Character: PFC Michael Roper
Location: Olos River East Bank (Nr. Church of the Creator)
With: @Rusalka Danielle Mason |

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Everything ached or throbbed; this was shaping up to be one Hell of a day... or night, apparently.

Come on man, get up.

Naw, let me just lay here for a bit.

No! Get on your ass soldier!

But I...

Now!

Michael lurched into an upright position, breathing heavily. He looked around, but everything was dark, and his vision was blurry - maybe from the water he'd gotten in his eyes, or maybe from exhaustion. His clothes were soaked, and a deathly chill was steadily working its way into his bones. He was tired, so very tired. Light kept flashing across his vision, and he tried to blink it away to no avail.

"Fuck," he offered to no one in particular.

With great effort, he made to stand - and instantly regretted the decision as his left leg exploded with pain, just below the knee. He fell to the floor with a whimper, and as he twisted in frustrated agony, he caught the outline of something a few feet away. A dim light shone from its midsection, casting an eerie glow over him. Michael's eyes flared wide, and he rolled away with a series of muttered curses, fumbling for his shotgun in the wet grass and the mud.

His fingers found the cold metal, and he hauled the weapon into himself, pointing it towards this latest threat with all the military discipline of a frightened lab animal. "Stay back! I'll blow your fucking head off, I swear to God almighty!"

The blurriness was receding, as another wave of adrenaline gave new life to his exhausted senses. The something quickly faded into the form of a young girl, bruised and battered, but otherwise looking relatively "fresh". The glare from her light hid half of her from his view however, and Michael was taking no chances, no sir!

"Speak! Say something! Say something normal or I'll send you back to Hell!" He screamed, more than shouted; the shotgun rattling in his weakened, freezing limbs.

Character: Arth Bek
Location: Fort Buckmere (Keep)
With: Two hungry werewolves

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Multicolored shards of glass flew through the air towards the metal clad soldier. Rather than avoid the glass or the far more dangerous were-beast Arth instead stood his ground, in his right hand clutching the short sword and his left arm raised to shield his face from some of the raining glass.

Thrusting his blade up Arth caught the wolf on his sword, the creature gasping for air as if it had fallen onto a claymore.

Pulling his blade away Arth stepped back, watching while the beast fell to it's knees, clawed hands clutching at its chest. Before Arth could figure out what exactly made this blow so powerful he received a blow to the back of his helmet. The third of the wolves had snuck up on him.

Thrown down with the force of the blow Arth saw his life flash by. His loving parents, taken by the rakdos. The training instructor he was taught by, a grizzled old man, killed in his sleep. His first love, an elf of the Izzet, caught in a laboratory accident, too much concentrated explosives. Arth looked forward to rejoining them.

Claws were grabbing at his back, trying to pry loose the metal plates concealing the flesh within. Arth remembered the women he married, a stern but caring women, with child. The numerous people who Arth had aided in the years. And finally his mind drifted to the warleader. The guildmaster, the leader of the Boros.
Arth's mailed fist flew into the snout of the beast, who with a yelp was thrown back. Not far, but enough for the legionare to stand.
Arth's eyes burned with fury. His warleader would not allow such weakness in him, and neither would he. With a furious shout the man ran forward, grabbing the short sword as he movee past, and plunged the blade into the beast. Tackling the monster he slammed it into the wall, turning the sword into a nail, holding the beast. Stepping back Arth walked to the already wounded wolf and kicked it to the ground before pressing his knee into it, putting his weight onto the monster's neck. Punching the wolven face, then again, and again, Arth punched the creature until it was little more then a brused and bloody mess. The knight would then turn to leave, abandoning the silver lined blade that pinned the wolf to the wall.

The dim light cast through the broken window allowed the knight to see a large wooden door, one just barely open. Stepping through Arth found himself in the courtyard once more, though something seemed off. Finding his sword Arth picked it up, and though it was coated in a layer of blood the beast it had been within was gone. Rather then try to find out where it was however Arth instead simply walked out of the fort and started walking down the road. Perhaps he'd find someone alive elsewhere.