven to give ample supply in decades past, yet that luxury has faltered under constant pressure of an ever-developing Old World. There is seldom a hill in the Old World that has not seen conflict, for lands innumerate and flags uncountable have risen, held, and fallen to war and lack of resource. These failings are not ones the wizened men of now seek to reproduce.
For as long as the throes of history do echo, the spirit of human curiosity, an ever wonderful and resourceful pique to know just what lay beyond shrouded veils has imbibed itself thoroughly in the quintessence of men. A great woman decreed that, "Idealists foolish enough to throw caution to the wind have advanced mankind and enriched the world". In that everlasting pursuit to stride forth, many a brave mariner took to the pacific Myriadic Ocean, thorough in their belief there was - contrary to what many insisted - something beyond the veil of old. After all, if so many chains before them could be shrugged off, what was one more?
And beyond that gleaming veil...Cascadia.
Sheer bounty of the land alone were the stories of every perspective traveler. "A land more gorgeous than Ferreir herself," they wrote, "where the deer run so plentiful in untouched forests the combined wolves of the world could not dent her populus." An untouched, unexplored land, oozing in natural allure. An alpine land, fair and coastal, that stretched further than spyglass or compass. Such wonders were mere mythos in the Old World by now, nevermind the new bodies of legend that came from the colorful tales of the natives. Cities of gold, scrolls that controlled the sun, primordial civilizations far beneath the sea, a water clock said to be able to show events far into the future...such rumors were manifold. Yet, the mere existence of Cascadia herself was dismissed as but superstition not long ago; Who was to say these legends had no veracity, and instead lie in wait for another to uncover them? With the promise of newfound land teeming with such riches, it would only be a matter of time before the race for the New World would commence.
Such ambition turned to rivalry, the sparks of desire waiting to strike as each Old World power scrambled for the riches of Cascadia. A simple spark, a stray remark, would be all that was required for conflict to erupt over the New World, and soon, the powers that be engulfed themselves in numerous wars - The War of 1711, The Bergesse War, The First and Second Cascades War, Arthur's War, The Belchier-Robin War - only to list a few.
And what is rivalry without stakes - and those to play upon those wishes?
Such treasures are well-coveted, and by those with the fortitude, intelligence, and fortune...alleviating these troves is quite the lucrative business. For in this New Era, there is always room for negotiation, for how would such grand new empires last under the ironclad grip of a delusional an ocean away? That pirates would step up to fulfill such requests is hardly a needed statement, yet the spirit of a newfound world pervades such that it seeps well into the minds of the idealist, the enterprizer, and the rogue. And for that aforementioned reason - that the bickering ministers of the Old World have more land than they can reasonably manage, or know what to do with - allegiances of pirates, buccaneers, and freebooters have very well carved out their own New World.
Their services are, of course, very high in demand, and the free life of a pirate charms many a perspective sailor to Cascadia. And a Letter of Marque from the Republic of Aira? Right where your journey to the New World begins.
Welcome, all my prospective privateers, to Fire Emblem: Sword and Sail! When making this RP, my Co-GM and I wanted to do our best to provide a more free-form experience to all of our players. As you've no doubt noticed if you've read/skimmed/speedread thus far, our setting is quite a bit different from most typical Fire Emblem settings. Set in Cascadia - inspired by 18th Century British Columbia, Alaska, and California - our band of adventurers will be able to forge their own stories, bought with steel, rum, and their own ingenuity.
Along with your fellow roleplayers, you'll be free to uncover the vast sights, sounds, and stores of loot Cascadia has to offer. There's quite the sum of people interested in the ongoing affairs of the region, and becoming embroiled in it is almost as natural as breathing. After all, what's adventure without making some very powerful enemies?
Current ideas, and thoughts on the RP are:
Wolves of Land and Sea - This RP is intended to have a variety of adventures along coastal cities, ancient ruins, the high seas, pristine wilds, and pirate coves alike. Consisting of both land and nautical points, this ensures that little space of Cascadia goes unused. If you see a space and go, "I wanna go there!", who's to say we can't?
Goal-Based Momentum - By having a steady stream of equipment to buy, goals to meet, and people to please, there will always be an overarching goal to work towards. However, in your approach to meet said objectives, you're free to use many of the tools outlined in ways you can think of - or even think of your own unique solutions!
What's A Captain Without His Crew? - Our captains may have their names upon the Letter of Marque, but that doesn't mean they're dictators. You can suggest, talk, and dissent from them all you please, and I encourage you to have similar interactions with your fellow roleplayers! Naturally, how you influence our captains may turn in motion events far into the future...
Fire Emblem-esque - There will be some light stats for the sake of solidifying your character's abilities and skills, as well as a variety of classes to pick for your character; Some familiar, some new to the Age of Sail. You'll be able to progress and evolve your character's abilities with time and experience. There are no plans for FE-like combat maps quite yet, but if there's enough demand for it, we can surely concoct something!
The Door Is Always Open! - If you have an idea for a side adventure or side quest, just suggest it at any point! The point of roleplaying is to give and take, so it's only natural that you have a lot of ideas on your own accord.
If any of this interests you, please join the Discord, as a lot of our OOC talk and planning will be located there; this is by far the best way to get in contact with me. All this said, I look forward to what we can create with this new take on Fire Emblem! Grab a bottle of rum, sharpen up your cutlasses, and sing a sailor's shanty, the New World awaits!
It's me again, the family's resident fuck-up. To answer your previous letter, yes I've been adjusting well, no I haven't been drinking, yes I have made some friends and no it's not that bad out. I've see some combat but it's been brief exchanges of fire where our bullets miss them by a mile and the ones from the other side don't get any closer to us. It was a bit nerve rattling at first I admit with the sounds of shellfire but the Imperials manning the big guns seem to be just as poor shots as the ones using rifles so I'm not really in harm's way. Besides that the only danger I'm in is from dying of boredom. The food is shit and the pay is poor but you know I don't eat much and there's nothing for me to spend my money out here anyway. I'm stationed in Amone right now, a decent sized city in Gallia. I never thought that I'd up working outside Oceania like the rest of the family but who knows? Maybe the White clan is destined to make it's fortune while living amongst the Gallians. It couldn't be any worse than the life we had in Prairie. It's funny that the Feds only give a shit about me now that I'm wearing a uniform for them. They make sure everyone here has enough food and coffee and water and changes of clothes, but where was all this when we were starving to death? Where were all the nurses and doctors they have running around when I was lying flat on my back on the kitchen table, screaming as some poor novice midwife made push out my daughter? Sometimes I wonder if the Federation doesn't care about all the backwaters and slums in it's possession or if Oceania is the only place that's neglected. It make sense that I was born there. An unwanted child who always seems to mess everything and is only kept around out of some sense of obligation. I feel like that describes me and the land. You don't have to try and refute that, don't worry. I can remember very clearly the yelling and screaming, how you guys would whisper to each other when you thought I was asleep about how I was making everything much harder. The best thing that happened to the three of us when you threw me out to make it on my own. I don't blame you. I was a stupid girl who ran with a bad crowd and got herself knocked up. I'm quite frankly amazed you dealt with me as long as you did, especially considering I contributed nothing to the household. Thank you. I do have two more asks of you both: First, can you send me the address Johnny, Ed and Mary? I'd like to write to them as well. Secondly, if the worst happens and I die out here (not likely to happen, trust me) please make sure little Liz knows that her mummy loves her. She needs to know that everything I'm doing out here I'm doing for her. Anyway I have to go. All my best to everyone back home.
Victoria
Hello my little Lizzy. Obviously you're not going to be reading this anytime soon. In fact there's a a very good chance that I'll be dead when you actually do. But that doesn't really matter to me. Hopefully I can manage to make it another year or so, that should be enough money sent home to keep you and Grandma from having to tighten your belts too much. It's nice having a real paycheck now. I have more than enough cash to give to you and have enough left over to spend on cheap moonshine and dirty pictures that some of the boys draw in exchange for a quick buck. Too much information? Probably. It's nothing you won't hear about later in life, or experience for yourself if you end up being anything like me. I hope you don't in that regard, or at least manage to control yourself. I love you more than you could possibly imagine but having you was incredibly dangerous. At that point in my life the last thing I need was a child. You were a mistake, just like I was. It might seem harsh for me to tell you this so bluntly, but I would disagree. For years my parents tried to convince me that I was wanted, that my conception had been more than a tragic accident. It was a lie and I knew it. I figured it out from the comments from the other kids my age, whispers that I was a bastard, my mom was a whore and my father a horse, the kinds of hurtful shit you'd expect from children. I went home and asked about it. They hesitated before answering and I knew it was true. That I wasn't wanted, that is. Obviously my father wasn't a horse, it'd be somewhat difficult to write this with hooves I imagine. But part farmyard animal or no, I was still nothing more than a particularly annoying pet. Every time they tried to deny it just hurt worse, like they thought I was too weak to handle the truth. I'm going to ensure that you're not weak, so by the time you read this you can handle it. It's simply a fact. I was drunk and stupid, and the result was you. It doesn't mean I love you any less. But you must learn not to let anyone walk over you. You likely know by now that I ran with a gang for a time (the Scarlet Slicers we called ourselves, possibly the stupidest name I've ever heard.) I got myself jumped in the next time I saw those kids who taunted me. The biggest one opened his mouth to say something and I silenced him with a brick. Shattered two of his teeth and broke his jaw and nose in a single hit. In an instant I was surrounded, a pack of viciously feral children assaulting me with sticks and fists and chains. I swung back, refusing to go down without a fight because even then I knew that the worst thing one can do is show fear. I fully expected to be beaten to death in that moment but the pack was called off with a shrill whistle. I had impressed the boy in charge of the little group, the one one who I had attacked first, and he took me to see his brother. By the end of the day I was laughing and joking with them. I was still an unwanted bastard child, but I had earned my place in their group. Why am I sharing that with you? Because you need to know that you can't ever let anyone see your worry or fear. It's perfectly fine to feel these things, in fact they're necessary for survival. But don't ever let someone else know you are or have ever experienced them. It's a sign of weakness, a sign that you are easy prey. You will be torn apart, raped and tossed aside like trash, robbed and shot before being left to die in a ditch. Averting your eyes shows the loan shark that you're an easy mark, the violent thug that you won't put up a fight as he takes what he wants. Flinching when you're barked at means that people can just walk all over you. If you let them think that then you deserve whatever you get. Never forget that. The first time I killed another person was at the age of 14. I was at a party, completely shit-faced like I usually was, having a good time with my comrades. A rival gang showed up, an all girl group that went by "The Women of Limbo" (I take it back by the way, that's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard) showed up and it got heated. They were a tough group of bitches, they had to be if they wanted to be respected by the male dominated gangs. I had a begrudging respect for them, but that didn't keep me from a picking a fight with them. It's amazing how angry you can make someone if you tell her that her and her friends are all whores that buy their safety with their bodies. As expected one of them stepped. She pushed me, I pushed her back. A crowd gathered, circling so that there was no way out until the fight was over. I turned to smirk at some cute boy as if to show how much of a tough bitch I was when the bottle broke shattered against my face. that's where I go the scar over my eye, the broken glass ripped through flesh and caused blood to pour into my eye. Half-blinded and screaming in rage I tackled her to the ground and drew my knife from my pocket. The first time I stabbed her it skittered across her ribs, making an ugly scraping sound as it connected with her bones. I can never forget that noise, nor the wet squelches she made as I drove my blade into her chest, stomach and throat. I don't know how many times I stabbed her, just sitting there atop her as I was splashed with hot blood with each thrust. I can remember a red film blocking out everything but her, a piece of meat there for me to carve up. Eventually I was dragged away and given a drink and a new nickname. I was no longer the Bastard, I was Slasher. I wasn't just respected by my crew but all the others as well. It was a good experience, one that prepared me for war. Had I not be so experienced with violence I likely would have frozen in place when I encountered the armored car. A massive metal beast armed with machine guns and seemingly impervious to everything. I watched my unit get cut in half from the fire of it's guns and crushed under it's wheels. I managed to survive because I crushed my fear deep down inside me. I did the same thing was poison gas flooded the streets of Amone, making people cough violently and choke to death on their own vomit. A dying Imperial soldier tried to rip my protective mask from my face and broke his fingers before crushing his skull with my rifle. The first blow didn't kill him and neither did the second. He was a pulped mess, looking up at me with bloody eyes and a disgusting black cavernous that spewed vomit and blood. A few more good swings and his skull cracked, spilling his brains over the dusty floor. And that's the kind of world we live in. I deal with it by drinking and fucking anything that moves. You might cope by drawing, or writing, or singing or a thousand other things. All of them are fine, as long you never go soft.
Always loving you, Mama Vicky
The days after the gas attack had passed in a blur of drinking and digging through the pockets of corpses, Vicky doing her best to ignore the bloody vomit that had pooled in the cups of their throats or the scratches in the cobblestone they had left in their last moments of life as they tried to drag themselves to safety. There was no use dwelling on it, she still had to make it through the rest of the war and focusing on the plight of others would just get her killed.
So she focused on her grave robbing. An Imperial captain’s coat had a lovely flag sewn into the lining, Victoria carefully undoing the stitching and tying it around her neck like a bandana. A elderly Gallian man had the keys to a small house where she found a scattered bills and medal from the armed forces. Had he been a soldier? Or had it been earned by a son that had gotten himself killed? Didn’t matter, the silver and bronze cross was detached from it’s ribbon and pasted to the butt of her carbine.
A particularly racy picture of some young Francian’s girlfriend was tucked into the band of her rabbit felt hat, along with the skull of a rat that she had boiled clean. It seemed fitting for her to carry the talisman, a charm from the species she felt most at home with. By the time they had made it to their new camp Private White had managed to scrounge up some paint in shades of midnight black, blood red, and fiery orange and yellow. Her gas mask had saved her life so she figured it deserved some livening up. The drab canvas was decorated with images of bloodied blades and charred bodies, a copy of the flag worn around her neck depicted burning on the side. She was proud of her work, it represented what she was trying so hard to mold herself into.
As a reward for finishing her art project she decided to sniff out some of that rum she had heard about, carrying the drying mask with her. She found that she had beaten to it by Luke and the bitch that had stubbed a cigarette in her mouth. Or at least she thought the girl had. That night was hazy.
”Oi, cunts.” she said easily, screwing off the top of her flask so she could refill it. Luke grinned as he took a drag from his cigarette, his attention fully on his Darcsen drinking buddy. He wasn't sure how long they had been talking as time seemed they sat in that tent for hours, the rum they had been drinking not aiding in keeping track of time. Honestly he didn't mind, it was relaxing. He looked to the bottle of booze and frowned with flushed cheeks. "They should add booze with our rations, we get shot at almost everyday so the least they could do is put a bottle of the good stuff in our hands when we have some downtime," he muttered before blowing out smoke through his nose. Soon he heard someone calling the two of them cunts and looked over with an arched brow to see a familiarly tall women. He chuckled and rose from his seat, wobbling a bit before lifting up his arms to welcome her.
"Vicky! How nice of you to join us!" he laughed before plopping down back into his seat, nearly falling and laughing as he fixed himself in his seat.
"Sit down and pass that flask of yours, we're runnin low on our own stuff!" he grinned before taking another drag from his smoke. Just the most smidge of haze came over the Darcsen woman as another voice made her sonorous announcement, beckoning before the two as if she were royalty. Inès knew roughly who she was, and while she looked up, couldn't help but fixate her eyes on the dashing little photograph Victoria picked up and propped beside her hat. Her eyebrows raised, a bit impressed. Victoria knew how to pick them, apparently.
Inès motioned over, readjusting her cross-legged seating while she straightened her posture once again. Her face coursed over, smidging through words and errant thoughts, ever so fixated on the tale she was telling to her newfound friend.
"I was just telling him about my ex." she explained, looking briefly up at Victoria. Victoria nodded to Luke as she stepped into the cramped quarters, a crooked smiled brightening her scarred face at his greeting.
"Thought I could smell a little bastard taking all the fucking grog! You need to wash up more boy, your scent scares the carrion dogs off 'n' let's the bleeding Imps know just how to find us!" Her words were harsh but her tone was light, the Oceanic simply greeting her acquaintance in the typical fashion of her culture. More atypical was the warm hug she pulled him as soon as he opened his arms, the taller female embracing the young man tightly and thumping him on the back. She held Luke there for a few tender moments, the mother holding her adopted son in a reassuring grip.
Seems like you've knocked back a few already." she noted, watching him slip and stumble back to his seat before tossing him the flask. "Fill 'er up barman!" If he wanted to bum a drink off of her he'd be sorely disappointed. Vicky had run dry the day before, all the good whiskey she had saved from the White Hart Inn drained after the gas attack. She noticed the Darscen's gaze falling on the unnamed broad she carried, grabbing her hat by the brim and flinging it towards her.
"Look all you like, I don't even know her name! Fan of redheads, are you?" More of their first meeting was coming back to her but Vicky didn't especially care. That was in the past, now they were simply talking. The digger girl leaned up against the tent post, face darkening at the mention of an ex. "I have stories to tell about exes of my own." she spat hatefully, fingering the brass pendant around her neck. Luke embraced the hug from Victoria with a chuckle as he patted her back and stumbled back into his seat. He looked to the flask with a bit of disappointment before shrugging and poring bit of rum inside. With smirk he happily took a sip from the bottle before handing her back her flask with a nod. Luke watched as she tossed the her hat to Ines before looking back to her leaning on the tent post, the look of hate on her face as she brought up her ex. He couldn't help but chuckle in amusement at the two girls and shook his head.
"I swear, the guys who pissed you off must be insane, or have death wish," he said before sighing and taking a drag from his cigarette.
"I feel left out really, never had a lady of my own in my life. Thank god for that, would be to much of a pain to deal with. Especially now..." he said before leaning back, "Wouldn't want another person mourning my dead corpse." he chuckled bitterly before blowing out a wave of smoke through his nose.
"Anyway, exes." he said before motioning with hand for them to continue their conversations about failed lovers. She prepared herself with a usual comment on Luke's relationship status being an unsurprising revelation, yet out of some newfound courtesy, spared what was to be a light exchange for another time. Yet, what he said just before forced a bit of a wince from the woman. Mourning, so it was. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation to the Darcsen, not by any metric; For that, Inès seemed not to take to the lightness at which Luke proposed, even if such bravado even she found necessary to get through the discomfort. But his prompt was best taken, for Inès herself nodded in agreement that she continue. Back aligned with the posts, parallel to her seat, she looked over the two, apparently ready to continue.
"Exes..." Inès nodded. A light, strangely nostalgic smile came about her face, shaking her head as the memory made its vivacious marks across her pleasantly consternation expression. As if she only smiled because she knew not whether to kill him or thank him.
"Cédric was..."
She shook her head. A heavy sigh dragged her body and head down.
"God, he was a wreck. He...he used to be so great, and then he would...he'd..."
"He'd come to me, and knock on my tenement door, wake everyone up and he'd yell my name, completely dirt-faced drunk. 'Inès! Inès! I'm so sorry! Please don't leave me!'...and i'd tell him, 'Cédric, you're drunk; I'm not leaving you.', and he'd just..."
Inès pulled her head up, a crooked frown trying so desperately to crack a smile expressed toward the pair, as she brought up a time she would have rather forgotten.
"I remember he'd never let go. And he'd cry. And cry until he didn't have any tears left and he lost his own voice weeping to me...about how nobody cared about him. He'd say, 'Even my mom's thought i've lost my mind. She doesn't care about me, Inès...my own mother doesn't care about me!' And..."
She huffed.
"...It was...it was sad. Because he'd rob and steal just...every. Single. Day. And...he never saved the money, and just...always got himself into more and more trouble. It was just...it's like watching someone lose their mind, and him just always saying how...I was the only person who mattered. Being the only person he cared about...and knowing that, one day, he would just...kill himself." Victoria spit on the ground before knocking back a third of the flask's content, seething in contempt for her former partner. "I'll say he fucking does. When this fucking war is over I'm going to find him and slit his throat." she promised. "And trust me, you're not missing anything. All relationships bring is trouble and unwanted burdens." Her tone made it clear she was speaking from experience, boot kicking dirt over the puddle of spit she had made.
"If you ever try to shack up with Diana - like we all know you want to - or any other girl, you make sure you leave on good terms. If I find out you left someone with a bastard to care for. I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you." There was no malice in her voice, no bravado. It was a promise, a statement of fact like saying the sky was blue. She might have had a soft spot for Luke but she was not going to let him do what had been done to her.
"Besides, at least you know people who will mourn for you." Her lecture done Victoria fell silent, taking another drink of rum as Ines spoke. This Cedric she spoke of reminded her of Charles and even herself. The drinking, the stealing, the way they had promised to be there for one another. And then he had taken off, leaving her with a baby and burning hatred that fueled her through this bullshit war.
"I understand that." she muttered, "Thinking that you're going to be with someone forever, through thick and thin, only for it to turn into a lie. I met a man named Charles, a two bit thief and card shark. We'd meet every night and I'd give him all the money and valuables I had shaken out of people or taken from them after I shattered some bones. He'd take it and gamble it all away, always saying how just one more win would put us over the edge. Sometimes he won and we'd drink, party and fuck during week long benders. Other times he'd 've lost and we'd scream at each other, throwing things and punching."
A hand flicked open her necklace, showing Luke and Ines the picture of Elizabeth.
"This was the final straw. He knocked me up and left me alone with a baby girl and no way to feed her. I did the only thing I could and signed up to be with you fuckers. We all have to live with the consequences of our actions. Better to only deal with those and not weigh yourself down with someone else." Luke choked and the smoke he had inhaled as Victoria talked about him getting with Diana and coughed, patting his chest with his fist before looking to her with flushed cheeks, though that was still thanks to the booze.
"Like I'd ever be with her. That little girl isn't my type," he said, though he looked away with a bit of embarrassment. He held up his hands as she threatened him if he ever left, and chuckled.
"Easy, mama bear. I'm a dick, but I'd never do that." he declared before taking a sip from the bottle. Silently he listened to the two talk about their failed lovers and could only shake his head and scoff with a smirk. "Jeez, and here I was feeling left out about being single. You two make being in love to be a shit deal. I may never fall in love at this rate!" he chuckled as he inhaled the fumes from his cigarette. As Victoria showed them the picture of her kid Luke paused for a moment, staring at the picture with a small frown. A loud groan escaped him before he rubbed his face and chuckled bitterly.
"I hate this shit; the love talk," he scoffed before spitting to the side, "Every time I hear someone talk about it, I can't help but get annoyed. I just don't get it sometimes, how you two could have stuck around pieces of shit like that. There's no possible way that love was worth it, was it?" he questioned before sighing rubbing his chin.
"Call me a dick all you want, just sounds pointless..." he said and leaned forward before clutching his hands together, trying to get his mind around it. It could have been the booze talking, but after hearing the two talk about their failed loves, it sounded ridiculous to stay.
"I'd rather just focus on killin' Imps than who I want to love." he stated. inhaling another wave of smoke into his lungs. To her left was a man - doubtlessly one who'd never felt anything so much more than the bare minimum of comradery - who so readily denounced love and would rather take up murder as an occupation than those of loving another. To her right was a mother - one Inès didn't question would grow to be an embittered scowl, at this rate - eager to slit the throat of a dead man for the sake of someone she said slighted her just weeks ago. Could she shake her head? It'd be pointless. No reason with reasoning, it seemed, and for whatever sense this war could make, others so readily rejected while they went about their days. Inès mulled the two over, indecisive as to whether or not she found herself in good company.
"No." she answered, staring split down the middle from the two's positions, as if addressing both their proclamations, "I loved Cédric a lot. And...I knew that he was hopeless. But, I tried. And we had fun. So...no. I don't regret it, actually."
The sight of a young earthhead still lingered around Inès' mind; Victoria was evidently younger than her, apparent even through her numerous scars and snarls. She was already raising one of her own, or, failing that, making an attempt to. Yet...
Inès looked up at Victoria, a soft gaze in her stare. They did not beg, for the showed no water nor wavering in their steadfast posture. Nor did they command, as their vibrant color and directed focus did dictate. Instead, they kindly asked - like that of the mother Victoria wanted to be - for her to put aside her anger
"You know...my mother was about the same age as you when she had me." the Darcsen commented. "You and that 'little girl' are the poster children for will they, won't they." Vicky snickered, very much amused by Luke's spluttering reaction, "I bet you get hard every time you think about her! And I can't blame you."
That crooked smile had returned, a sign that she was just trying to get a rise out of him. It seemed like she had gotten her wish, the Oceanic chuckling as Luke looked away. "I hope not." the "mama bear" responded, "But you'd do well to avoid children in general. It's not a burden you take on lightly."
She shrugged at his proclamation that love was worthless, not feeling particularly strongly about the statement either way. She only had her own experience to go off of, and that didn't exactly give her a bright view. But then again, she was one person of untold multitudes throughout history. It seemed rash to decide one way or another based off such a small sample size.
"I'd be willling to bet that what I had wasn't love. It was on my end, but he certainly didn't love me"
Victoria simply listened as Ines's shared that she didn't regret her past relationship. It wasn't her place to judge. For all she knew this Cedric had been the best person on the planet in all of history. If Ines wanted to hold onto memories of a man she had left or lost that was her decision, albeit one that she couldn't understand. Why would you want to hold onto the past like that? Surely it just hurt, constantly going over what one used to have or what could have been? The only reason she still thought about Charles was because he made a useful goal. Once she made it out of the war and her daughter had some money saved away she could track the piece of shit down and murder him. She stared back as Ines looked up at her, somewhat perturbed by the softness in her eyes.
"If you're going to stare at anyone like that try the broad in the picture." she joked halfheartedly, only for the words to die on her lips.
"The same age I am now? Or do you mean sixteen, when I got pregnant. Either way...I'm so sorry."
If her mother was anything like Victoria, growing up must have been a real struggle for Ines. Lukes cheeks grew warmer as Victoria continued to talk about him and Dian before scoffing slightly, knowing she was just trying to get a rise out of him. Sad thing was she was doing a good job of it. Luckily Ines gained his attention as she stated not regretting being with Cédric and shrugged.
"Good for you then, no regrets is always nice/" he said with a nod before glancing to Victoria as she stated what she wasn't love. From what she said about the relationship he wasn't to surprised, sounded toxic. Luke tensed up for a moment though as Ines brought her mother, a small frown crawling onto his face. He shook his head and scoffed.
"Mothers..." he spat with a bit of venom, a flash of disgust on his face. Ever since he walked into this city he's seen more and more of that witch in his dream, or even in the shadows from the corners of his eyes. That soulless bitch was still haunting him and causing several sleepless nights, even when there was no fighting.
"Even that word sounds meaningless..." he muttered with a scowl before taking another sip of rum. Inès discharged Victoria's pity with a tilt of her head. Even Luke seemed distraught at the turn of tone, reaching straight for the bottle at the mere suggestion of such talks. Such a topic Inès could go on for, endlessly charading and beloving her mother as effortlessly as breathing may have been. Yet, there was no use in opening up wounds while they had yet to recover from those most recently patched, and so it was that Inès looked about her company and decided a bit of change was necessary.
"Don't worry about it." she assured Victoria, inspecting what remained of a nearby rum bottle before washing a light drink down with a coarse cough, "She has a lot of problems, but...we get along."
"Though..."
Inès sighed, placing her hands upon her knees as she set the bottle to her side. A few nods repeat themselves, taking passes at both Luke and Victoria while her lips purse in reflection.
"...out of all the love i've had..."
"...it's worth it for the sex." Vicky nearly snorted at Luke's apparent disgust at the very concept of motherhood. Did he just have issues with all women? That seemed unlikely considering that he was talking to two of them with relative civility. Whatever it was it clearly eating him up inside.
"I guess fatherhood really isn't for you, then." she stated dryly, finally dropping into a low crouch scratching at her leg. "And I'm glad you're able to talk to her. I wish I still had that with my parents." The muffled snort escapes at Ines's final reflection, Victoria nodding in agreement.
"That's fucking right!" she crowed, "I might have fucked myself over, but I had fun doing it!"
The alcoholic turned back to Luke, cocking her head in curiosity. "So if it's not Diana - which I don't believe for a goddamn second - then who is it? Who are you hoping will pin you to the wall and make you man up?" Luke glanced to Victoria as she mentioned something about fatherhood and shrugged. He had no idea if he had what it took to be a father, but there was no reason to worry about it now. The war was where his focus should be on. He nodded towards Ines as she said she was still in a good relationship with her mother and silently envied her to have a mother that didn't hate her guts.
As Luke sighed and let the two talk, he arched a brow and glanced to Ines as she said the sex was worth it. He chuckled in amusement before inhaling his cigarettes fumes into his lungs, the nicotine satisfying in calming his nerves. Unfortunately his calmed nerves didn't last long as Victoria asked who it was going to take to make him a man. His cheeks grew bright red at the question and looked away with a frown.
"I-I don't have anyone in mind, I just need to focus on work." he declared, though silently he thought about her question and her mentioning Diana. That little firecracker of girl who kept giving him a hard time was his first kiss, but that didn't mean anything... Right? He shook his head as he remembered that night in the Inn and ignored the rapid beating in his heart before looking to Victoria and Ines, hoping to switch the question on them.
"What about you two, huh?! Who out of the squad got your eyes?" he questioned with a frown, wanting to steer himself away from giving an actual answer to her question. Inès glared at him.
"The entire Inn could hear Franz and I fucking in the bathtub, and Freya and I weren't much quieter, either." Inès answered promptly. Booze confidence be damned, for it turned Inès into an unashamed monster at this pace.
"If you don't like anyone, fine, but don't give us wishy-washy answers and not expect us to ask questions when we're trying to help." Luke's evasiveness didn't go unnoticed by Victoria either, the Oceanic taking a drink of rum before answering.
"Fuck, let's go down the list: I already fucked Diana as you well know, Jean's not bad looking, who doesn't want to fuck Thomas?...Ines here seems fun, and I'd bet that I'd enjoy ruining you for any other girl." She had nothing to hide. Hopefully the way she had said it all so nonchalantly would rattle him some.
"Now, back to you. Who're you keeping an eye on? No half-answers, or me and Ines will hold you down until you tell us." Luke flinched a bit as Ines told him her and Franz had been together, news to him since he was to drunk that night to know. "I-I... uh..." he wasn't able to speak much more after she gave him a hard time not answering the question, wincing as she said they were only trying to help him. He frowned and scoffed.
"I didn't ask for help..." he muttered before looking to Ines began to run down a list of people that had her eye, though he didn't listen to most of them. He stopped listening after she said she had sex with Diana. His eyes widened a bit in surprise, again another set of unheard news. He stared at her for a few seconds, the fact they had slept together forming a ball of unknown emotions in his gut. Was he... bothered by it? No, he couldn't be. Why would he, Diana was just a comrade. It had to be the rum, that the only explanation. His face was clearly bothered by the fact they were together and tried to look away, a frown on his face.
"I... I didn't know you two were together." he muttered as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Soon a heavy sigh escaped him as the two continued to pry themselves into the topic and held up his hands to calm them down. "Fine, fine, relax." he said before rubbing his scared cheek.
"I-I guess...you two are okay. Not that bad on looks and easy to talk to, well...sometimes easy to talk to." he said glancing up at the two with narrowed eyes before looking back down with red cheeks. He paused for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing.
"D-Diana too, I guess..." he added, rubbing the back of his neck with a groan. "Man, you two sure are nosey aren't ya'?" The Darcsen woman giggled at Luke's final confession, watching the perfect crescendo as his face turned more and more red the more the two went down their list of sex. Although, to Inès at least, it came as little surprise that Luke fancied the sandhead - she knew of two good reasons why - finally nodding to Luke's declaration of interest.
It didn't help Luke's case that he had made the incredible play of making racist sentiments against Darcsens, then making offhand comments about Inès in nice clothing, then that of either romantic or sexual interest in her. Perhaps luckily for the young man, Inès had no intention of touching the dirthead with a 50 meter pole, nevermind letting him inside her. She even seemed to shudder at the notion. All in good faith, of course.
"So you like dark-haired girls, awkward rich girls, and tough girls?" Inès smirked back at him, the light imbibement already forcing her to tease him a smidge.
"Diana has a fucking big pair on her..." Vicky was glad to see that her words had the intended effect on Luke although she was confused that Luke didn't know that she and Diana had slept together. Hadn't the silly girl invited him? She had told her that she was welcome to. Apparently, she hadn't, or maybe Luke had just she was bluffing. Either way it was clearly a shock to him and Victoria decided to seize on it.
"She's so fucking cute in bed! Inexperienced obviously, but very eager to learn. And she's a screamer." When the boy admitted that he was attracted to her and Ines she stood up and held the edge of her fatigues, giving him a little curtsy, "Why thank you Luke. You're not exactly awful looking yourself." When he finally said Diana's name she clapped her hands in mock excitement, "It's a miracle! The man can tell the truth!"
She nodded vigorously at Ines's assessment of Diana's chest. "I would know! You have to see them to believe them, they're fucking huge on her tiny frame! I can try and get you a picture next time if you'd like?" Luke's cheeks only continued to grow red as Ines began to tease him on his answers and looked away with a frown, huffing through his nose in slight annoyance. He glanced to Victoria as she started to talk about Diana in bed, looking away with a sour frown as she went on. This wasn't supposed be a big deal, who cares if they did it? Was no skin off his back. It still bothered him for some reason though. He clicked his tongue in annoyance before taking a sip from the bottle. Luke looked back to Victoria as she said he wasn't bad looking and chuckled lightly before rubbing the scars on his right cheek.
"I'd say this doesn't help with my looks, unless people are into it." he said before frowning as she said him telling the truth was miracle. "Not like I had much of a choice..." he muttered bitterly before ruffling his hair with a groan as they began to talk about Diana's chest. He tried to ignore the two with the frown, the more they talked about it the deeper his frown got. He glanced to Victoria as she offered to get a picture of them and shook his head.
"No, I don't need a picture. I also don't need to bother with getting with anyone because I didn't come here to hook up. I came to fight, simple as that." he said before letting out a frustrated sigh and rubbing the back of his neck.
"Besides, I wouldn't know what to do. I'm... I'm not sure if I ever will..." he muttered before lowering his head and scratching his chin as he thought on the whole conversation.
"Jeez, this whole conversation is a mess..." Now, Inès would be a lying woman if she said she didn't take pleasure in this conversation. Perhaps it was a far cry from, 'a day with the girls', true, but the relaxed, nonchalant discussion of their sex lives was always a bit of a raunchy and fun topic, but that seemed limited to only Victoria and herself. Truth be told once again, she couldn't quite admit that seeing Luke brought so low as when not weeks ago he so readily dismissed Darcsens as wholly villainous was not even slightly intriguing to note. Yet Inès harbored little bitterness towards the earthhead, and seeing low remark after low remark, coupled with his sullen, hunched demeanor as he secluded himself further and further into his shell, she didn't particularly enjoy his more retracted expression.
Inès frowned. Her hand reached to Luke, nodding along in sympathy to his plight.
"You're not a bad guy." she comforted, shrugging to Luke's self-demeaning claims.
"You're an idiot, and you can be a jerk sometimes, and you're a know-it-all, and you said Darcsens were perfect for living in blown-out holes in the ground, and you could use a few more centimeters down there..."
"...but you're not bad. And..." Inès snickered. She realized she wasn't off to the greatest of starts, sure, but what was a little brutal honesty to the fearless Luke Godfrey?
"You're kind of sweet." "Hey, you got a problem with scars?" Victoria asked cheekily, jutting her chin out so that Luke could take a good look at the one that was carved across her face. "The marks don't matter, it's how you carry them." She lifted a sleeve to show her friend the wounds left by shrapnel before brushing aside her hair so he could get a good look at the chunk of her ear that was missing. "If scars were what made men ugly, I'd be shit out of luck myself." She snickered when the young man talked about how he wouldn't know what to do.
"Luke, no one does when they first try. It's instinctive, animal-like. We put you in a bed with Diana and you'll figure it out right quick." The Oceanic laughed as she spoke, gulping down another portion of rum and wiping her mouth with the Imperial flag around her neck.
Vicky nodded at Ines's evaluation of him, agreeing with everything she said. "You have the emotional intelligence of a sheep in rut, but you're not evil." she said not unkindly, "And you're not lacking that much down there, you learn a bit of technique and you'll be good. Besides, once you stop acting like a moron you're quite nice to talk to." Luke chuckled as Victoria questioned what was wrong with scars before showing off her own. He examined them with curiosity before snickering a bit as as she mentioned throwing him in the a bed with Diana to figuring things out.
"Like I said before, not happening; Work comes first." he stated before taking a drag from his smoke.
He arched a brow as he heard Ines tell him he wasn't a bad guy and glanced up to her in curiosity, not expecting that from her. He chuckled lightly as she began to list down his flaws, each one making his smirk grow more in amusement. It was true he had a lot of them and honestly he didn't care enough it got him into trouble. Made things interesting. He chuckled as she called him sweet before rolling his eyes.
"Sure I am." he said with a sarcastic tone, though a small smile rested on his face as he silently appreciated her attempts to lift his spirits.
Luke looked to Victoria as she threw in her two cents about him and couldn't help but laugh in amusement before shaking his head with a grin. "Well, I guess it's good to know I'm not a complete lost cause." he said before leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. "I need to get out of this camp and back to work before I start to get to chummy with you two..." he chuckled with a grin before ruffling his hair with a sigh. He was definitely starting to feel useless sitting in this camp when there was still a city that needed to be taken. Luke exuded his restlessness in every mannerism he displayed, from how he constantly mentioned wanting to resume "labor" to how he so blatantly listed off his priorities. Inès half-smirked, wondering for a moment if Luke possessed either impeccable work ethic, or if he was just a glory hound, looking for something to tell his folks back home. She shook her head. Inès met a lot of Lukes throughout her months-long military career. She sent flowers to their graves every month.
"A lot of 'work' is waiting for something to happen." Inès told Luke, "Rest up. Otherwise, you might end up being a psychopath like Victoria." Victoria wondered is Luke actually believed what he was saying or if he was just bluffing like she was. He acted awfully interested in their shared "work", did he have a vendetta against the Imperials? Or maybe he was just loyal to the Federation. Or he maybe the only way he could get off was with a gun in his hands; Vicky had met plenty of guys like that during her time in the service.
"Why do you care?" she asked finally, "About the war, I mean. Why does it matter so much to you? Do you just like violence?" She gave a good-natured middle finger to Ines, but didn't refute the point. That was basically what she herself was worried about. "Seriously, I said it once and I'll say it again: the army is not the right place for you, it's for fuck-ups like me who can't do anything else. You should leave as soon as you can." A chuckle escaped Luke as Ines suggested just resting while he can shook his head. "Rest? I've been working non-stop since both my parents passed, there's no way I'm gonna start now. Can't afford to." he said with a heavy sigh as he thought back on most of his childhood. It was filled with nothing but hardships and back breaking work. Hardly any fun, or joy. Just an endless spiral of pent up anger and remorse.
The only thing he had to look forward to were his sisters. Luke was brought out of his thoughts as Victoria caught him off guard with the question of why he cared about the war so much. He shook his head as she asked if it was the violence.
"No of course not, I... I just wanted to do something else with my life, to be more than a damn peasant farmer." he said before feeling a small frown come onto his face as she began to talk again, telling him he shouldn't be here, that he didn't belong there. He shook his head and scoffed in annoyance.
"Ya' know what?" he muttered before rising from his seat with a heavy frown on his face and set his hardened gaze onto her. "I'm tired of hearing that shit, that I don't belong here! How the hell do you know where I belong!? Huh?! I'm tired of hearing of what people think I should do with my life, saying I'm not cut out for this! Fuck that!" he spat before smacking his chest roughly.
"I'm here to make my mark on the world, to show everyone that I follow my own path! So if I end up dead so be it! I signed up knowing full well I'll most likely die in this fucking war so at least I can die happy knowing I died following my own path!" he finished, his fist clutched tightly before letting out a heavy sigh and falling back into his seat. The booze must be fueling him on, but it felt good to get that out. "Luke. Shut up."
Inès commanded him staunchly, a scowl on her face stronger that would make a drill sergeant avert their eyes. She held up two fingers, almost ready and poised to silence whatever attempt to speak up, and another open palm Luke could correctly guess that Inès would be more than happy to reacquaint with his face.
"Listen to yourself. Is that what you want? To die? Do you want to go back home to your sisters, and tell them, "I joined the war so I could die."?" Inès didn't shake her head. She kept her ironclad glare steadily upon the frustrated young man, almost as if she created a steady haze above Luke's head that forced him down like a sad dog. Victoria didn't respond verbally as Luke launched into his tirade, content to let him him stand up and pound his chest like a big man. He was nowhere near the scariest man that had tried to intimidate her. She simply stood up herself, rising to her full height and tucking her flask.
"That's fucking right, some real emotion!" she crowed, "Anger is so much better than self-deprecation, lets you know you're a killer! C'mon Luke, if you wanna scrap, let's go for it! I won't even try to dodge the first hit!" This had taken an interesting turn. Maybe the army was the right place for him with the way he just suddenly went off. But then it left him, Vicky watching the man fall back into his seat with a huff. And just when she thought she had met someone with some balls...
"Ah c'mon, leave him alone." she said to Ines, "It's good when someone is honest about their life. I'm in the same boat as him, if I die here it doesn't matter. I guess we're alike in some ways, just a pair of cunts that aren't good for anything else." She wasn't drunk off alcohol, intoxicated by the rush of meeting another rat. A pair of scavengers that didn't fit in polite society. Luke scoffed towards Victoria as she began to look more than willing to fight him. Honestly at the moment it seemed like a good idea to blow off more steam through his fist, but he knew it was the rum getting him all riled up. It'll only get him in more trouble. He noticed Ines's iron like glare directed towards him and scoffed as she began to ask if it was really what he wanted, if he wanted to die and leave his sisters behind.
"N-no, I just... I cant pretend anymore. To be happy with my life, that nothing bothers me. So...I thought if I were to die, I'd at least die setting an example for my sisters that they can do whatever they want with their lives..." he said before hanging his head and ruffling his hair.
He chuckled as he heard Victoria spoke up again, saying they were both not good for anything else. "I guess so..." he smirked before raising his head and letting a drained grin roll into his face. "I just dont give a damn anymore. I've stopped caring a long time ago, ever since...she..." he paused for a moment, his grin falling as he began to feel an ungodly chill run up his spine, as if someone ran their frozen finger tips along his spine. Then, in a brief moment he heard a chilling whisper before snapping out of it, realizing he had spaced out for a moment. He shook his head before rubbing his face.
"N-never mind, let's just drop it..." he muttered before pulling out another cigarette to light and inhale. A steady glare passed over Luke, Inès' rough eyes watching the same fate, over, and over, and over pass over with no indication it would go much differently. Pulses tingled through her back, begging that she reflexively retract, no matter how much it may disrupt her current comfort. Not much was worse than seeing the same story prevail, the cautionary tales strung by veterans falling upon ears deafened by naïveté. Yet, it is in everything left unspoken where tragedy is made.
But what was there left for Inès to say?
The dirtheaded mother didn't help. Many of the survivors seldom did, even as was their apparent duty to guide those more or less fortunate to have fewer experiences behind them. Victoria had an interesting clamor for life - one shared by the many experts, adherents, or lovers of their lives of ill-coincided adventure - and one Inès, too, saw before. Violette never was much of one for helping others find their way, too.
She sighed. Two broken, dreary eyes aged twenty years in an instant, and that fractured, breathy resignation from Luke and Victoria signified disappointment full well. Inès stood, positioning her hands forth, like a pose to a presidential address, even, dropping, waving, fidgeting, twitching while she found and lost so many of the wrong words to say at the right moment.
"...fine." was all she could sputter out, bearing an unusual heaviness within the flowery Francian accent.
"See you later."
Inès left the space for the two. With any luck, Victoria might be able to be a mother for once. Inès didn't hold her breath. Victoria sadly as Luke admitted that he had intended to die, or at least had expected to. It always made her sad to see people who had potential following the same path she had written herself into. It was a little irrational to decide that he could do better with his life based off such little experience together, but she knew his story. Anyone who could go through what he had while caring for two young sisters had the strength to do whatever they put their mind to. She wanted to embrace him again as he cut himself off, guessing at who "She" was. Vicky couldn't blame him for changing the subject, keeping her mouth shut as Ines stared at them with... disappointment? Or was it just disgust? It was hard to tell.
The Oceanic watched the Francian female stand up and fidget with her hands, waving a lazy goodbye as her acquaintance left the tent. "Have a good one." she called back, turning to face Luke. The mother didn't say anything to her adopted son, simply crouching back down and looking at him. She held the awkward pause for a moment before pulling him into another tight hug, one arm wrapped around his waist while the other dragged a blanket up and around them.
"Shut up and cuddle with me." she ordered, not willing to leave him alone with his thoughts for the time being. A long heavy sigh escaped Luke as he ran a hand through his messy hair, his mind and body suddenly feeling so exhausted. How did it come to this? He had been laughing and talking not to long ago. Now here he was, feeling as if he had just been thrown down a flight of stairs. He took a healthy drag from his cigarette before hanging his head and holding his suddenly aching head. Soon he heard Ines rise and glanced up to her only to see a gaze of disappointment directed towards him. He showed no reaction to the gaze, but it did make him feel lower than he already was. Weaker. He looked back down towards the grounded and nodded before inhaling more smoke into his lungs. "Thanks for the rum," he muttered with a weak voice, any type of boldness or confidence no where to be seen. As she left he let himself become consumed into the silence that filled the tent. It felt so comforting, being alone in his thoughts. His lonely mind being the only place he's felt safe. Soon though he noticed a figure grow closer from the comer of his eye and prepared himself to be tormented by the visions his beaten mind haunts him with. It never came though, instead he was pulled forward and welcomed into a comforting warmth that only tightened around him. Luke tensed for a moment, not understanding what was happening at the moment, but as a blanket was pulled over him and Victoria's familiar voice reached his ears. His tensed body quickly relaxed and let his cigarette fall to the ground.
He gave no resistance to Victoria's hug and let himself sink deeper into her embrace, resting his heavy head on her shoulder. So much weight was taken off his body and mind as he rested with Victoria, a heavy breath of relief leaving his nostrils. His eyes began to grow heavy and his breathing became steady, but before he closed his eyes to rest his mind he saw a blurry black figure linger in the shadowy corner of the tent and held Victoria's shirt tightly.
"She won't leave..." he whispered in a shaky voice before finally falling asleep, a warm embrace ensuring him he was no longer alone.
She pondered over the little ruby ring, nearly pawing it like she were a cat toying with its dinner. Luke and her had made some headway with their belated birthday celebrations, yet the gift was an unexpected one. Deserved, yes, she mentally noted, yet planned? No. Luke was guiltier than Max was in that regard. At very least, Max and Inès had history which extended beyond slaps to the face and inflammatory remarks. Luke afforded himself no such luxury, and instead Inès smiled as the glistening of the rose gemstone reminder of the renouncement of Luke's racism for a nice gesture.
It had cost her a bottle of rum, of course, yet what was something she hated for a new friend and an expeditiously planned present? Another pass of her thumb strewed across the top of the ring's set-piece, the gilded jewelry firmly illustrating in the fading sunlight of the evening. She'd seldom wear it, of course. It wasn't to her tastes, much like necklaces, bands, and other frivolous accessories. A wrapping of spare cloth concealed the little gift, as she firmly tucked the protective covering between the ring's loop, folding the leftover cloth bolt to form some vaguely circular textile.
Her satchel flipped open its sturdy canvas top to reveal the several compartments within. Most occupied themselves with the contents of either necessity or memoir, sometimes a pleasant reminder of better times, others bitter tokens of lessons learned the harsh way. Inès smirked, half borne of nostalgia and the other of dejection. The little lull of time passing, the calmness between the storms, each little memoir within her bag couldn't help but remind her of the time spent in her previous deployment. Rough, it certainly was, yet for all the hell she had gone through, Inès found herself - ironically speaking - missing the misery.
May 29th, 1914
Such was the travesty of Squad Seven that finding refuge in a dilapidated Francian estate was more a worry than blessing. Never before had a trench seemed such a sight for sore eyes in that cellar the remnants of the 3rd Platoon and other accompanying survivors than in the sepulchral basement within a manor left abandoned for the better part of years, by this point. The courtyard above blossomed with such carelessness, becoming more a grove than garden by the three odd years since a tender last performed his or her duty. To say nothing of the vineyards east, overgrown was a polite way to describe the veritable jungle which had steadily eroded any sense of agricultural order. Interiors echoed with rotted decor, echoing the footprints of those who entered, like the members of the 17th knew full well they trespassed upon an area otherwise considered haunted. Yet circumstance drew the better of them, and fortune, this once, favored the bold, for as its time as a wartime ruin, it seemed as though none of its brief visitors were brave - or desperate - enough to relieve the old dwelling of its treasures.
Its old oak door swung open, even with the residence of the manor in play, the door did release its cloud of dust as though it had not seen use in centuries. Inès, yet accustomed to her new dwelling, signaled for her Lance-Corporal comrade to follow in her footsteps, carrying the front end of what was a large wooden crate, on both sides and its top (incorrectly) labeled, "MUNITIONS - DRY, LONG-TERM". Even as the trek weighed down on her, the slight soreness of the long hike back from that lucrative raid paid obvious dividends. All the same, Inès spoke her mind.
"Was that really necessary?" Inès questioned, looking back to the one before her, known by many descriptors; Darcsen. Former Gang-Leader. Lance-Corporal. "Violent". Friend.
"Getting soft on me, Lévesque?" She hollered back. If Inès appeared rough before when Jean first acquainted herself with the maitre, Inès would have appeared to be a blue-haired angel if she stood beside Violette. Nothing about Violette - from the eyepatch so clearly from long ago that she would most gladly tell you she obtained prior to the start of the war, to how she walked with such savage elegance that the esteemed Francian mannerisms tied with the callousness she exuded like the radiance off of gold, and how in her most vicious state, Violette would make even Victoria White appear saintly - spoke to any sense of fair mannerism. Yet Francian culture bore its mark upon the woman, and for what brash remark she may have had for Inès, even came through so light and flowery an accent that even such a venomous retort seemed innocuous.
"We're having Darcsen bitches tonight, boys! This'll be fun!" Violette half-recited, half-mocked in a vulgar mockery of the Imperial accent, "Would you have liked for him to go free, mmh~?"
"Qu'il aille se faire foutre." ("Fuck him.") The repulsion in Inès voice spewed pure hatred as she recalled the libel of that debased Imperial. "Him, I understand. But, the other ones?"
Violette shrugged, grunting in symphony as the crate thudded to the stone floor below. Rose pink lips came together in slight smirk, just so poised upwards so they gave no uncertain indication she took pride in her work. Once a thief, always a thief, so did the mantra go. Her single visible eye tilted down, indicative of such a smug questionnaire as Violette herself. "And they were just going to let it happen if they captured us? Please. They knew what they were getting into."
Inès lowered her eyebrows, almost resigning such remarks. Such was the fate of talking to walls, she supposed, yet Inès wished she could find the right words to express her dissent with such opinion. Groupthink to such degrees showed full well their willingness - as Inès knew yet wished was never the case - to simply allow the Imperials their full defilement as some manner of ramification for Squad Seven's audacious attempts at abidement. Even in Ostend, the mentality was the same, and for all the hate Inès had of it, such phrases rung true half of the country south during their time of war; It was them, or us.
A sonorous *clunk!* thundered through the cellar, the supply crate finding residence from one squad, one faction to another, for this one would be put to better use feeding its more desperate occupiers. Both the women rolled their shoulders, creaking their necks as they sighed off the laborious march from camp to dwelling. First did the Private look back at her Lance-Corporal, then abruptly twitching her head back to the cellar's door as the following footsteps of their comrades carried whatever else came of their needful pillage. The faces - familiar and otherwise - bore their own specific burdens, a Vinlandic redhead carrying great/ unmarked white sacks, while two shorter Darcsens, a man and woman, carried a crate not dissimilar to those of Inès and Violette, all clearly struggling from sweat and fatigue born of days labor in the Francian late spring. Just behind, while the companions did labor, a mighty, hewn man, topped with snow-white hair and glistening pale eyes, walked among Squad Seven. From his chevron-printed arm, he extended a finger firmly to his left, just along the wall.
"Here." His voice clearly bore the east accent of the Ruzhians, powerful and commanding, and so similar yet so different from those of the Imperials. What immediately was apparent as the Sergeant did speak was how his accent permeated every aspect of his speech, like the body himself was born into made its mark upon every word he uttered. When he looked, it seemed so distantly focused that a thousand-yard stare snapped instantly as he turned, like he danced so effortlessly between fantasy and reality that such distinction needn't even process. Ruzhians never smiled. Misha seldom smiled. There was very little to smile about, regardless.
At the very least, everyone was happy to be back and away from their retrieval mission. With some supply secured, Squad Seven's current occupants tagged around one of the sole "tables" of the basement, itself simply a few stacked empty crates with old boxes serving as impromptu chairs. The surface was flat and smooth enough to suit their needs aplenty however, and in mutual agreement of their job done, Inès and her squad almost naturally took their seats around the table. Without formal declaration, everyone still had their nearly unspoken assigned seating at this sort of "round table". Inès situated herself directly next to Marie on her right, while to her left Misha typically occupied. Across from her sat Violette, and next to her sat in the company of fellow good Darcsens Sévérine and Claude.
"Who's playing?" asked the snide Darcsen, as if to take command of her compatriots even in consolation. Even with her brash and downright violent demeanor, those among the squad were in unspoken agreement that even one so unhinged as Violette was a more apt substitute for the late Corporal Westing. God rest her soul, of course.
"I'll play!" The cheerful demeanor of Marie Beaumont spoke with a slurred - some would call "bastard" - accent indicative of Francian tongue, yet of the perky, upbeat character the Vinlandic South was renown for. Such was what was referred to as, "Southern hospitality", wrought of Lafayette's thoroughly unique blend of Europa and Atlantica.
"Right here." Antoine waved up. In the dim light illuminated by whatever scant fuel the double lanterns of the cellar provided, it became impossible to discern what marks across his face were his lengthy brown hairs, and what was in truth grime earned from his strenuous work as the single sapper of the present troop. His exhaustion had no such concealment, for his lengthy sighs and hunched-over posture spoke of fatigue only wrestled by his history of arduous working hours.
"I'm in." Inès responded promptly. She guessed her squadmates would use their newfound riches as currency for this card game. For once, Inès was incorrect in her predictions, it seemed, for as the chips were divided and cards distributed, there was never a mention of what one stood to lose.
In short time, the multi-colored, worn chips of the game threw out their little and big blinds, Violette clearly caring little for the savoir-faire of poker faces. Inès looked over in naturally stern gaze to meet Violette's nearly-instinctive grin, clearly as if to let the entire table know just what cards she had to play. Marie coursed over every one of her two cards extensively, certain to keep her eyes down. On the chance that her light crimson eyes did shyly peek from her hand, Marie chose only to briefly take glances at others, and dared not to give even the slightest of eye contact. Sergeant Dostoyevsky won many hands, and Ruzhian standards of good manners made certain he was difficult to read, for all he had to do was, different from everyone else, act natural. As the first hand made its primary, the creaking of the cellar door turned their heads naturally, and the sight to emerge dictated the game to a halt.
Even though his thick, circular glasses, the heavy, blackened marks of sleepless nights branded themselves beneath Lieutenant St-Martin's eyes. He postured himself firmly upright, yet bore few signs of formality, even tilting his head down as the Squad rose instinctively to salute him. The silver-haired leader averted his eyes, almost staring downward like one misstep would cost him his life. Yet, as his gaze did dart away, he knew full well that that was the reality they found themselves entangled with.
"At ease." He commanded calmly, his dropping hand seeming to parry the salutes of the entire room. Slowly, he made his way over to the table, taking a light seat as the head of their game, not caring to make passes at the newfound material of the recent raid. The LT reclines somewhat in his seat, peering slightly down upon the table as if there were something else to read besides its swirling pattern, almost hopeful he'd find answers.
"Supplies, Sergeant?" St-Martin asked calmly, yet firmly, not glancing up toward the Ruzhian Sergeant.
"Ve vere triumphant." he answered, "Ve now have supplies for anoter veek." His prompt answer earned a sigh of relief from the Lieutenant, yet Inès' steady eyes remained fixated on their leader, knowing full well with the atmosphere that this was far from over.
"Good." the Lieutenant expressed, "Private Fay. Our communications?"
Antoine shook his head. "There's a telephone line, but it's out for good, sir."
"Are they rusted?"
"No, sir. They've been burned clean. I can't fix them with the tools I have; I couldn't fix it even if I wanted to. The ports are soldered shut, sir." Antoine's words turned the room bereft, certain the news bore little good for their already grim emplacement. St Martin peered up, only to slowly cast his gaze aside while a long breath exhaled.
"Sergeant, what does the local force look like?"
"Ve hid our tracks very well." he replied confidently. The one stroke of confidence of every last report, it seemed. "Your orders, sir?"
The Lieutenant stared forward blankly.
"...sir?"
His head hung slightly forward, near ashamed; first that he had been responsible for this mess, then that to get out of his own failure, he seemed to be stuck with choosing the best of bad options. The silver-haired officer gradually raised his gaze, unleashing a soft, resigning sigh.
"From what we know, we are ten kilometres east from the front lines. We cannot resupply, in occupied territory, outmanned, and even if there is an offensive planned, it will take reinforcements months to get to our position. But...sigh, at least, nobody is specifically looking for us."
"Can't we regroup, sir?"
"With who?" Just those words forced the room silent as he peered up from his slight slouch.
"So, we wait." he announced conclusively, "Come morning, I want reconnaissance of our surroundings five kilometres north, east, and south of our position, that includes all eyes and ears. In the meantime, I want everyone using captured Imperial arms, if possible; It will make it easier to resupply, and the ammunition casings might make it harder for them to identify us."
"Deal me in."
Inès sighed. They all knew they were going to be here for a while. If the Lieutenant spoke through actions alone, then he spoke clearly; Best to make themselves comfortable.
"Inès!~ Where are you?!~ I want to speak with you!~"
The sweetness of her tone so thoroughly prevailed through Senja's cries, it almost made Inès sick to behold. Come as no surprise, almost, that Inès would find so lispy and wet a tone as the nord's to be an usual pluck from otherwise melancholic reminiscence, it mended not necessarily as bittersweet, but almost disjointing, as Inès visibly twisted to the outcry she beheld. She blinked once, twice again, shaking her head slightly at the outburst. It was not as if Inès were a particularly nondescript individual. Could she not find her of her own accord? Yet, Inès slowly closed her eyes and sighed, for such honeyed outbursts were, as she realized, her means of finding her on her own, and so it was that Inès departed from her memory back among the land of the living.
Inès found the crier, so pleased with the sight of the Darcsen her mouth hung agape in beloved relief. Inès, opposite her, was less than thrilled, to say few details of the pouty scowl she so effortlessly bore.
"What is it?" She almost scathed, clearly rather irritated by both Senja's booming voice, as well as the unfamiliar face that demanded her immediate attention.
"Aww, there you are!" the green haired Nord most cheerfully replied, keeping her jaunty expression even in the face of Inès' annoyance, "You're friends with Franz, right?"
("...who are you?") Inès thought. Such inklings were shot down by circumstance, as Inès simply looked forward at Senja.
"Yes, but-" she cut herself abrupt with a light puff. Inès knew Franz wasn't doing so hot, and left it to the events that transpired within the past two weeks that he needed some time to himself. Or perhaps that is just what she told herself while she focused on the tasks at hand. They seemed blurry to Inès, those traumatic moments, like for the life of her, Inès could only remember vague bits of so intense an event. Selective memory, she supposed, for such selections seemed best for her health to not recall such needless horrors.
"Well, i'd like you to check in on him. He hasn't been very responsive to me or Anneli, and he hasn't eaten very much. I know you're busy, but could you make some time for him?"
Her face dropped, eyes rounding out as Inès took in the Nord's words. Inès had, in full appearance, showed regret at the Franz's development. All earnesty aside, Inès remained hopeful that Franz would come over the events, but...well, this was something she knew she had neglected for far too long, and such gravity voided apology. A slow sigh came over her, Inès' eyes reopening to meet Senja's.
"I'll go check on him." she stated, a thorough calmness in her voice nevermore saturated with the consternation of Senja's sudden appearance. Senja smiled back at her, to which Inès raised eyebrows at with amiability. The mixture of hot and cold, so it seemed, and for that, Inès couldn't help but wonder why someone so cold was the only one who could warm Franz's senses.
"Franz?" Inès called out softly from the exterior of his tent, slowly peering her way in through the sole flap which called it an entrance. She met Franz through vision, first, exchanging something of a relieving sigh, then slowly made her way to sit alongside Franz. One leg crossed over the other, Inès resting her hands in her lap while she softly looked down a bit. ("Dammit...") she thought, regretting not coming to see Franz earlier.
"How have you been?" she asked soothingly, looking at her fellow Darcsen, "Did...you want to talk?"
After all, Inès had handled one mental breakdown before. What was one more?
Two of them stood at what they could only assume to be the final set of doors through the corridor, each clutching their prescribed buzzer. The tall man to Koryak's left held it loosely, almost dangling it from his fingers, while the short-haired woman to Spearhead's right clamped onto it from her palm, enveloping it in a firm contradiction to her fellow operator. They almost didn't care talking to one another, even as Spearhead did make occasional glances downwards, if only to see a particularly devout Russian woman staring cleanly forward. The sight almost made him frown, himself. Yet with ever pass of his eyes, he reverted back to matching her straightforward expression.
A cool breeze seemed to flow back like an unleashed floodgate, just as soon halting as the two entered the last briefing room, row after short row of chairs obviously vacant. The South African looked down and to his right once more, exchanging light glances with his new coworker. She lightly raised her eyebrows, him tilting his head left for. She nodded, silently thanking him while he paused his motion. Koryak wasn't expecting any commendations for being prompt with time, yet didn't mind the sole sight of just these two; She never was one for being, "fashionably late".
Beckoning to a small set of chairs near the front and right, Koryak was prompt in her motions to take her seat, situating herself upon the rightmost chair available. Arms folded, she sat, awaiting introduction or orders. Spearhead trailed appropriately behind, attempting to be more mindful of her sense of space. Where he was from, Spearhead was accustomed to being shoulder-to-shoulder with others, often shaking hands close and being face-to-face for introductions lavished with small hugs and other small niceties. When working with others, Spearhead learned rather quickly this was called in other countries "claustrophobic", and decided it was for the best that he keep safe distance from his new fellow operator.
He took up residence in the same row as her, sure to keep a chair between himself and his new comrade-in-arms. Her posture remained upright, placing her hands in her lap with the buzzer nowhere in plain sight. In this sternness, however, one could sense her comfort in this stringent state, as if to be relaxed were to be in a proper position. Spearhead, with his slightly slouched posture, made passes across each side of the room, almost clearly rather out of his element.
"Spearhead." he introduced, reaching over the chair as he turned to Koryak. His hand extended, palm open for a handshake. She looked back at him calmly, not reciprocating his ever so slight grin a centimeter.
"Koryak." the operator shook his hand back lightly.
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." her curtness, by Spearhead's apparent nodding, was much appreciated, if the slight cusp of his lip wished she were just slightly more talkative. He adjusted himself in his seat, slightly positioning himself toward the Russian woman while he rested his arm across the seat. His head turned back to Flak, almost as if addressing the entirety of the room, yet pivoted back to Koryak.
"How did you fin-"
"I'm here, i'm here!"
The woman entering did nothing to conceal her conceived tardiness to the meeting, yet that announcement wasn't quite the reason for the heads turning alone. Her face suggested Chinese, Japanese, or Korean background - neither Koryak nor Spearhead were all too versed in the discernment between the three - yet what came from her mouth was an Irish accent so thick, the acuteness of Koryak's raised eyebrows spoke her thoughts aloud; She questioned just how fluent she was in understanding English.
"I amn't trying to make a fierce fuss." everyone presumed she apologized, "How's she cuttin'?" walking up the short isle, her hand's already extended, ready for her round of formalities.
"Oh, i'm Owl! Not right or proper to skip out on myself, is it?" the Irishwoman greeted, grasping the first hand she happened to find willing and open.
Spearhead appears to have broken from his now-shortened conversation with Koryak, yet the Russian's closed and rather straightforward demeanor arguably spoke to the possibility of her not having a particular interest to begin with. Clearly she found this "Owl"'s overly friendly behavior unbecoming, yet she wasn't going to ruin her mood questioning her outgoing mannerisms. She sat politely and waited her turn, eyeing over the group conversation while Spearhead, too, was taken aback by her outburst.
DOB/Birthplace: April 15th, 1985 / Perm, Perm Krai, Russian Federation
Special Forces Group: Special Operations Forces (SSO)
Appearance:
At a height of 1.6 meters (5’6”), Koryak is fairly unassuming in terms of height, only slightly compensated for with a slightly stocky build. When in full equipment, the width only grows, making her seem quite a bit larger than she really is. Coupled with her height, it doesn’t quite make her an imposing target on her own, yet her slightly shorter than average stance gives her a good blend of offense and defense. If anything, being smaller simply makes her a harder target to hit, and that, she has no quarrel with.
In line with the latest Ratnik equipment, Koryak wears the standard 6B45 body armor, protecting the majority of her body with powerful new armor, as well as 6B46 combat webbing with dotted woodland camouflage. Outside of battle, she is more accustomed to wearing more conservative clothing, opting for longer sleeves on all limbs.
Before any training in the SSO, the pedagogy of Russia is imbibed thoroughly into each and every entrant; Loyalty and discipline above all else. Ability is useless if it cannot be controlled. Before a recruit receives any order, they must prove their willingness to commit themselves to an action. Discipline, too, is worthless if it is not without motive, yet Koryak has her own reasons to fully commit to her duty. In Russia, with the stakes of an entire country fringing upon the actions of a few brave souls, this duty is not to be shirked, and as such Koryak does not take well to foolery on the job.
Perhaps in line with this ideology, she is not the biggest advent to small talk. Koryak does her best to be polite and courteous, but does not believe that one should mix business with pleasure. On duty, she keeps her mind on the task ahead of her and cares little besides. Off duty, or when missions are accomplished, she may be more willing to conduct conversation, but caution should be exercised; Unsurprising for one who does not like small talk, the best conversations are the serious ones, yet there are many points of discussion Eleonora prefers to leave buried beneath the earth.
Relationships: Dominic “Bandit” Brunsmeier [Punch-Clock Friends] Elżbieta "Ela" Bosak [Begrudging Mutual Respect] Shuhrat "Fuze" Kessikbayev [Friendly] Seamus “Sledge” Cowden [Friendly]
The GM-94 43mm grenade launcher is used by Russian Special Forces as a high-explosive weapon intended to be safely used in room-to-room combat, as noted by its detonation range of 5 meters. VGM 93.100 thermobaric grenades use fuel instead of shrapnel as their primary means of damaging targets, and the massive shockwaves produced by the grenades are reported to cause debilitating internal wounds, such as ruptured organs and internal bleeding. Those caught near the blast often suffer the effects of the shockwave, reducing the Speed of afflicted targets.
Biography: The Nineties were a difficult time for Russians. Just one decade ago, they had security, prominence, and welfare. They lost it all in only two years. Decades of Soviet infrastructure came crumbling to pieces, and in its wake the wolves descended upon a country that had sheltered itself from the markets of the outside. Thousands were scammed in Ponzi schemes, and crime ran so rampant they practically became legitimate businesses. It would easily take a decade for the dust to settle, and when the Nineties came to an end, the new Russian Federation was a hollow shell of its former self. Eleonora’s father, a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan War, grew resentful of the Nineties, and equal parts ashamed and aghast of what came of Russia, often told Eleonora tales of better times throughout the hardships. He often blamed poor decision-making for the fall, and through his rants, a common theme emerged; A New Russia would need to emerge, better than before…and better than the one in place.
Eleonora’s later childhood would see the dust settle, yet she found little to interest her. At 23, she went into the recruitment office, declining desk job after desk job, insisting that they let her join the infantry. With some reluctance, they accepted, finding her to be a quick learner. Such diligence landed her in a position with the esteemed Russian Airborne Troops, and within a year, she would find herself putting herself to the test. War with Georgia loomed over the horizon, and airdropped troops would make their match in the mountainous regions, and prove her worth she did.
It would not be until the Crimean Crisis where she would be noticed for selection into the Russian SSO. Handling the operations within Crimea exceptionally well, she was offered for selection into the training corps of the revered Spetsnaz. Eleonora accepted without hesitation. Inside that service, she [CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]. To this day, those moments are ill-discussed, for she never was certain if that call was the best to make.
Service Record:
Russian Airborne Troops (VDV) - (2007-2014)
Russo-Georgian War
Annexation of Crimea
Special Operations Forces of Russia (2014-2019)
Syrian Civil War
Name: Kai Van Schalkwik
Callsign: Spearhead
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Nationality: South African
DOB/Birthplace: January 22nd, 1990 / Cape Town, South Africa
Special Forces Group: South African Special Forces Brigade (SASF)
Appearance:
An old scrum-half in rugby, Kai maintains a deceptive amount of speed to what many would assume to be a powerful, yet slow build. At 1.9 meters (6'3") and 96 kg (206 lbs), Kai's frame could easily be described as hulking to some. He keeps his hair as short as he can, finding hair usually more cumbersome than it's worth. Whilst in an operation, Kai utilizes the woodland camouflage patterns of the SASF, which incorporates older iterations of Israeli webbing, a matching helmet to round out his protective needs. In a more casual environment, however, he chooses to dress rather modestly, showing a bit of skin in accord with the warmer climate of his home country. If he feels particularly nostalgic - or if the game is on - you may be able to catch him wearing his old rugby jersey.
When Spearhead has a set goal in front of him, there is very little that will digress him from achieving his destination. Only a direct order otherwise will suffice, and even then, experience from South Africa leads to mastery of two essential affairs; Bureaucracy, and how to avoid bureaucracy. In that way, Spearhead is no stranger to austerity, and intimidating him is a monumental task.
Preferring to know just what company he finds himself in, Spearhead will take to getting to know the members of his coworkers and comrades quite quickly though regular chitchat. He will be open to answering questions - within reason, of course - and expects questions answered to be candid in return. Of note, Spearhead is repulsive towards racism, seeing it as fundamentally antagonistic towards the values of post-Apartheid South Africa, and therefore what he has fought for so long to protect and progress.
Relationships: Zayden Van Schalkwik (Father) Elise Krige (Mother) Adriaan Van Schalkwik (Younger Brother) Naemi Van Schalkwik (Older Sister)
Utilizing the latest advancements in ultrasonic imaging, the Ultrasonic Pulsar (USP) is a device that can accurately picture objects through walls of up to 10cm thick within a range of 25 meters. This can allow to see the positions of set objects, such as landmines, barbed wire, and even personnel from beyond walls, yet the nature of ultrasound imaging means that opacity is not rendered, and thus material constitution is not accounted for in imaging. Therefore, on a superficial gauge, it would be difficult to discern glass from sheet metal, as the two would still be displayed as solid objects. Each ultrasound pulse necessitates an 8 second delay between refreshes.
Biography: Kai looks white as can be, but in Apartheid South Africa, he’d have be a coloured man. That the end of Apartheid came as soon as he turned one was the first of his many blessings. The law was one vector by which it came, but centuries of systemic disparity would not come undone in a simple year. No, the Nineties had much in store for South Africa, and unity and progress would prove to be a long, grueling task for its denizens.
Through the tribulation, however, there was something that kept all of South Africa afloat; Rugby. Even if it drew skepticism in it the early days, South Africa would be united under the sport, for the first time seeing blacks and whites come together as one new South Africa. Almost quite as soon as Kai could walk, he picked up a rugby ball, and with whoever he could play with - and whoever would play with him - Kai would practice, even if that meant playing on his lonesome tackling sacks of rice or throwing the ball behind, so he might pivot back around and catch it. Such drill were calming, even therapeutic as a break from the discord of day to day life in South Africa. The end of Apartheid did not spell the end of South Africa's troubles, and for as nice as the troubles were, the scars the state did bear dug their heels. Many South Africans were still impoverished, as Kai did lament. Crime found itself omnipresent. AIDS/HIV spread like brush fire, even with its veil of mysticism as a mystery disease unveiled. Rugby was a vector for him to maintain his spirit, of course, yet for all the discipline Kai learned through his experiences, his secondary school rugby coach would heed him his best advice: "The biggest problems find the strangest solutions."
Post graduation, Kai found himself enlisting in the South African National Defense Force in 2008 and would see entry without much fuss. Yet, Kai found himself wanting in the position, never wavering in the knowledge that he could do better. He wanted to aim for the top, he knew, and South Africa was a goldmine in both senses of the word; Mining dominated much of the economy, true, and there would always need security men to ensure their business conducted without hiccup. Private Military Companies and Security Contractors ran amok in South Africa, and only grew more lucrative by the day. Yet, when he asked himself that question, Kai knew he wasn't a mercenary, only in it for another paycheck. He wanted to be someone, stand for something, not only be another buffoon with a gun.
The Special Forces were...dubious. Less so than any mercenary company, true, yet their past deeds could be called under scrutiny by any metric of morality. Yet, this was a new age for South Africa, one where its people could hope to put the past away in search of a new future. Its requirements - graduation, knowing at least 2 languages, in addition to physical and mental fortitude - were hefty, at least, but not skills Kai found lacking. He would apply for the Military Skills Development System (MSDS), and be accepted in with flying colors. By 2011, Kai was a fully-fledged member of the South African Special Forces.
SASF had a brutal reputation to maintain, and an even more brutal handiwork. His tour would take him well throughout the Central African Republic, the DPRC, and more often than not, the lines between military and police work had to become blurry, if that's what it meant to achieve their goals. Kai would maintain it all; Perhaps not without question, from time to time, yet for whatever those questions held, he held this reputation without hesitation. From both of these reputations, Spearhead was invited to Rainbow Seven, of which he accepted, too, with no hesitation.
Service Record:
South African National Defense Force (SANDF) [2008-2011]
South African Special Forces (SASF) [2011-2018]
C.A.R. Conflict
M23 Rebellion
Somalian Maritime Expeditions
[Classified]
Rainbow Seven [2018-Present]
Name: Maeve O'Callaghan
Callsign: Owl
Age: 27
Gender: Female
Nationality: Irish
DOB/Birthplace: Cork, Ireland / August 18th, 1992
Special Forces Group: Army Ranger Wing (ARW)
Appearance:
163cm (5'4") and 68 kg (150 lbs) are by no means impressive, but they are within the norm for a woman of Owl's becoming. On her head, she wears her LFMM headset, covered typically with a boonie hat, but when circumstance is right, will instead be accompanied by a helmet. At very least, her hair will be brushed back or tucked in, ensuring it is well out of her face. Her civilian clothing is considerably more open, and is incredibly situational depending on the season.
Psych Profile: Headstrong, Bold, Sociable, Hardy
Admittedly, Owl has much to be proud about. Trials for the Irish Rangers had been open to women for 30 odd years, and she was the first to succeed. Coupled with a rather lively background, Owl is not one for shirking off a bit of roughhousing. Things done too properly or too "by the book" are, in her view, too cold for anything beyond brief business, or are inexperienced and looking to compensate through formality. Owl still retains manners, of course, and often comes across as warm and a very open person. She will often make an attempt to introduce herself whenever in the presence of new faces, and otherwise holds a quite outgoing demeanor.
All this being said, Owl does need a bit of "her time". While she is open - even to the point of perhaps having little sense of privacy - accepting criticism is a subject she finds herself needing to work on. Insofar that she is concerned, as long as the big picture is complete, the finer details don't matter; A philosophy others might call, "Sloppy". Owl accepts that she has her own quirks and methodology, and expects others to acknowledge and respect that.
Similar in many ways to a laser microphone, the LFMM utilizes Linear Frequency Modulation in order to improve the detection ability of the pulse. The end result is a microphone that can effectively pick up minute sounds of all kinds, from the most minute churning of gears in drones to what would become thunderous footsteps from down the hallway. The signal requires a trained ear to discern sounds from one another, and an equally trained operator in order to adjust the pulse duration to guarantee the best use from the device.
Biography:
As far as she is concerned, Maeve is an Irishwoman. Her "real" parents had given her up for whatever reason, and her adoptive parents she took to as her real ones. They were the ones to support her through everything she went through, and supportive they were, almost to a suffocating degree. Maeve was coming of age, and of course the question came of what she was to do with her life. She had an idea, of course; Go somewhere very, very far away, so she told herself. And conveniently to her, the military of Ireland engaged in UN peacekeeping missions. Very, very far away.
In a way, she bought completely into the idea of the army being an adventure seeing the counties and countries alike, applying for the infantry with only a second thought or two for what she was leaving behind. Yet what could lay ahead seemed to sweet, too much to pass up on. For years, she pushed herself in basic training and station, aiming for the big leagues. The posterboys of the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airm, as it were. Women had tried for 30 years, she knew, and for 30 years, whatever small amount got into initial testing invariably all failed examination. Maeve knew if she was going anywhere, nevermind anywhere very, very far away, she would need to make very well sure she was going to pass selection.
Come to the rank of 3 star private, and she would attempt for entry. Maeve was very well fit enough, she knew. They knew full well, too, and passed physical examination with flying colors. Already that was a feat for anyone - nevermind her - yet the same thing she had been told her entire life came back once more; Her methodology was more than a bit too errant for true completion. While she did pass one section of examination, she could not receive the full title of "Ranger", and it would take her another year of vigorous reevaluation before she would pass the remaining four sections and earn her green beret.
Two tries in, and Owl would be out in the world's many scenes of contention, as per diction of the ARW. Though she was certainly a capable ranger, she could sometimes be a bit of a loose cannon. Owl demonstrated she had no qualms about being in the thick of it, and it was that ability to maintain composure against all odds she had shown time and time again that caught the eyes of Rainbow Seven.
Service Record: Irish Army (2010-2015) Irish Army Ranger Wing (2015-2018)
Freya seemed to be back to her genial demeanor, a significant improvement over what Inès had to see from yesterday. Her humor...well, Inès admitted she was far from a comic, for what her rather serious neutral expression could purvey only lightly ceased as she raised her eyebrows, and even her smile - while beauteous, make no mistake - could not avert her naturally sharp glean. Such acuteness made Inès doubt her appearance, addending to her other hesitancy; If clearly not humor, what else could Inès have to offer her? For what could Inès possibly hold a candle to that would make the ecstatic see virtue in the sullen?
Even so, Inès loved Freya. Who would one be to deny that?
Her acquaintance dressed in a way many would call "scant", yet Inès paid no mind on two accounts; Her own attire was far from proper, focused more upon ease of comfort and allowing her skin to at long last breathe, and that notion that Inès was, again, frankly accustomed to seeing people with few garments on. She had trained every day in naught but the lightest of apparel, for hours upon end. Thus, decreeing that Inès "averted her gaze" would be falsehood; there never was a gaze to begin with.
"Hey!" Freya interjected. Inès was thankful; it saved her a brusque insertion to the conversation.
"Hey." Inès reciprocated. Her voice was a fair bit lighter, clearly a bit keen on talking.
"Looks like Jean is finally having fun." She snickered. The two turned their heads back, exchanging looks back at one another, then to the scene of Jean enjoying the first - and what was hopefully not the last - dance with Reyna Hall.
"Ooooh, Charpentier’s out on the prowl~!” Freya cooed, fawning over the couple’s lively jig, “It’s time Charpentier took her around. He wrote about her in his little book, going on how stunning she is. “Oh her darling little face, every detail in place!” After this, he had better take her to a room upstairs and finally give a girl a proper evening.”
"Don't hold your breath."
“Aww,” she frowned - if done so with the same reciprocation to Inès’ own playful dismissal, “You don't wanna see Jean finally pop her cherry? If I were her, i'd have already taken him around and shown him that Vinland treatment. I'd take his trousers and give them a good yank so he'd be showing what God have graced him upon his birth."
"I don't think Jean could even get his trousers off without apologizing." She laughed. Jean could be a sweetheart, of course, but sweetness and spice? A combination he, in Inès' opinion, was unaware of. "Maybe she likes the awkward and cute boys, so, either he gives it to her while kissing and holding hands and his first time is this special magic moment...or, it's a disaster and turns Jean away from sex for another year."
Freya laughed, pivoting chuckling glances between Inès and Jean, then back to Inès, who she returned to sharing her laughter in a more hushed presentation. Her arm positioned back to the bar's counter, leaning herself back in such fashion that her body canted intersectionally to each pair, such that neither her view of Jean and Reyna nor Inès herself were obstructed by her positioning.
"He might have some bite down there. He can't keep so puckered up for so long, because if he did, he'd be spinning around all the time looking for a way to pop himself off, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean that there's no way someone like Jean can really go without getting his drops off from his hose. Look at 'em, he can barely take his own eyes off of-"
(“She really doesn’t stop, does she…”) Inès knew even from side conversations that Freya was a loquacious sort. From even in her moments where she had refrained from an entire rogation regarding any tangent, Freya went on into her famous commentary. When only a simple response would do, good enough was not, and Freya would then interject with an experience if only to hone her point.
Inès found the small, shared soliloquies quaint. Cute, she might say. Certainly flavorful. And endearing enough to force a smile from the sulky Darcsen.
It was because of that insubordinate determination by which Freya adhered to that Inès admired. Who but the strongest of spirits could withstand the austerity of belligerence on such scale, and through pain and perseverance, find it within herself to do naught but be a beacon to others? All things considered...it was a feat Inès found herself jealous of. Never before could she truly find it within herself, in spite of what she knew to be truth for the matter, that her mien extended far beyond naught but a determinant, defiant smirk.
"-nd when he finishes off, I can bet he's sitting there with twinkles in his eyes, too!"
"C'est la vie en rose."
Freya squints, chuckling with Inès' retort. Pursing her lips, she repeats:
"Say la vee in rose?"
Inès poses upwards, Freya naturally responding by more directly facing her. Lessons began, as whole as they could be, and if Inès were capable of instruction by accord of a fighter's glove, then perhaps a lesson in pronunciation may be a test of extrapolation.
C'est."
"Se." she giggles.
"La vie."
"La vie."
"En rose." Last one. With Freya's last improvement, Inès spoke quicker.
"Ahn rose."
Inès smirks, holding up her leftmost, dominant hand. Posed, she broke up each word, each syllable, each accent:
"En. Rose."
"What's that mean?" Freya asks through her interlaced laughter.
Inès turns her hands over, visibly fidgeting whilst Freya bounced about in her seat. Topicality was chore for her, not withstanding any desire to give Freya what she deserved. And she deserved nothing less than an explanation. Darcsen rocking her head back to back, side to side, her neutral face seems to stare off, slightly down, eyes just missing contact with Freya's by a hairline.
"It's...hard to explain." Inès simply opens, "It means, "That's life in pink", but "life in pink" is..."
"It's when you start to look at things differently, like, when you look at things and see how wonderful they are. Like, nostalgia, except...not really."
Freya squints at first, smiling while Inès took her time searching for the correct train of thought. Inès' eyes flashed with the Freya's striking blues, and with a focused blink, found Freya to have moved herself to meet Inès' natural stare.
Why did Inès like her? What did Freya see in her worthwhile? Inès wasn't anything like Naomi - not by any stretch of the imagination - and Inès could never be a Naomi. A Naomi was a beacon of light so illustrious her mere grin outshone the sun itself; If one were so insistent upon getting Inès to so much as smirk, they should sooner consider taking up waterboarding as a hobby, if they wished to indulge in such a harrowing hobby. A Naomi was the day by which conversations drew and the events which transpired did enjoy themselves while their time lasted; When Inès came, night fell, and what might remain were the brave, few, desperate souls whose wishes for eyesight no longer transpired.
Yet...therein lie the intrigue. Inès was distinctly different. Freya was distinctly different. Inès in so many ways didn't remind Freya a thing of Naomi, and in so many more could Inès never hope to emulate any bearing of which Naomi could bring. And in so many ways, that was most certainly a positive. Naomi talked. Inès listened. Naomi was, but Inès did.
"Aah," Freya adjourns, nodding along. "Yeah...
"It's...fucking awful, really. And...well. We all have our own reasons for fighting. Tommy up there has his whole family back home, and you know, being the older brother of his lot..." Freya looks up, flashing an uncharacteristic grin as she turns back to the swaying couple. Her eyes flash for a moment, Inès almost instinctively knowing she wasn't looking at Jean nor Reyna, but...she was deep in thought. Inès related.
"He's got a good lot to come back to when everything's over, you know?"
If the so affectionately-named "Tommy-boy"'s own phrase were to be used, even in ways Inès couldn't herself admit, she was, "The best thing to happen". Maybe not to anyone here, or even now, but she was, at some point. For what it was and what it will be, Inès was someone who meant something. That alone amused Inès, just how has-been champion ringfighter a thousand miles from home meant something to someone out there. In a quaint sense, it was humbling, that someone Inès never knew and likely would never know was their idol, their champion.
"That's good." Inès softly responds. Turning to Freya, a tilt in her gaze, she asks, "Who do you have back home? You know...your family."
"Just my mum and dad." the Oceanic dotes back, "Getting letters back home is a bloody nightmare. But...well, from what I last heard, they're doing well. The war doesn't help anyone, yeah, but...they're okay, yeah?"
Inès nods. "Good."
Perking up, Freya blinks rapidly, settling in the thoughts of just what she was fighting for. Down there, she imagines Inès not necessarily having it any better, with her seeing her home country torn asunder, just like the North Territory the few years ago. For something that had happened so long ago, Freya felt it so...closely. So much had happened between then and now. And Freya had to stop herself from shaking when it clicked; That was why she remembered it all.
In a way only Freya could, she set in a polite smile to mask the thought. Politeness and Oceanic demeanor known to foreigners never coincided the same thought, but Inès judged it not. That she was willing to put up with all was reason enough to undo suspicion.
"What about yours, love?" Freya inquires. Her polite smile bursts into a wide, mouth-agape grin. "Do you have a brother? Is he haaaandsome~?"
"Sure. If you happen to be into who run off and never send money back." Inès chides.
Freya pouts, yet maintains her smile at the same time. Pity was what it was. "Fuckin' tosser, huh? What about your mum and dad?"
A query such as that had not an "easy" remark to it. There weren't many particular ways even one so clever as Inès could dodge the inquiry. If Freya had shown such amnesty thus far, why would Inès reject it? She looks up, casting her sight just slight away from Freya, and glances a sideways frown.
"I...never knew my father." She slowly answers, "I don't think my mother knows him, either."
“Oh, he was just a cunt.” Freya cheers up, “Not like he would have been a good dad if he hung around. Nobody needs a drongo like him in their lives.”
Inès shrugs, her eyes conceding to Freya's prudence. Freya spoke true in her words, and for whatever muse or sorrow came from a life spent without a father, Inès herself always dismissed as another case of wishful thinking. Even if he had stayed and discovered that Inès was born, there was no guarantee that a man who had so irresponsibly laid with a woman on a one-time drunken escapade was, by any stretch of the imagination, suited for fatherhood. Even Inès thought that dealing with her own mother was a handful; Another like her mother? Unthinkable.
The Darcsen's line of thought found itself perturbed by Freya's nudged knuckle; followed by a short tilt of her head. In which direction she did point lay a lone, near-open book, folded downward and only slightly ajar, yet unmarked and bearing the softer, more hewn binding of a journal. Writings and note-taking in any setting were bound to be filled with something of remark, Inès did figure, and had both possibility to be either mindless drivel on the days gone by, or perhaps a most important documentation of troop movements, inventory, ciphers, and likewise. A real gambler it took to leave such out in the open, indeed.
“Whose is that?” Inès shrugs. The girls exchange glances at one another, each returning back with slight smiles to their faces. Silently, they agreed; They’d need to look it over to see who for certain.
Inès certainly knew right from wrong, and wrong it was to look through someone’s belongings without permission. Yet from what there was - or rather, what there was not - to rightfully discern whose journal this was on outward appearance alone was an impossible task, and thus finding its rightful owner necessitated drawing upon the innards of this little drawing. Freya, with the famed initiative of an Oceanic shocktrooper, flipped open the little tome, the two young women leaning into one another as they flipped page after page of...
...of...
...both women turned to another. Grins etch. Eyebrows raise. Freya suggestively motions hers, a coyote's perverse smirk coming across her face while Inès laughs, and obliges with a dirty, subdued smile of her own. Certainly, whoever took to jotting their ideas down in their free time had an...active imagination, indeed. (With permission from @Bushman501)
Be the virtues of public conversation as they may, Inès and Freya were - even after brief investigation - under the thorough impression that privacy was in their mutual interests while they indulged in the contents of this journal. Any vow of secrecy, however, was declared void by line after line of gaudy giggles from each of the women along their ascent along the stairs. Freya's lodging from the previous evening went unshared, it so seemed, and thus, a perfect place for an evening of indulging in the secrets of others perhaps best left unopened. Or, perhaps not.
"What's a good one!? What's a good one?!" Freya asks and laughs at the same time, the bolt of the door behind her sliding with a slight click!
"Hrmmm, let's see..." Inès flicks through the journal, incessantly scanning every line and every saucy detail for finding the right one to indulge in. A literary critic Inès was not, yet had read well enough to know that the author in question was...far from accomplished. Breaks in flow, syntax irregularities, jumbled names, to list a few errors. What, then, was so important? Just another search for trashy erotica to lighten the mood of war?
"Let me see!" Freya nudges in, Inès obliging, tilting the text to her right side. Pages flip and the women mutter, scanning over each page while searching for the right fix.
"No." FLIP!
"Not it."FLIP!
"...maybe?" Freya suggests, turning to match Inès' nonreciprocating eyes.
"It's too...stiff." The blondie giggles; Inès shoots her an approving, disapproving smirk. FLIP!
"There's gotta be one in here-!" Page after page flips, two pairs of blue eyes beading over every verse and each corny line, written like a true dilettante of sexual affairs. Deviant smiles were shared thoroughly, yet nothing quite satisfied the urge t-
"Oh."
Inès nods. The two turn, expecting shared grins from one another, and to what they expected they did receive. This would be the one. A most...fitting title, as it was.
"It's not hard to figure out. I don't know any 'Cassi''s or 'Naej''s in my life." Freya laughs, brightening with her next line: "Ufu~...maybe they wanted to be found out!"
"Which one do you want?" Freya inquires, giddy in her tone, almost brimming just to recite the entire piece of her own accord.
"I'll take Scarface." Inès declares, just as soon clearing her throat. She had always found the Edinburgh accent arrogant; To Francian demeanor, to be more arrogant than a Francian was, as they said, panache, or in more common tongue, overzealous flamboyance. Freya, for all the bravado the Oceanics were famed for, smirks and emboldens herself, ready to put on her haughtiest display of stereotypical Francian-ism yet. Inès needed a clearance of her own; Whether this was of some coy reciprocation or her unfamiliarity with an Edins accent, she made opaque.
The first page flips to light, Freya presenting her hand upon her bosom in elegant contour, as if about to sing. Inès herself sparsely contained her own amusement at the lines within. Chuckles were sealed to minute giggles, Freya opting to channel what potential laughter to flamboyant vigilance.
"Monsieur Black~!" Freya did mimic, lightening her tone and lisping her verbiage so slightly to create the stereotypical Francian accent, "I have...a proposition, yes?"
"Jean, my dearest old mate!" Inès recites, a wide smile plastered on her deepened voice as she did imitate - many would say mock - the voice of Lance Corporal Isaac Dog-Shagger Black, "Why the long face? No need to lull about, lad!"
"Fucking hell...!" Freya turns in pure harmonious, blissful convulsion, Inès soon following. It felt cheap to take so low blows upon the writer when they so clearly hadn't the slightest clue of affairs in the bedroom, yet the couple did make it at the foremost of their attention to make the most of this faux pas; If not of true literary value, then from lack thereof.
“Oh...I-Isaac, I was expecting you to be...well endowed…”
"Isaac, mon amour!" Freya cries pompously, "Is...is it in me? I-I feel something! B-but it's...aaaah! Oh mon dieu, I-I-I've felt more intensely in a room thinking o-of Diana!
Ah, the Francian pronunciation of the word, "though" came to place. Inès' mouth contorted into a near-perfect circle, eyes widening and face forming to a near-perfect V-shape. And yet, her exercise in phonology was cut abruptly by Freya's outburst, having the Oceaninc nearly keel over from her - self-aware - expression.
"It's hard!" Inès roars in laughter back, barely catching herself falling forwards, "It's a lot of sounds we don't usually make!"
"You look like you're sucking someone off, love...!"
"Fuck. You." Inès whispers back. Oh, that laugh on her face concealed itself in no fashion, her cheeks redder than cherry tomatoes in spring and so wide a grin hyenas would find themselves ashamed.
Freya flipped a few pages too many. And how her face did change with that revelation, too...she did escape her concealed exhilaration, now in signs of clear, delirious euphoria as she cries, "OOOOH~! FRANZ AND INÈS TOGETHE~!
"Oh no you do not!" Inès snatches, pinning down one of Freya's limbs as they tussled and twisted, laughing while Inès manages to pull Freya down. Squirming her way up, she cries out a starting passage from the fic, only to cushion herself between soft mattress and Inès' topside. She giggles, barely fighting her way upwards as the book slips from her grasp. Inès remained on top, pinning the woman down. She smiled. Freya laughs, slowly steaming down to a warm, comfortable smile. How she did play with her, from actions to movements...Inès did enjoy it.
And for those brief moments, Freya saw the Naomi in her.
"...i'm supposed to be the one on top."
Inès chuckles. Her hand brushes just a faint strand of blonde away, not ruining Freya's precious image one bit.
"And?" Inès teases, "Does that bother you? Mmh?"
"I dunno...I kinda like the view."
Inès warmly smiles. Their hands loosen, slowly cusping about their priceless expressions. The Darcsen's cool hair dripped in meld with her warm blonde, yet both pairs did brush away any strands which threatened their view of the other.
Each saw a reflective shine in their eyes. Calm. Steady. Perfectly sided in their beautifully curvy frames. And as they notice details, it got...warmer. Blushing. Breathing. Huffs and giggles escaping from their mouths.
Inès leans down. A slow exhale blankets the two in mutually-assured warmth. Closer. Warmer. And a zip across their spine, a shiver through their body. Warmth as their softness met one another. Wet. Deep. A kiss. Another. A shared hold upon their necks, and an entire evening to explore.
Sex. Dreams. Sunset.
September 12th, 1914
Bird song nor sunshine graced the small hours of the morn, and neither seemed to dare test the patience of the city of Amone. For however their remnant occupants would have found the occasion, the dreary setting seemed to insistent upon some dolorous scenescape that defied weather or mood. In the slightest hours of the morning, the rain appeared to let up, yet for whatever small pittance the weather did allow for the denizens of that sepulchral city, it could perhaps only mean another slog through mud or cobblestone. Yet, to Inès, this was, for the time being, a faraway illusion, the likes of which not to be tested. She had a beautiful woman by her side, and her own life to be thankful for - if not thoroughly intact, then as a shattered, reforged mosaic. t It was not to the sound of birds that she awoke to, but the light pitter-patter of the Corporal himself giving his dues. Voices muffled themselves through the creeks of wood, to where even that light conversation came as nothing but a hushed drone before her. Yet that was enough for her to know that morning had come, and the time for their mission came afoot. Inès rolled to her side, Freya still maintaining but one arm around her, and lightly nudged her companion's side.
"Freya." Inès calls, Freya lightly nudging back with her own motions, "Freya, it's morning."
"Mmh, i'm uupp..." she responds, rolling her face into a pillow. Inès smirks, hovering her hand just over her shoulder, just to plant a light rub, back and forth, back and forth, right until another mumbled moan came from the blonde.
Jean had told them to go to sleep in their uniforms, true, yet their activity for the light necessitated all garments be off. When the two grew tired and retired for the night, they threw the most important bits back on - pants, smallclothes, and socks - yet the bigger accessories to their wear still hung themselves from either walls or hangers. Inès' helmet and Freya's hat suspended themselves in couple along the wall by the door, while the Oceanic's bandolier lazed about the floor like a sprawled-about cat. Their jackets lay just beside, Inès picking hers up, and beginning with the lowermost button. One by one, she would work her way up, securing her top while she watched Freya fop about in bed.
As Inès herself could tell, the energy exerted last night got to Freya. So much for that "Oceanic prowess" as she did proclaim, while Inès smirks at the sight of her making attempts at awakening. Assistance would be required, certainly, and in that closest corner lay the kerosene lamp. She slid open a dresser, fumbling and feeling through its' papered contents, until the coarse edge of a matchbook did her fingers meet. Between two fingers, she plucks it out, just as quickly, striking a match to flame. The lamp's lowermost chamber opened with a *crick!*, and with a tick of her fingers, the room radiated with firelight. Of course, the last thing she desired was for Freya to be responsible for the burning of the White Hart Inn, and thus she kept it well in her mind to have it hover over her while she did call Freya's attention.
Freya, however, was a responsive sort, no stranger to awakening at dawn's first call, and as Inès turned about, found the blonde upright in their bed, if her hair was splintered and let loose with no hair tie nor hat to restrain it.
"G'morning, love..." She greets in a tone some might say "exhausted", yet clear from her droopy eyes that she was still in the "awakening" stage of her morning. From corner to edge, her fist rubbed her exhausted blue eye, descending to look to her right.
"Hand me that?" Freya requests, pointing lazily in the general direction of her decorated coat. Inès swoops down, grasping it with her left hand, then kneeling on the corner of the bed, perching the coat along her shoulder.
"You forgot something." Inès reminds her. Freya looks up. A hand reached around her back neck, running through the underside of Freya's morning hair, before her lips felt that familiar softness of a morning kiss.
Freya huffed a short laugh. At very least, the day for her would begin with a smile. Inès was sweet...in her own unique way. Freya knew Inès wasn't normally her type, but even that wouldn't dismiss her from interest. At most, Inès was rough around the edges, but as soon as her icy exterior melted, her insides flowed rich from her heart of gold.
Then...something familiar sounded off.
It...whistled. High in pitch, screeching to ear. It flew, and it fell, like the rise and the fall of a siren if it were to be put into a vulture's tune. And as it did foretell, it was unmistakable as it grew lower, and louder.
It was an artillery shell.
"SHELL!"
And for just one second. One perverse moment. One demented frisson, hanging by a moment Freya would never forget, Freya grasped hold of Naomi's jacket, and pulled. And never dared let her go.
Not once.
Not ever again.
And the only thing that was missing...was the impact.
The whistle came - they had both certainly heard the same fell whistle - but no shockwave nor sonorous roar erupted through the sky. Freya held on still, her grip slowly loosening as they breathed in unison for what was. Inès held her back, not knowing if this were her last moment. But, as their holds upon one another secured into comprehension, they still knew not what wait before them in the earliest hours of twilight. The Darcsen nudged her companion, even with what light they had, looking over her in the dark. A silent response exchanged, staring into one another's shaded blues, and without exchanging words, knew they would have to wake up and face the day.
Inès creeps so slightly toward a window that not even the floorboards squeaked. Mice's attempts at silence did her actions no justice, for Inès moved so carefully that she expected a sharpshooter to be aimed through. Her head slowly turns out, eeking out whatever was possible in the hour before dawn, even Freya as an observer did wince and wish to retreat.
From the listening of the sparse moonlight did shine the cloud. A sickly cloud, of color Inès had only heard of in the whispers of industry workers and other urban fairy tales.
Then...it came together.
"Someone said they found it in the city, here. I think they're supposed to be antiques. Mining masks."
"Yeah. Back in old times, deep underground, there'd be buildups of sulfur or monoxide-" ("Those...little...")
"Freya...go...get Marathon and make sure he's safe..."
She only checked to see if Freya had followed her instruction, and by whatever time Inès had to rogate her command, the sound of a once-drunken Oceanic flooding the halls with cries to put on her mask came clear. Even from what was a normally soundproofed upper floor rung with the unmistakable sounds of chaos from below. Windows screeched while their panes shattered. Shouts of all voices reverberated while squadmates flooded out. Many headed downstairs, yet Inès dared not go anywhere without her "mining mask". Inès looked upon it and saw only death, for nothing good came for when their masks were given. And that good nothing came to, like all sins do, in good time.
Much of her time hazed by like a distant fog, growing only more obfuscant as the gas crept in. She would heed the Oceanic's demands, immersing herself into a choking claustrophobia all its own as she embraced the gas mask. The slight weight of the canister below her hung like a noose dangling below her, that device which kept her breathing threatening to strangle her with every movement she took.
And as she did proceed downstairs, after the pleas of Jean and his compatriots, she saw what the meaning of the masks were for: Nothing. Nothingness came in the form of Imperials, much like the ones she learned this information from, as they stormed in the building, masks brazened as their own. Inès had behind her Freya, and upon her - she imagined, as she dared not take her eyes away from the faceless before her - Thomas, whom she could only imagine came with a mask of his own. This faceless before her beared arms, much like the faceless she was, and so too, made flight upon her life. No matter how insulated her face may have been, it returned no such favor to mute the roars of gunshots around her. Instinctively, even while the lenses gave way to a cracked, permeated twilight, the glistening nickel of a handgun poised her way had her duck behind whatever cover she found, and whatever she did find did that bullet graze overhead while its whistle did ode to the symphony of battle.
There were no thoughts to her lunge, to how she found herself throwing the entirety of herself around one corner. As soon as she thought, she noticed, and there to any crack! of the glass shattering nor the wheeze as he did crumple, Inès saw the faceless become faced of her own doing. His mask tore, ripped right with red, as the noxious mist ran his eyes red while he grasped onto his purple-bruised throat. What breath of life that remained sputtered out in crimson, hopeful a hand clutching a gun might clear a throat for a walking man who knew not he stumbled only toward his grave.
Who was to come next? Another. One faceless. Yet Inès thought not, for thought and emotion in the moment paved no way to the moments. Moments and memory came as soon as they left, and for what Inès did sense did blank out immediately. There was another, she knew. People around him. Some alive. Some not. There was chaos, turmoil. A bar. One of many...
...one of many. One of too many. The sounds which rung, of battle, of discord, rung deaf to the world which she could tell. No cry of a corporal nor the shuffling behind her, the wheezes of those impaled by toxic cloud, all did blend to incorporeal shroud. The moments came...so soon. Warm one second, then suddenly gone...
There was a faceless before her, yet no sound did emanate from the horrified eyes which would fatefully puncture his filthy lenses. Inès recalls little; Only the shot of a pistol, and the last gasp of a dead man. ("Est...o mon dieu.")
Was it anger? Disappointment? Disturbing nostalgia that brought Inès' full focus forth to the sight of a fellow Darcsen. He so decided to drench himself in the ichor of others that he partook so religiously in how he so seemed to devour the Imperial below him, as each stab descending did the blood fly like a scene from horrific human sacrifice. Yet Franz did seem to compound his fury with every shattering blow, every ripping, tearing, piercing thrust carving a new cavity into his target, as each new wound did seem to reflect those he knew. Inès, for what was that moment, co-
"Franz?!"
"PUTAIN!"
"He's dead! He can't hurt anybod-!"
"Éloigne-toi de lui, imbécile!"
Inès darted forward, brushing off any comment whatever the dirthead could dare throw her way. "Positivity" and his pathetic attempts at morale showed their worth in the moments it was most needed. At very least, Inès deserved it to Franz that she look after him. She promised. He did no such thing.
"Franz?! Franz!! Franz!"
She kneels to his side, grasping to him, nearly restraining while her unmistakable huff permeated the mask. Even through the hearty respiration, those...breaths...were...familiar...
"E-est-ce que tout va bien pour vous?"
It was the only way Inès could think. They were the words which erupted from her mouth. She cared not if any could understand her, for her voice was the only one in a hail of fire, and the siren to dawn's break.
September 25th, 1914EC
Dear Inès Lévesque,
To whatever it may be worth, I hope this letter finds you well. First and foremost, as your former lieutenant and commanding officer, I bid you the best of luck in your future endeavours in service of the 15th Atlantic. Captain Middleton is a peerless strategist before he is a brother or a son. Though his years of service, I have heard much of him throughout the words of the officers. At times, I have seen him show limitless compassion; At others, heartless brutality. I do not understand that man. Yet, I have no doubts that you will serve finely no matter your station, and that you may evade or persevere through any injury that may come your way.
If it so interests you to know, my reassignment had me in command of rear echelon troops, serving as vanguards for our flanks. Many among the officer corps would have called it a thankless task, yet I took pride in my work all the same. Yet as I did the morning rounds one fateful day, an Imperial marksman - perhaps by the grace of God, or perhaps by Lady Luck - missed my spine by half a centimetre. I was immediately hospitalized, and thanks to the steady handiwork of Monsieur Vivier, I only now have trouble on occasions breathing. If I am to be forthright, I have found the alleviated stress of such a placement has done wonders for my esprit de corps.
I'm sorry about what happened to Marie. She was a fine soldier, and an even finer woman. Her family has been notified and reimbursed for her unfortunate passing, and her body has been sent back to the State of Lafayette in Vinland for burial. Wherever she may be, things will be easier for her. If it brings you any solace, know that she no longer suffers as you last remembered her.
If you happen to be in Loudeac, come by for a glass of wine, anytime.
Sergeant Dostoyevsky sends his regards.
Yours truly, Pierre Saint-Martin.
My Dear Inès,
Joyeux anniversaire, mon ange!
To think that my little girl from all those years ago is a 20 year old woman, valiant and strong. It's a feeling that brings joy to a mother, no matter how old or where in the world they are, and it's a feeling I know one day you'll be able to cherish as well. To see my angel sprout her wings, and soar in the air, in the heavens above among the cherubs of Taranis is a feeling indescribable. I knew from the moment you were born you were destined for great things, and I know as your mother that you will aspire to more than I did.
I know the war must be hard on you, but you must never lose faith, Inès. We the Darcsens believe in the good air and bountiful sky, and with pure water and hardy land, our earth is bountiful and joyous, yet everchanging. In all walks of nature, there is brutality, yet like the rivers and mountains, we carve our ways into our world while everything else may change. We know, as Darcsens, we are to be the river. We are to be the sky. We must persevere; We must survive.
For a long time, you have been my sky, and never for a moment have I doubted you. I know we fight, like all mothers and daughters fight, and like I fought with my mother before me. I know I am not a perfect mother. I'm a deeply, deeply flawed person, Inès. I've always had you there for me to keep me from leaning too much one way and going astray, but I don't want you to worry about me. Ever since you've left, there have been no more debtors coming to our door, and the Berangers have been quiet. Sometimes, the city is uneasy with the effects of war, but I remain safe. Guy has offered me refuge in New Belfast if the Imperials ever invade or shell our city. Perhaps unlike me, I have money set aside for this occasion, I should say, inspired by your insistence upon my protection with your leave.
I think about you every day, Inès. Every mother wants nothing more than to see their daughter come home safe and happy. There is nothing more in the world that I want more for you than to be happy. Years ago, I would have never pictured myself saying this, and yet if you are to find yourself a suitable woman who treats you well, then I will accept them with as welcome of arms as though they were a wonderful man of strength and integrity. It breaks my heart to see you upset. I hear much about the war, unfortunately. Madame Glancour has lost five of her seven sons throughout the war, in addition to finding herself widowed early on. I cannot imagine being a mother to a deceased daughter, Inès, no matter how dignified your death. If nothing else I say can persuade you, then I would prefer you to leave knowing that I could not imagine my life without you. Please, before anything else, promise me that you will take care of yourself.
Inès shouldn't be the one judging, here. Be here as long as she may, and sharp she may be, Inès didn't know the entirety of Jean's picture. Perhaps she knew enough for insights into his surface thoughts - that may be true - even so, that left margins for digression all the same. How he commented on her, and...her tea. An odd tangent, certainly, yet that was what came to mind when Jean spoke of the brunette he so endeared. Inès narrowed her gaze slightly as Jean peered skywards as if he were being whisked away to a fantastic diversion, then widened those eyes as the picture came to view; Jean had quite the affinity toward her, certainly, but had not the words to describe how he truly felt. Second guesses got us all, certainly, but, as the adage went, "within every crisis lies opportunity, and those accomplishments are forever out of reach to those who constantly fear failure."
He might snicker, one time or two, with Inès' comments on the topic of his love interests, in any display that Jean did not have incentive to believe what she told him. Her words were true; not an ounce of fib escaped in any of her proposals or evaluations. Yet that seemed ingenuine for her compatriot, never minding once to nod in approval, but how could he? Inès knew Jean was busy, certainly, and the weight of managing the mission must have hung him like a hangman's noose. In spite of this, they were in the isle of tranquility none of them knew existed nor was even possible not one day ago. In that one day, that one night, plenty of merrymaking attracted the sights and gave delights to the members of Squad One. Maybe to Squad One...spare Jean.
Her hand motioned down, not guided, but rather, implored by the Corporal's guidance down naught a centimeter or two. Had Inès wished, she would have kept her position dead-set on her superior's heart, but for the first time...Inès saw him smile. Tenuous, nebulous, murky and melancholic, it seemed to be, but it was a smile, nevertheless, and that was a first from her superior. No matter the exam, no matter the trial; A woman defined by trial, tribulation, and testament to turbulence, Inès knew that there had to be time to smile, even if for naught but one moment, for naught but a snide, and for naught but a bleak bravado in spitting in the face of the innumerable odds.
She shared his smirk back, and exchanged a chuckle. It was good to see the officer smiling, truly. Even seeing Luke getting reprimanded almost changed Inès' opinion on the man. She heard him spoke of his time at Hill 58, charging across a war-pleated field just to re-obtain his prized binoculars, and now that modesty, before spoken so humbly, showed in true form. Inès chuckled. Whenever Luke was involved, Jean seemed to be there to show his spine, she noticed. Perhaps if he continued to push his buttons, Jean could become a fearless veteran of the battlefield in due time, charging across No Man's Land with as much thought as the day's rainfall.
...until Scarface came along, and so brutally executed Jean's confidence that even Middleton would have been declared a Saint by the Cruxian faith in comparison.
"Fils de pute..." Inès sighed, seeing Jean's confidence vaporize with one simple moment.
Whatever intrigue he could provide by a card game, that lost itself, clearly, to the emotional maelstrom Squad One's members entrapped themselves in. Diana - the blondie - was still getting over Luke's tantrum. Luke himself hung his head low, almost drooping his hair over his plate by now. But Jean...
...
Inès saw him head for her. She smirked. Maybe the talk was good for something, after all. "What we really need to do here is get back to work and destroy those fucking tunnels."
"I will pretend I did not hear that!" The familiar voice chuckled, coming from Inès' leftmost side. She pivoted around, met by the familiarity of her used-to-be-Federal-technically-Imperial acquaintance. Not without his famed grin, Max took a seat beside her, in the position now vacated by a socializing Jean.
"I thought you left with the other Imperials." Inès asked, turning for a moment in surprise.
"And miss all of this glamour?" Max retorted, opening his arms as though he were a carnival host.
Inès sighed, turning back to what few scraps remained of her breakfast. Not smiling one wince, Inès displayed naught but disdain, even for a man as close as Max.
"I'm glad you still know how to laugh whenever it's not needed."
Max frowned, dropping his prosthetic arm to the table with its distinct *CREEURK*. He motioned slightly closer to Inès, leaning with his left arm upon his knee.
"Oh, n-...w-w-would you come on?!" He protested, checking around to make sure he hadn't caught too many ireful views. From how he frowned, looked down, and refocused back to Inès, he most certainly had. Inès smirked at him. Always the type to find trouble.
"Well...sigh, look. We still have business to do, eh?" Max reminded, hushing his voice this time, "I still have a good selection! And..."
The blondie paused for a moment, smiling. Inès turned with the silence, raising an eyebrow at first the silence, then at Max.
"...I have a little something for the birthday girl!"
"A little something." Just how little could it be? Even if he remembered her birthday - which, admittedly, Inès did find to be sweet of him - she knew it was on too short of notice to be anything too personal. By happenstance alone, the two caught one another here, and Max, while resourceful, Inès doubted he would send mail across a front line for the occasion. Still, whatever could it be such that Max would divert himself to not go back in safety with the other Imperials?
Inès breathed, smiling, shaking her head. She popped from her seat, gently sliding down from the barstool while she nodded her head.
"Okay." She accepted. Max had his supply truck parked around a corner from the Inn, still well within the zone of neutrality, of course, but in an area plenty shaded so as to provide the well-deserved privacy for his clientele. The bed of his supply truck was covered in a canvas tarp, plenty drenched from the morning's precipitation, but situated in a secluded spot, free from prying eyes. Inès had seen photographs of the trucks before in newspaper snippets, catalogues, and the like, yet still was impressed by the size of the great automobile. It was certainly larger than any horse wagon she had seen, and dwarfed even any automobile she had acquainted herself with. Only could she imagine the Ragnite engine necessary to power a vehicle of this size, and with that thought wondered how Max was able to pathfind his truck into so small and specific a spot. Yet, therein lay the answer to a lot of questions...and likely why he was put into service of munitions and logistics.
Towards the very front of his cargo stash, amidst other countless crates and sacks, Inès had climbed around to Max's self-declared "special inventory", composed of a few nondescript chests and boxes. They were distinctly unlike the military crates around, and instead apropos a bedchest kept in houses far more furnished than what Inès was accustomed to. As the pair grunted and heaved, moving the chests into proper positioning, Max turned just away from Inès, grasping hold of an oil lantern with his right prosthetic.
"Open them up." Max asked, the sound of a match striking away just barely audible against the downpour of the morning. In almost perfect sync, Inès unbuckled the chest, flinging it open as light spilled forth into the truck.
Max hunched down, moving just to the side of Inès, smiling at the contents of the boxes. At first he leaned forward, putting his left arm across his stomach in the form of a deep bow.
"It is my honor to serve the legendary Mademoiselle Lévesque." Inès snickered at his faux pas. At the very least, even when he did attempt to emulate the fineness of Francian etiquette, Max still did manage wonders in humorous blunders. Specifically where working-class women were concerned.
Max had a full stock of varied weapons; some clearly in better condition than others. Blanketed in a thick cloth, several assortments of blades, maces, axes, knives, and even some tools repurposed into melee weapons lay in one crate. Just beneath, there was an assortment of other ranged weapons - old revolvers and pistols, all in varying states of repair, what she thought were grenades, and even a few clearly improvised fire bombs and powder bombs. In another large trunk, this one curiously coated in patches and other traveller's insignia - New Belfast, Buenos Vientos, Qi'an, Marseille, Weissendorf, among others - folded neatly among one another was a varied assortment of clothing, hats, and helmets, all in heterogenous form and origin. To her leftmost lay the final container, and within that were cans, tins, pots, and bottles of all manner of hard-to-acquire provisions. Fine cigars from Trinidad, ground coffee, chocolate, varied assortments of cigarettes, canned fruits and vegetables, whiskey, mead, beers and wines of all manner of brew and craft; the variety seemed endless from Inès view of what even was on the surface of this one container.
She looked through the weapons at first. If the squad were going to occupy themselves in what Inès could only imagine were the labyrinthine tunnels of this city, she would do herself well to equip with something far better suited for the tight confines of combat. Scanning over the contents, her hand rummaged slightly through the assortment of sidearms, finding at first many old-timey revolvers she swore would have to date back well into the 19th century. As was expected, they were in rough condition; the cylinders were often very chipped, perhaps even corroded in a few instances, and Inès could not find herself the interest to trust her life with an antique. One, however, did catch her attention; A semi-automatic model, fed from a grip magazine, in contrast to the pistol she was used to back home. It bore a sleek, minimal design, almost as though it were a revolver sans the cylinder. She picked it up, still encased in its' worn leather holster, and drew it slowly.
"A woman of class and taste, as always." Max applauded as she peered upon the handgun. With no doubt, he was earnest - and possibly correct - on account of her taste, yet class was another fib from him. However, while she venerated the sidearm, his hand slowly waved over hers. His face turned to awkwardness, a disappointed, strange smile on it.
"...we may be close, Inès, but...I can't sell that to you." Max frowned, "It's a risk, and i'm already not supposed to do this, nevermind acquiring ammunition, and what your superiors may say to you..."
Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the pistol grip, Inès relegating hold of the handgun. Max gently tugged it away, calmly smiling while he put it back into its' holster.
"Sorry, Inès, but...believe me on this. Erm- perhaps another time?"
"...another time." Inès relinquished. For now, there'd be no pistol, and at this rate, an unlikely endeavor unless she had the good fortune to scavenge one from a fallen Imperial - or Federal - officer. A shame, as she was far more familiar with handguns than she was rifles, yet she forsook the disappointment as she turned to her right, starting to look through the clothing bin.
"My last helmet got caved in." she announced, glancing briefly at Max, "What do you have?"
Quickstepping around to her side, Max snapped into life, beginning his dig into the contents of that trunk. Beneath a few lines of fatigues, coats, and hats, he pulled out a few assorted helmets, some wrapped in cloth, others simply stacked on top of one another. All of them were secondhand - they had to be, given their scratches and far from perfect condition - yet you could make out the general designs from which they came. Some Imperial, some Edinburgian, some Francian, and some of a design Inès had never encountered before. Every Federal helmet she dusted upon had clear scratches on them, some running so deep as to create indentations around the helmet's interior space. Feeling each crevice almost gave her a morbid curiosity, a morose wonderance as to just how this piece of headwear was obtained. Many of the Imperial helmets had similar scars, some even still carrying the musk of sweat of their previous owner, as Inès disgustedly noted. An Imperial helmet likely was not a great idea, given that tended to be the first note of identification, but neither did she trust the condition of any Federal helmet on offer. It was to the unknown helmets, then, where she rummaged through, finding similar circumstances to the contemporaries, at first. There was one last one, however, that caught her eye.
It bore only superficial scratches, yet bore similarities to both Edinburgh and Imperial designs. The bottoms of the helmet were winged, protruding slightly downward, especially around the backward neck in fashion not dissimilar to Edinburgh designs, while it also contoured itself around the user's ears and face, typical of Imperial patterns. Bearing a covering on the top, just above the face, the cover primarily protruded some sort of cloth on the front, which was wrapped around the helmet by leather bindings. If needed, the helmet could carry a small item or two, Inès justified.
"That one?" Max commented, "Kortrijk design, I think. That one came from when I did business with a performing troupe, actually. Said they found it while they were on the run in the South."
Inès glanced over at him. His eyebrows slightly raised, as if offended that she question his integrity so. She felt along the helmet, tilting her eyes back toward the new investment, then facing Max headfirst.
"How much?" She asked, raising the helmet slightly. He pondered over it, a slow smirk steadily sketching onto his expression.
"...for you?" Max declared, "...mmh. Thirty."
"Eighteen."
And like that, the game was on.
"Tsk. Ever the stiff one, Inès? Twenty-five."
"Twenty."
Max snickered, shaking his head. Streaks of his blonde hair obfuscated his hair, falling to a close underneath his eye as soon as his gesture ceased. His mouth formed a circle, then a whistle of a sharp exhale blew his hair from his view. His steady smile gave himself away; Correctly, he was under the impression their game was getting them nowhere.
"Tell you what:" He prompted, posturing his good hand forth, "Twenty-three, and I throw in that."
Finger extended, he gestured to a deep navy scarf of a sort, something between a scarf and a handkerchief, twined with a discernible light tan color. The pattern took form of two lines, repeating in a wavelike hexagonal sine, each one inlaid with another, solid-colored hexagon. Simple as it was elegant, Inès knew she would need something a bit warmer coming up. The winter months bore little to enjoy, and the Darcsen was no stranger to winters without proper equipment...and how little she cared to repeat those experiences.
Inès paused, then pulled out her coin purse.
"Deal." She agreed. Slipping out a few face bills, she exchanged the francs with the Imperial merchant, returning smiles and polite handshakes with one another.
"And what about your present?" Max halted, eyeing up Inès. Her face remained flat as her response. The Darcsen sighed for a bit, slowly turning into a smile, which earned Max's own grin as her reward. Snapping for but a bit, Max retreats to a crate just behind him, making a twirling motion with his finger.
"Turn around, close your eyes, and hold out your hands..."" He asked. More like suggested. Inès smirked, raising an eyebrow as her mouth so clearly hunched spoke the words "Are you kidding me?" without the need for her to waste her breath. Max sighed and shook his head, although her condemnation of his wish scantly deterred his own smile.
"Fine. Just wait then." He resigned, turning his back behind a small crate in the front. A fair bit of shuffling and ruffling ensured, Inès herself wondering just how much logistical maneuvering this man was doing to conceal such an important present to her. Moments later, he'd come back with a small, nondescript cloth bag, roughly the size of a football. He presented it to her with both hands extended, preceded by the *CREEEK* of his prosthetic.
"Ta-da!" he exclaimed, a grin only plausibly precedented by the eagerness of a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Inès took hold of it, quickly unraveling the binding of its' opening.
Her eyes widened at it. First, was a dark amber bottle, large and rounded near the bottom, more akin to a Pasteur flask than a traditional bottle of wine or liquor. Emblazoned with imprinted, raised letters, the title upon the bottle was clear:
Admiral Aufrey's Finest Centrolandic Rum 100 Proof 1.75 Litres
Inès typically wasn't much of a drinker. She'd have the occasional night to enjoy herself, certainly, but liquor never quite tickled her fancy. Even as destitute as they could be, Inès' mother seldom failed to stockpile on wine, and that would be her drink of choice on the rare days where she needed to let loose. Even the most dilettante purveyor of alcohol, however, knew the fame that was Admiral Aufrey's. She had seen it fetch handsome prices in windowsills while walking through many of the more exquisite parts of Francia, sometimes demanding a score well into the double digits. Edinburgh did occasionally issue rum rations, of course, but the stuff was typically poor, sometimes even so coarse that there would be thick strands of molasses still in the liquid, and the liquor would instead function apropos a hard candy instead of a drink to soothe the nerves. A bottle of this quality was certain to be something to enjoy...
...if Inès fancied rum. Still, it was something valuable to trade where niceties such as these were few and far between.
The others? They more than made up for the questionable gifts.
Encased well in a lacquered box, clear through a glass covering over its' hinged top, lay just what she needed - Khandar Rolls. Fresh, directly from Khandar, still sealed and stamped with the Gold Sultan's emblem on top. Even the aroma of the sweet leaves permeated well through their encasement, bringing delight to even the most stone-cold face. Inès couldn't restrain herself. She gave into it, smiling ear to ear.
"Are you trying to choke me?" Inès teased, poking fun at Max. He playfully shrugged back, feigning along with the joke. "...thanks."
"You're welcome!" For once, Max yielded to some actual manners. Even getting a simple "thank you" from the Imperial was a notoriously hellish task.
Just as their business was about to conclude, Inès caught sight of a mask just below her gaze. Not any mask, mind, but the exact same mask that had been issued to all of the Federal troops headed to Amone. Yet, she noticed that among the Imperials, not one had a similar one, nor any mask she could feasibly make out on their persons. She had a merchant of all manner of goods before her, dubious or not, and perhaps, then, she may have found some sort of use for it. Pointing directly at it, she turned her head to Max, her serious demeanor posturing her query.
"What are these masks?" she questioned.
The blonde headed man turned, approaching the mask with a puzzled look about him. Hand waved over, he seemed to almost feel it out, etching for some manner of distinction about it while he jogged his memory on the subject. Puzzled, frowning, he turned back to Inès.
"These? I only got this a few days ago." he explained, "Someone said they found it in the city, here. I think they're supposed to be antiques. Mining masks."
"Mining masks?" She wondered. A concerned, confused look came about her.
"Yeah. Back in old times, deep underground, there'd be buildups of sulfur or monoxide deep below, and what they'd do is keep a bird in a cage to see if the air was safe, since they'd be the little things to die first if there was poison in the air. But, over time, they just wanted miners to keep on digging without worrying about poison, so they made these so they wouldn't have to worry about it."
("What the Hell are we doing with mining masks?") Inès wondered to herself. Her face fell a bit down with the explanation, visibly sinking with every point Max lectured on about.
"Still, the masks didn't solve everything. Some of that gas was so volatile, just the oil lamps would make it all ignite." He kept on, "Any fire, even just a stray spark, would cause the whole mine to detonate."
"...huh..." Inès nodded back. She wasn't telling Max. If it was about the tunnels, Inès wasn't going to go talking too much about their mission. She trusted Max, but she knew he liked to talk. That mudhead had already gone and expunged their mission in front of the entire Inn, and Inès didn't trust Max not to tell stories about "The Darcsen Pro Fighter Who Went Into Explosive Tunnels" to his friends behind the lines. Rather late for that, she knew, but perhaps the less he knew, the better.
"Just curious." she finished off.
Max tilted his eyes, widened them, then shrugged. Inès met them back with a forced neutrality, coercing him into a sigh. She would need to tell someone about this. Just not him.
"Well, then." Max declared, putting his hands together, "That's my business here."
"...it was nice seeing you again." he said, putting out his left hand, open.
"Yeah...it was...good seeing you, too."
The shake was quick, concise. Nothing formal, no; little besides an awkward farewell, done out of necessity rather than savoir-faire. The encounter, however brief, still left the distance between the two reverberating, even whilst they stood directly across from one another. Inès knew, somewhere within her, this was, for all intents and purposes, likely her final goodbye to Max. Even if the two made it out of this war unscathed, there was no imagining anything good would come from either circumstance; Inès was a fighter of a race persecuted for centuries, such that even the foundations of history itself revolved around it. Max was a deported criminal, specializing in acquiring downright illicit goods. Even if he possessed a sense of kinship perhaps unparalleled, loyalty to others meant nothing in the long arms of the law. And those laws seemed to be the death of them both.
"I...guess i'll be heading off."
"...I'll...see you."
Inès took her time turning around, hopping off the back of that truck. The rainfall did nothing to slow her descent off. It was thinking that her friend may not make it that perturbed her. No doubt he thought the same, if not worse, considering how she fought on the lines themselves.
When she hopped off, she felt a cold, steady drizzle soak her feet, even through her boots. Just behind her, she heard him call out, one last time.
"Hey, wait! Before you go...could you...er...give these to that guy? The, um...your Corporal?" He asked. Inès turned back to him, meeting his arm outstretched, three texts stuffed inside his grasp. They seemed fairly new, judging by their hard backing and industrial paper binding. Their titles were engraved into the covers themselves, further etched in with some manner of gilded ink. Inès didn't look too closely at them, instead focusing on quickly putting them into her bag, as the morning's unyielding downpour threatened to ruin the books.
"I saw him writing a lot, so...I thought he'd like these. History, romance, epics...that sort of thing." Max commented, stepping down from his truck with the helping hand of Inès on his way down.
"Oh, and Inès..." He motioned back for the final time. Max chose a blank expression, meeting eye to eye with her.
"...try to keep your voice down in the future."
"Goodbye, Max." As angered as Inès was in her speech, Max smirked. He made Inès smile. And that was precisely what he wanted his last memory of her to be. The march through the rain to the inn was a short one, if it thoroughly drenched the shocktrooper down to her smallclothes. The sturdy canvas construction of her bag retorted any measly attempt at rain to devour her purchases, but the weather would receive no such victory. Inside, the Inn fell oddly quiet. Most everyone was sill asleep, or, more likely, had moved on into their assignment for their time in Amone. Even the residents of Squad One were seldom around, save the few who remained awake and downstairs for their morning breakfast. Luke seemed to have vacated the area, Inès noted, yet Jean was finishing up conversation with his special someone.
Inès smiled at the thought. Jean had likely received enough brunt from himself for his attempts at romance, nevermind the rest of the squad at large. Turned courier for the moment, Inès still knew better than to interrupt his moment with her, instead opting to dry herself with whatever spare rags or towels she could scrounge around.
At the end of his most wholesome discussion - or failing that, some intermission between the two - Inès approached Jean for the second time that morning, putting the three tomes before him.
"Max wanted me to give these to you." Inès mentioned, "His way of saying goodbye."
Inès left as soon as she came, looking for the company of a few nearby. Franz was a likely bet, or failing him, likely could be found around Freya, but whatever be that case, she wasn't in any capacity to be holding deep-set conversations on the value of literature with Jean. Splayed in constituent order, Jean could make out the three titles pressed upon every book.
23 Years - The Autobiography of Hugo Zimmerman
"Hugo Zimmerman"? Wasn't he a criminal?
Red Sail, Golden Age
Red and Gold, was it? Judging by the printing, it had to do with something regarding the old Iberon colonies on the Vinlandic continents. The Age of Sail had their prized pieces of romance to them, of course liberally peppered with embellishments, but even the most aggrandized depictions had their seeds of truth strewn in them.
Anya Karenin By: Lev Nikolayevich
The Lev Nikolayevich? Even while he shared his sense of controversy in his Ruzhian homeland, the late Nikolayevich truly was a master of his craft. Nobody really came close to matching the man's prose, not even among the brightest minds in either the Empire nor any domain of the Federation. The poor author departed just before the war, as well, yet to live to see 82 years was far from a tragedy.
At any pace, this would give Jean quite the amount to dive into. A shame he couldn't thank Max for his tastes.
[h2]“There was a time when I was master of the universe. As I was staying ageless and motionless before my computer, flying untouched over human frenzy, cities rose and crumbled under my thumb, tiny people ran hurriedly to their death on the roads I had built and time flew at my command.
Then it all stopped, and I had to become one of those running specks. They call it 'life.'”[/h2]
[right][sub][i]Nicolas Combrexelle[/i][/sub][/right]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-h2">“There was a time when I was master of the universe. As I was staying ageless and motionless before my computer, flying untouched over human frenzy, cities rose and crumbled under my thumb, tiny people ran hurriedly to their death on the roads I had built and time flew at my command.<br><br>Then it all stopped, and I had to become one of those running specks. They call it 'life.'”</div><br><div class="bb-right"><sub><span class="bb-i">Nicolas Combrexelle</span></sub></div></div>
