[IC] Muskets & Magic - Dark Fantasy RP

[vietmyke]

_{New Stratton, The New World.
Bastion of Humanity}

---

New Stratton, the first major colony established by Ilya, this city was widely regarded as the jewel of the New World. A powerful trade hub for trading goods between the Old and New Worlds, New Stratton held incredible prestige amongst the other colonies of the New World and was by far the most influential. Its great stone brick buildings stretched high into the sky- reminiscent of Old World Ilyan architecture, and the city held considerable sway amongst the New World council. Seated in a prime location, the city had access to fresh water via a river, and its natural bay made it a safe haven for trade with most of the New World. This colony was a bustling city, even comparable in size to many major cities in the Old World itself, and its productivity and trade benefits were astounding, with positive trade relations with an influential tribe of natives nearby.

Now, a decade later, New Stratton was a mere shadow of its former self. Its clean canals now black with some brackish, muddy ichor, its stone towers aged and reduced to rubble. The city bounds, once stretching for miles, was abandoned as its inhabitants were slaughtered and retreated to the area immediately surrounding the port; an area of little more than one and a half square miles, dilapidated walls and fortifications built of rubble and timber from the surrounding ruins to seal it off from the blighted town around it. Now New Stratton was the main base of the Expedition, and the last bastion of humanity on the continent, it was the home of the damned and sentenced, the hopeless and the determined. Soldiers of the Expedition went about their business in the base, soldiers patrolled the wall, smiths worked with shoddy metal scraps to forge weapons and armor. Mages made enchantments and crafted magical ammunition, and Shaman Natives huddled in a corner of the base, doing gods know what. Moored in the harbor were several ships, a large Ilyan battleship made a near permanent home in the port, while other ships came and left as they pleased, bringing forth yet more supplies and new men, some foolishly seeking fortune and glory in this domain of the damned, and others merely trying to survive.

---

The Hallspeed, one of the Expeditions transport ships had finally arrived in the port, after spending the better part of six weeks, landfall met its passengers with both relief and dread. Getting off the damned ship after so long on the rough seas- only getting rougher as they neared the New World, as though the continent themselves wished them to stay away, was a relief, as they could stretch their legs, walk on solid ground, and not worry about drowning from a freak storm, but at the same time the land seemed dead, even the light of the morning was a dark, oppressing gray. As the passengers of the ship, the newest wave of Expedition soldiers crossed the gangplank, they passed by men and women who had the opportunity to leave the New World, though any face of joy or happiness of having survived wasn't present on their face, rather very little expression was on their faces at all, and they looked like little more than walking corpses, as one Expedition soldier mentioned.

As they walked across the docks, into the base proper, the air noticeably changed, where the air once smelled like salt and brine, now smelled like a mixture of saltwater, and the acrid stench of burning hair and flesh, likely emanating from one of the few large buildings nearby the docks themselves, smoke spewing out of a large chimney, as mule dragged corpse carts, laden with bodies- both human and monster, plodded through the muddy streets into a makeshift opening, and then leaving empty. Some soldiers milled about, while others marched with purpose, egged on by stern eyed sergeants, with sharp voice and whip. The newest soldiers off the Hallspeed were directed to one of a few large buildings that had been converted into makeshift barracks, where soldiers could store their belongings, though for the most part, it appeared that the majority of Expedition soldiers kept all of their belongings with them on hand- not that many considerable numbers of possessions anyway, typically anything not worth carrying was not worth much.

After an appropriate amount of time pantomiming the allowing of soldiers to settle into their bunks, the new Expedition members were ushered out into the main yard of the base, a large swath of mud that at one point must have been a small green park for residents. They were assembled into some modicum of a military formation, as a gruff looking man in an expeditionary coat walked to a podium raised above them. The man was tall and gaunt, and impeccably well dressed, despite the conditions around him. His expeditionary coat was draped around his shoulders, instead of worn, and closer inspection would show that he was in fact missing his right arm from the shoulder down.

"Welcome to the New Stratton." the man spat, with a voice low and graveled. "I know not what methods have led to your arrival here, nor do I care. Your purpose in this blighted place is singular: To Kill. You will kill, and kill, and kill, until either you are dead, or this world is purged of monsters."

His gravely voice paused for but a moment, before gesturing to the smoking plumes from the nearby corpse burning building. "Make no mistake, most will end up here, covered in the poisoned earth, awaiting the merciful embrace of oblivion. Until that day, this place will serve as your home. This place will provide you with anything you should desire during your short stay. Weapons, armor, alcohol, women- should you have the coin."

"On the matter of which, many of you wonder how one will obtain funds while on this accursed place. It is simple. Upon killing a monster, you may bring me their head, their ear, what have you. Bring them to the quartermaster, and you shall receive a sum of credit, based on the difficulty of your kill. With this credit, you may purchase all manner of things that might prolong your miserable lives for but a little longer. Bring twenty proofs of kills to the dockmaster, and you may purchase your way back home.

"If there are no questions, Lieutenant Aron will announce your squad assignments." he concluded, not mentioning the fact that he had not at any point asked if there were any questions, stepping off the podium as another, thinner, younger man climbed onto the podium, with a rather long checklist, and began reading off names and giving them their assignments.

"Phrys, Ceridwen,
Tzenker, Hassan,
Lestil, Vashti,
Axis, Roland,"

Were among some dozen names assigned to a Sergeant Hoff, a portly, if still strongly built sergeant with a bald head, a bushy graying beard, and an empty socket where his left eye used to be. The sergeant beckoned his dozen new soldiers to follow him, their ranks bolstered by another quartet of men, more scarred and war weary than their fresh compatriots. The sergeant gave them an appraising look, before walking off, the corporals gesturing for the others to follow. "Hopefully you lot last longer than the last." Sergeant Hoff grunted as he led them to the gated exit of the base. This portion of the rubble-brick wall was considerably more built up, thicker and taller than the surrounding wall, with great big timbers backed by iron as a main gate, and two flat towers with snipers watching outside the base. At any one time, there were six other men on the gate wall, scanning their surroundings and watching for trouble. Two large, armored men stood on either side of the gate, their faces hidden with masks and standing by two impressively large winches, with thick iron chains connecting to the gate.

"We'll be moving through the ruins to retrieve Lieutenant Harker and some of his mages. He and his men were off on a relief mission to one of our outposts to the north, but we haven't received any word for them in several days. We'll likely be facing shamblers until we leave the ruins proper. Don't get it confused, they may look weak, but once they get their claws on you, you're not long in this mortal coil. Everyone ready?"

[Eponymous]

Hassan Tzenker trudged off the ship with numerous others, all of which seemed grateful to finally reach port, himself included. The gratefulness soon faded upon looking out at where the ship had truly taken them, Hassan knew that when he was conscripted it wouldn't be the most pleasant place or line of work. Yet it seemed that the universe had made sure that it would be hammered into all the passengers minds that where you are at now is a means to an end. Weather that be freedom, security, or a quick a death, just as long as this was the end, unfortunately this grim place was a shining beacon of "light", and there was far worse out there.

Whilst taking in his surroundings, Hassan could feel the weight of his sword on his back as though it was asking to be readied, which very well may be the case here. As the crowd continued along into a building that he would soon discover were the barracks, He noted the people around him, some were like him, here not of their own will but as a stepping stone to absolution. Others were soldiers some fresh-faced, with a varying looks on their faces, some anxious of their inevitable maiming, some fervent with the rush that they too would be in the fray soon. Hassan remained stone faced and stoic, standing tall and silent, it belied his inner anxiety of the whole situation but he knew letting it get the better of him now would only cause trouble later. As the large crowd entered the barracks a few groups scattered around an placed or picked up various personal effects, however small they may be a few trinkets, religious symbols, and other things that held meaning to them. Many stood and waited, made small talk to fellow soldiers which continued for a while and settled at a dull hum of overlapping conversations in a cramped area. After an all to brief amount of time the crowd was once again moving. In a courtyard the crowd stood in organized chaos, attempts at making rank a file lines were broken by every other person moving every few moments waiting for something to happen.

A man walked up to the podium at the end of the court, he was clearly a veteran of the misery of the new world. After a few short, harsh words that briefly detailed life here he was replaced by another man who began calling out various names in the crowd and assigning them to a higher ranking member of the expedition. In true military fashion names were called last name first, Hassan heard his called out along with a dozen others, and shortly there-after they were directed to a gruff, portly man with a missing eye. Hassan took this brief moment to observe his new companions. A small handful looked more than capable and ready to be indentured to this new life, and a few who would surely die. Sergeant Hoff was about as pleasant as he looked, he made a quick comment that caused a few members of the small group to grow concerned, but before any complaints, questions or any form of communication could be made he began to walk, beckoning the group to follow. After a short walk they were in front of an impressive wall and gate with numerous guards and patrolmen around it. Hoff gave them their assignment rather quickly and with little preparation, everyone there was as ready as they could be, weather they were actually ready or not.

It seemed as though Hassan's initial feelings of having to draw his sword at a moments notice had become reality he directed his gaze to Sergeant Hoff and let out a firm "Yes." He stood silently, waiting for the others to comply.

[An Outsider]

_{Roland Axis
New Stratton}

---

If Roland hadn’t had reason enough to hate Caleb Losthill before, he had it now. Five minutes in the New World was more than enough time for a man to grow to hate it. From the piss-angry seas that had tried to batter their boat into submission more and more the closer they got to landfall, to the corpse grey clouds that filled the sky and didn’t look like they were planning on abating any time soon, from the rotting and stinking town of New Stratton, to the dead eyed veterans who looked at him like they figured he was just so much more meat for the grinder. The sooner Roland found a way off this Gods-forsaken rock and back home the better.

He and the other recruits and conscripts were quickly led to their barracks, his new home for the foreseeable. On the way, they passed a corpse cart that seemed to be transporting one of the New World’s native demons to its final resting place. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in seeing what the fabled monsters looked like, but he didn’t get too close. Tales went that the things were damned hard to kill, and even when they were seemingly dead they could still have some life in them, enough to gut a foolish recruit with those wicked-sharp talons of theirs. No way he was risking that just to satisfy his curiosity.

Roland didn’t have any belongings to store, and even if he did he wouldn’t have gotten much time to put them anywhere. He’d barely had time to lay claim to a pallet that looked marginally less louse-infested than the others when he and the other recruits were being ushered out of the barracks. They were led to what he assumed was the parade ground, then goaded, shoved, and whipped into formation by a pack of overly enthusiastic officers. One especially weasel-ly looking sergeant, sporting a set of protruding teeth the colour of dried shit, took quite a savage delight in kicking Roland in the back of the legs to make him stumble, then hammering him with a marching baton to get him back into formation.

“Back into line, swine-humping conscript!” Weasel features screeched, spittle flying from his open mouth. Roland said nothing, knowing it would earn him nothing but another beating, but marked the man’s face in his memory. When he got the chance, he was going to shove the fat end of that baton up the sergeant’s arse, then plant the fucker like a flag. He wasn’t going to let this lie, oh no.

Thoughts of his colourful revenge were put on hold when the tall, gaunt officer got up on the podium and started to talk at them. The old fellow didn’t mince his words, and that Roland could respect, even if he did forget to introduce himself, though his speech wasn’t exactly doing wonders for morale, if the former-thief was any judge. Still, there was one bright spot that Roland picked out. Twenty kills. That’s how much it was going to cost him to get home if he couldn’t find a way to smuggle himself back to Holden. Twenty kills. All that stood between him and settling the score with Caleb Losthill. It seemed simple enough.

Then again, judging by the expressions worn on the faces of the veterans he’d seen on the way in, despondent and haunted in equal measure, and all the stories he’d heard about just how short life expectancy was for the average grunt here in the New World, the number might as well have been two hundred. Couldn’t let that get to him though. Theron needed him back in Holden, and there was no way Roland was going to let his old friend down.

The speechmaking was over as quickly as it began, then it was just a matter of being sorted into squads. Roland kept an ear out for who he was being grouped with, groaning audibly when he found out. He’d been on the boat over with most of them. Kept clear of them too, for that matter. A bounty hunter mage, and a former inquisitor, if the rumours were true. Didn’t do for a known criminal to be consorting with the likes of those, even if they were ostensibly on the same side now. He consoled himself with the fact that there were a few other conscripts on his squad, even if one of them was an Akivir. Theron had always said they were an untrustworthy people, which was really something when judged by the standards he kept.

Their sergeant was a thickly built fellow named Hoff. Roland was silently impressed by the man. He looked like the kind of bruiser who could quite handily beat an orc into submission barehanded if he put his mind to it. When things got hairy, he’d be letting Hoff and his veterans do the lions-share of the work, and by the sounds of it they were going to get their chance soon.

Surely, they weren’t setting out already? Roland and the rest of the recruits had just arrived. He was going to voice his opinion, but then realized that Hoff probably wasn’t the kind of man who cared for such minor details. Better to keep his peace and try to work his way into the middle of the squad, and therefore the furthest away from danger, than to complain and risk being punished by being put on the scouting detail, or something equally dangerous. He did have one thing he wanted explained though, and it didn’t seem like the kind of query that would see him punished for asking.

“Just one thing. What the hell are shamblers? Folk have been tightlipped on just what we’d be facing out here, and I don't fancy running into these things unprepared.”

[Atrophy]

For six long weeks Vashti had found herself drawn to the bow of the The Hallspeed, her blue eyes scanning the horizon for the darkness that laid beyond it in an almost eerily obsessive way. It was her way to keep herself from losing focus on her divine mission, for there were plenty of distractions crammed into that transport ship. She had expected as much considering the sort of people who often found themselves being volunteered for the expedition, a relief force comprised almost entirely of murderers and thieves and fools, but it was damn well laughable the amount of malice she felt radiating from the conscripts and the men who had been charged with keeping them from turning the ship back towards Ilya. Vashti could feel the gods testing her with each passing day as she overheard the quiet conversations of her compatriots, but she knew that now was the time to stay her hand and be patient. Those kind of men were a necessary evil needed to supply the expedition with plenty of cannon fodder, and she doubted that any of them had a chance of escaping divine punishment in the New World, even if it came in the form of an ungodly beast.

Yet there was no sense of relief when the boat docked in New Stratton. Her hand shot up to her nose almost the instant the gangplank had been lowered, a motion followed by a few others as they made their way from the landing zone. Vashti made a sort of noise, a mix between clearing her throat and forcing back vomit, as they pressed forward, her eyes stinging from the fumes. The elf had always hated human cities because of the stench, and even during her cloistered days she never truly got used to the foul odors that seemingly oozed out of every possible pore that man had, nor did she fall for the overwhelming colognes and perfumes they used to obscure the fact that they were, simply, a disgusting lot of people.

The putrid stench was even present, possibly stronger, in their bunkroom. Vashti was mildly alarmed that they did not have individual rooms, and deeply irked that she would be sharing space with convicted criminals. Even if she was no longer a true member of the clergy, she still had a spotless record—the fact that she got the same shitty bed as people who should’ve been hanging from the gallows filled her with venom. She sat in silence on the bunk that she claimed as her own, her head lowered as her lips moved in silence, her fingers fidgeting with the leaf pendant that hung around her neck. She prayed that the people who she would be sleeping next to would be smart enough to not bother her, or at least smart enough to realize that the claymore that had not left her arm’s reach for the past month and a half was neither ornamental nor exclusively for monster slaying.

If the gods heard her prayers she did not get a chance to interpret a response from them, as a cacophony rose throughout the already noisy barracks when the sergeants began to drive the new recruits like cattle out of the barracks and into the muddy field. It was another thing Vashti loathed about humans as she felt herself pushed and shoved towards the door; they were always in such a damn hurry. She could rationalize it back in the Old World, perhaps. Humans had such short lives and such large delusions that they were bound to accomplish some kind of greatness instead of not even living a life that was worthy of even being a footnote. In a sad way, it was almost adorable. However, here, where the average life expectancy was said to be none, it just seemed stupid to be in such a rush. Death wasn’t going anywhere and, apparently, neither was she, as she found herself standing in some sort of lineup while facing a podium.

Vashti forced a frown off of her face as a man, clearly in charge due to the lack of filth on his clothing, gave a less than warm welcome. He didn’t even introduce himself, either because he was humble enough to believe that nobody cared or realistic enough to believe that none of them would be living long enough to have a need for it, and she couldn’t help but stare at the empty space where his arm should’ve been. She always found wounds interesting for how they would tell of a person’s mistakes even if they themselves were unwilling, and she shook her head as the man talked. An armless man to lead an army; Vashti was no longer lost on how the expedition had made nearly no progress.

Still, while she could appreciate his simple orders the vices that he used as incentives to drive them to slay evil made her nose wrinkle. In fact, she had failed to see anything but dens of vices and signs of sin around the camp during her walk from the docks to the barrack. Was there even a chapel to be found in the camp, or even just some quiet room where one could momentarily take sanctuary? It wouldn’t hurt to ask; apparently everything in the camp cost kills, and if she was going to be charged for a place to meditate then she would like to know now—the barracks were hardly the sort of place that would allow someone to be at peace. At the tell that the man was beginning to wrap up his speech Vashti rose her hand up; when the word “questions” left his mouth she stretched it even higher, making direct eye contact with the man as he pretended to ignore her question and stepped down from the podium. She no longer tried to hide her frown.

“Asshole,” she muttered, brushing a loose bit of brown hair behind her ear before she dropped her hand to her side and waited for her assignment to a one-eyed man named Hoff. Again, she found herself studying the wound and wondering what kind of shit a person must go through before they decide to stop wearing an eyepatch for the sake of others. She pulled her eyes away from the man to look around at the group that she was stuck with, certain that every single one of them except her were here against their will.

Well, all of them except her and the Firehawk. She gave the other woman a glance that wasn’t wholly unfriendly. She had overheard whispers about the woman on the ship saying that she was some kind of hotshot bounty hunter, but it struck Vashti as odd that a bounty hunter would sign up for the expedition. The payday certainly wasn’t worth it, but maybe the Firehawk had heard otherwise. If that was the case then Vashti couldn’t help but to pity the woman, although perhaps it was what she deserved for pursuing a career that was more driven by greed than by righteousness.

She studied the Akvir that spoke up next, her eyes not failing to notice the tattoos on his wrist that marked him as some merchant’s property. Had the poor thing gotten on the wrong ship, or had his master sent him here in some desperate attempt at saving his investments in the New World? That hardly seemed like smart business, but Vashti admittedly knew very little about economics. Still, she couldn’t help but judge the man. She had heard that marking themselves for a life of servitude was something the Akvir sometimes did to show their loyalty to their benefactor, but why one would serve a man when the gods were an option completely puzzled her—it was like being offered gold but taking silver instead. Absolutely foolish.

“Just one thing. What the hell are shamblers? Folk have been tight lipped on just what we’d be facing out here, and I don't fancy running into these things unprepared.”

Vashti turned her gaze to Roland. Oh yes, she knew this one by name. They had talked about him on the boat too, much like how they had talked about her when they thought she was out of earshot. The man was vile; a patricide. Of all the people on the boat that had radiated a darkness, he was without a doubt the one with the strongest presence. Vashti was certain that there was no excuse for the man that made him deserve to live, and there was little doubt in her mind that he would do anything to buy his freedom. As far as she was concerned, she was responsible to see that he did not set foot back on the boat. But until that day they needed as many blades as they could muster, and it wouldn’t do to send a sword out without sharpening it up first.

“Not all folks,” said Vashti, giving Roland a half-smile. “Although I must say that I’m surprised Brother Danidus was actually telling the truth for once; he always did like a good yarn. Shamblers are the undead, reanimated corpses hellbent on destroying the living. They actually were a bit of problem in Yggdrasil before the church and its inquisitors put an end to most of them a few centuries ago. Nowadays those who would see to raise an army of the dead are tossed on a burning pyre before they can even get a single one moving right.” She sighed and covered her nose again. “I guess that explains why this place smells so familiar. Learned the hard way that we had to burn the bodies to prevent them from coming back to fight for the other side, I’d imagine.”

She shuddered, although the light in her eyes betrayed some kind of anticipation. “They’re ungodly creatures. The sooner we get out there, the sooner we can put them down.”

[Oni_]

Ceridwen Phrys

---

To say that Ceridwen enjoyed the voyage from the old world to the new would be a gross misrepresentation of the truth. When someone of her sort - that is to say a bounty hunter - is forced to stay in such a proximity which one would usually only afford to those who they consider as close friends but instead with the scum that they hunted, then there is an undoubtedly high chance of tensions running high.

Ceridwen had spent the past six weeks with an uncomfortable itch on her trigger finger and her magic running hot, with a searing heat throughout her veins. She'd held herself back as best she could, but a fair few of those god damned conscripts had a bone to pick with bounty hunters - even if it wasn't the Firehawk who had wronged them so.

Still, six weeks passed just as fast as they always did and they were soon released to roam free on the New World. If you counted being under extreme scrutiny and regulation as roaming free, which Ceridwen had great certainty that most of those on the boats definitely would.

The city of New Stratton was a remarkable example of Ilyan architecture which gave Ceridwen an odd feeling of Deja Vu. She couldn't put words to the feeling, it reminded her of the cities back in the Old World, but in a way that felt like a long lost dream - or a nightmare. For the city represented a devastated representation of its former self, somewhat like the kind that one might encounter during a feverish dream. And another thing about the city - it god damn reeked. Many people had started to cover their noses while a select few had taken the option of throwing up somewhere towards the edges of the crowds.

The attack on her senses didn't end as they progressed through the base - although it didn't surprise Ceridwen one bit. The perfumes of Old World cities had no hope of making their way out here, and that was most evident in the Bunkhouse. If the to close for comfort layout of the boat ride was uncomfortable then this would be way, way worse. Of course, it wasn't as cramped as the ships were, but unlike the ships, this was a permanent fixture. No getting out of this place in six weeks as far as Ceridwen was concerned.

She hardly had the time to inspect the burlap blankets the kind souls in the army had provided them with before everyone was once again herded like sheep towards the next destination on their tour - a muddy field serving as the main courtyard of the operation. Everyone quickly hushed down while an officer began talking to them, some war hero if you asked Ceridwen, no typical officer out here would be in such clean clothes. That, and he couldn't fight due to his unarmed nature.

His speech was short and sweet as far as they go, with the officer failing even to mention his name - something that higher ups usually enjoyed lording over their soldiers. Perhaps all his time out here had taught him that these conscripts didn't give a damn who he was. He was in such a hurry that when he asked for questions, of which there were some among the ranks, he has pretended not even to see the raised hands.

Next up came the assignment of their squads. Ceridwen didn't recognise anyone in her own save one, an inquisitor. She'd seen their work over the last few years, and she'd heard some gossip about her on the boat. She didn't know too much, though. She glanced over at Ceridwen, and Ceri returned the gesture with a small wave and turned to listen to their assignment.

Trekking through some ruins didn't seem too bad a start, that meant that there were a limited number of places monsters could sprout from. One of her squad members did ask a question, and it was then that Ceri realised that he was another that she knew. Roland Axis. There had been a few bounties on the guy but none that Ceridwen had ever taken up. The guy didn't pay well enough for her - that, and he had some pretty good protection. She wondered what brought him out here; surely the authorities didn't manage to catch him and keep him there?

Shamblers, thats what he was asking about and the Inquisitor was all too keen to explain what they were. The churches of the Old World were forever resourceful, no wonder she was the one to know so much. The inquisitor was also keen to get out there and get started on them - for different reasons than Ceridwen, but she felt the same way, giving only small nod in recognition.

[Howler]

Lt. Arthur Harker
Wallmaker's Brigade

Ruins of Westkirk, Outside New Stratton

---

The sound of a long-gun was distinctive compared to the peppering shot of the old Rune Patterns, a sharp crack and a whine of energy that died down quick as the light off the barrel. Arthur Harker had woken up to it enough times to know better than to rush or panic. If there had been an emergency there would be screaming, scrambling, and at least in these parts the dull and seemingly omnipresent moan of the dead. There were plenty of theories on what caused shamblers to sound off by the mages back home or the field surgeons back in New Stratton, but as far as most soldiers were concerned it was just the way of things. Hell on morale, but at least it stopped them from sneaking up on you.

Ruined bits of mortar crunched beneath his boots as he stood, the hob-nailed heels rasping against ground bits of brickwork. Thank Dorsen for His churches, sturdy enough to survive a decade without maintenance or repair. With walls thick enough to keep shamblers from clawing their way through and windows set a man's height off the ground, heavy foundations and tall spires, they were some of the best places to hold ground short of true military installations. The blocky structures were mostly open inside and that was where Harker and his men had holed up, shoving moldering pews back to barricade the door and setting up a quick field position amidst the split flagstones and debris cleared into a corner. As he rolled his neck and took a quick appraisal of the men--five still asleep, three awake around the coals of the fire in the corner, two by the window, three tending the injured--Arthur tried to drum up pride and could only manage weariness. Three days of being holed up into this place was starting to wear on both patience and supplies, and everyone knew a war of attrition with the shamblers was a losing game.

Time was not on their side. He would need to come up with something, soon.

Another crack brought his attention back up to the spire, the familiar pop-and-snap of a reloading rifle coming mechanically from above. That would be Pierce, who as far as Harker was concerned was one of the best on the continent. He wasn't showy enough to get much credit for it but the man was positively lethal at 200 yards. Perhaps more importantly he was dependable--having spent the longest in Harker's unit of any other soldier he could think of, the mage was a dependable second-in-command and a perfect watchman for moments like this. Hand by hand and foot by foot, Harker made his way up the rickety makeshift ladder they'd assembled and out through the section of caved in roof to see the world from his point of view.

Harker's sharpshooter looked almost comfortable in his position on top of the spire, his coat tugged down against the breeze that tugged the smoke from the cigarette at his lips. The lieutenant should have berated him for the breach--no need for an extra scent in the wind--but everyone knew that shamblers didn't track by smell. They followed sound more than anything, stumbling along after it with blindly groping hands, which was why it was important to take them down before they drew close and brought friends.

"They're coming faster." Pierce noted by way of hello, offering a two-fingered wave to his commanding officer before returning his expression to the fields surrounding. Fortunate the place had been a graveyard before everything went to Hell--it kept the lines of sight clear. "You heard the shots? Second one in fifteen minutes, coming out the break in the town ruins." He breathed out, a plume of smoke carrying itself away in the wind as he danced around the elephant in the belfry. Harker was having none of it.

"Have they circled back around?"

"Not today. Night watch said he caught eyes in the dark, but he's green. Can't be sure." Pierce didn't need to be reminded what the lieutenant was talking about. He'd seen the shapes, lurking at the edges of the forest surrounding the town. He'd seen the men inside, torn to ribbons and barely breathing. Shamblers didn't do that, not that quick and not that fast. There was something else, here, and if Harker was right there were two of them. Cutting eyes to his captain, he swallowed and showed a bit of uncharacteristic uncertainty, not quite fear but not far enough from it to play as casually as he tried. "It's balls and bayonets if they push the church, sir. Even if they don't bring shamblers, we won't put them down before they--"

"I know. We're running low." On everything. Ammunition, medicine, rations...this was meant to be a relief mission, not hunker-and-pray. How long had it been since they'd seen a pair of Horrors this close to New Stratton? He'd hoped to buy them some time, give O'Reik's squad a chance to get back on their feet, but the third day had been pushing it. A fourth would be disastrous, and there was a difference between patience and foolishness.

Pierce's eyes never left Harker's, even if his attempt at a cock-sure smile turned a bit sad. "We're not going to make it back with injured weighing us down." He ventured almost hesitantly, as if he'd made a joke, but if he was looking for hope in Arthur's gaze he found none.

"Everyone dies someday, Pierce." The lieutenant stifled a sigh, pushed himself to his feet with a slight grunt. Same as ever. Church walls had more give in them. "But don't write us off yet. I'm giving the men a few more hours before we make our play--you need a rest?"

"I'll play this one out, sir." The marksman sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and turned back out to the field. He could already see a figure moving out by the break of the forest, half stumbling and half plodding its way along. There was no talking to the Lieutenant, he knew--he would run his play and they would live or die by it, as they always had. The familiar urge to run was still there--had never left, really--but he hadn't before and wouldn't now. After all, everyone died someday. He raised his rifle. "Besides, you couldn't ask for better target practice."

Arthur Harker climbed back down to the church below, the crack of a long-gun in his ears.

[Dead Cruiser]

Honihaka

Westkirk Ruins

---

"Makkiki ta kimmegan... Kimmegan ta makkiki..."

The high yet husky voice sounded through the Westkirk encampment, chanting some manner of spell in a native tongue. Honihaka, a shaman assigned to the service of Lt. Harker, knelt at the side of an unconscious soldier, tending to his wounds. The man had been among the wounded they had ventured out to rescue, but had now been trapped right alongside. Alongside the obvious lacerations caused by Shambler claws, the man had been feverish since they had found him, and had lapsed into unconsciousness more than a day ago. Honihaka attended him, pouring herbal concoctions down his throat, setting maggots into his wounds, and praying to the spirits of the earth to guide him to wellness. None of the other wounded men trusted Honihaka to attend to them, fearful of their strange ways and alien customs. This man in particular was much too unconscious to object.

Time would tell if their efforts would pay off, though time was a luxury they could ill afford. Their already tenuous position in the remains of this town grew more precarious by the hour. If their position were overrun, the best they could manage would be to flee, leaving the wounded to die. Far from an admirable possibility, but certainly one that Honihaka had been faced with before. Hopefully this time, such a cruel fate could be avoided. The lieutenant certainly seemed to think so.

Speaking of, he was passing by just now. Haka flagged him down, though they did not move from the side of the soldier. "Harker," Haka was not a soldier; they did not address the man by his rank. The uniqueness of their talents and their position allowed them this much leeway. "Is there word of reinforcements? The most ill here, I can keep alive for a day longer if they allow me. Maybe less, and I haven't enough for more than three men." Haka spoke with a crisp Ilyan accent; a fact that often alarmed those that did not expect as much from a native. "I have not seen any ravens since yesterday morning. They have fled, probably. There is nothing alive left here." Haka blinked, and after a moment added humorlessly, "Besides us, for now."

[vietmyke]

Sergeant Hoff fixed the Elven Inquisitor with an appraising single eyed stare, before he turned back to Roland- the conscript soldier and nodded. "Aye," he said with a short chortle, as he adjusted his armor. "It is as the elf says- shamblers are like the undead found on Yggdrasil, creatures with nothing on the mind save the destruction of all that is living. But unlike the undead of Yggdrasil- the Shamblers here are a bit different- faster, more attuned to their surroundings, more aggressive, and most importantly- much quieter."

"I have no doubt you'll be able to run faster than they, conscript, but at the same time, keep your wits about ye, yeah?" Chimed in one of the Corporals with a sneer, regarding Roland with a disdainful look. The other Corporals shrugged and offered similar stances to the rest of the group. While some of the newcomers looked more battle hardened than the rest, they were all little more than greenhorns in the New World.

"Anyway, lets be off- Westkirk is a hard march some distance North, and we'll not get there by sitting here fluffing about." Sergeant Hoff commanded, as the two large armored men on either side of the gate began operating the massive winches. The strained groan of wood and creaking metal grated across their ears as the gate began to raise up, the watchmen on the gatehouse staring out attentively into the distance, their rifles drawn, in case anything tried to run at the opening door. The thick reinforced door rose into the air, rising to approximately 7 feet in height, for the soldiers to make their way through- walking underneath, they could see the wooden timbers to be almost a foot thick, with broad iron bulges embedded into the bottom of the door. Difficult to open, but quick and easy to drop and let shut perfect for an emegency and sealing the inside away from the horrors outside the gate- though anyone stuck outside the gate when the horrors came had no chance in hell of the door opening in time for them to flee.

The ruins of Stratton were bleak- brick, wood and timber structures of Ilyan style stood in dilapidated and crumbled states of disrepair, the buildings nearest to the wall haphazardly demolished, their materials likely used to form the wall itself, leaving a fifty foot stretch of no man's land around the wall before the crew entered the ruined city proper. The ruins were dreadfully quiet, with little noise at all save the crack of rifles in the far distance, and the crunch of their boots against powdered glass and stone. Occasionally the silence would be broken by the echoing caw of a raven, followed by the rapid fluttering of wings, as half a dozen flew up into the distant sky, their perch disrupted- a tell tale sign that while they city ruins felt empty, they were definitely not alone in this place.

They advanced in some semblance of a formation, one of their Corporals- a pathfinder, in the front of a wedge, followed by Ceridwen and another corporal. The conscripts and Hoff made up the center of the formation, while the elf inquisitor and the remaining corporals brought up the rear. Etherguns drawn, the team quietly made their way through the center of the dead, abandoned city.

One of the corporals in the rear gave a sharp hiss and the click of his tongue. "I thought I saw something-" he said, pointing down a dark alleyway crowded by rubble. "Let's pick up the pace, huh? I don't like the idea of being pounced by shamblers in close quarters."

[Atrophy]

_{Vashti Lestil
Hoff's Squad, Outside New Stratton}

---

Vashti met the Sergeant’s one good eye with her own unblinking stare, not concerned in the slightest that she had spoken out of turn and for someone of a higher rank. Military protocols were not unfamiliar to the elf, as the Inquisition and the Church were both very proud of their pecking orders. She had ignored them back then, too. If she knew something, she wasn’t going to keep her tongue tied out of fear of stepping on someone’s toes. If she was going to expunge evil from the world, she wasn’t going to wait for the written approval of some pencil pusher. Some might say she was brash and reckless; she preferred to think of herself as quick and efficient.

“Don’t worry, friend,” said Vashti to Roland after one of the corporals called him out. “I’ll be watching you closely. I’ll handle any shamblers so quickly that you wouldn’t even have a chance to run before they hit the ground,” she said. Her words may have been reassuring, but there was an undeniable, threatening air lingering in the silence after she spoke as she brushed past Roland without a second glance. If the conscript had any brains in him it would be clear that running was not an option, at least not as long as Vashti was alive—and the Gods would see to it that she would remain unharmed, in that she was certain.

The elf waited with mild impatience as the gate was raised open, taking the time to draw her claymore; if what the Sergeant had said was true, than it would be an error to not have it ready in case of a surprise attack by Shamblers. Her Ethergun hung from her shoulder, practically untouched since the moment she had received it except for a test to see if it worked and to learn how to properly load it without having it jam. She didn’t have some sort of apprehension to technology like some elves, or Inquisitors for that matter, did, she just knew that the weapon was almost useless in her hands (as she was as likely to hit a Shambler as she was the bloody Sergeant). No, she would settle any threats like she always did: with her sword and with her faith.

If she had felt any excitement to head forth into the killing fields and win some favor of the Gods, it was immediately sunken once they had set foot in to no man’s land. A weight fell upon her shoulders as she looked out over the ruined city. In her years as an Inquisitor she had spent much of her time in the worst parts of towns, wading her way through absolute cesspools of civilization, yet nothing she experienced was quiet like this. Even in those dark corners of the world there had always been a little bit of hope, a little bit of light, a certain knowledge that the Gods were there and that they were watching. Here, here she felt nothing but a chill than ran over her entire body. She wrapped her fingers around her necklace, almost certain that she and it were the only holy things left in this land.

Doubtful woman, you should feel blessed, for they have given you this grand challenge to prove your faith.

With that thought in mind, a bit of warmth returned to her body. She marched with the group as they proceeded without speaking, although they certainly weren’t going quietly. Every step she could hear their boots crunching on the ground as if they were walking through dead leaves instead of a dead city, every once in awhile she would hear the snap of a rifle. Yet she also heard the noises that men barely realized they made, the huffs of someone carrying too much, the quiet grumbles of a hungry stomach. Sounds, surely, that Shamblers used to mark their next prey. She strengthened her grip on her sword.

"I thought I saw something-" said one of the corporals after hissing to get their attention. "Let's pick up the pace, huh? I don't like the idea of being pounced by shamblers in close quarters."

Vashti’s eyes snapped towards the alley that the man had pointed out. It was dark and crowded, perfect for casting shadows and creating illusions, and words of dismissal quickly came to her lips—dissolving instantly as she realized that the man was right. She didn’t see anything right away, but she could feel it in her quickening heartbeat and her sweating palms: something was there. Her eyes scanned the alley; the entrance was buried in rubble, the walls of the buildings were delipidated and craggy like a cliff. The Sergeant had implied that the Shamblers had some awareness of their surroundings; perhaps they would be smart enough to not strike from the alley. If she was—her ears twitched as she heard a faint footfall, too soft to be any of them. Her head snapped up to the buildings surrounding the alley, her eyes widening as they fell on the broken out windows right above them.

“Above!” she shouted.

Her alarm may have been early enough to warn the others about the Shamblers that were emerging out of the destroyed buildings around them, but she had been caught off guard by the swiftness of the one that had leapt towards her. The undead back home had never moved like that; Vashti was only able to bring up her claymore to put a barrier between her and the Shambler as it plowed into her and knocked her onto her back. She tried to keep the abomination pushed back at arm’s length as it pinned her, its claws scratching marks into her breastplate as they struggled.

There was no time for prayers or to even think. As the creature swiped at her once again Vashti rolled, knocking the devil off of her and, thankfully, receiving only scratches from the ground instead of the beast’s claws. She was barely on her knees when the Shambler was launching itself back at her, the elf hurriedly positioning her claymore out in front of her like a spike. If the Shambler had enough sense to not slay itself, then it did not have enough time to react. It impaled itself on her sword, its outstretched hands falling slack inches away from her face.

With a huff Vashti stood up and kicked the Shambler off of her sword, quiet words mumbling on her lips as she looked around to make sure no other creature was launching itself at her. Between the cracking of guns, shouts of men, the shrieks of Shamblers, and her own pumping blood it was hard to hear if Hoff was shouting any orders, or if the man was even alive. There was still a handful of Shamblers left, but if they were outnumbered by the monsters she could not say. She was about to make her as she felt something snag her pants.

Instantly, she looked down to see the bastard she had just slain still moving, one hand gripping onto her pants as another tried desperately to claw at her. Eyes narrowing, the words fell from the elf’s lips as radiant light appeared from below her. There was a crack like thunder as the Gods answered her prayers, the rotting head of the Shambler replaced by a smoking puddle of filth that burned the elf’s nose like burning brimstone. Her lips began moving again, humble pleas spilling forth as she stepped over the body of the Shambler, her sword leveled and ready to strike, blissfully unaware of the shadow that was then slipping out of the alleyway with her in it’s sights.

[Oni_]

Ceridwen Phrys

---

As much as Ceridwen had assumed the Seargent to most likely be one of the more strict military men - in fact, she has assured herself he would be, due to the unfavourable nature of most of his soldiers. But surprisingly, when the Inquisitor spoke up and assumedly out of line he didn't seem to care particularly - in fact, he seemed somewhat amused.

The elf was the most fascinating of the group so far with her overconfidence almost matching Ceridwens own - although Roland's reputation preceded him even out here which already seemed to be causing him some conflict without any effort on his part.

As they walked through the ruined city, everything seemed quiet, save for the occasional fire of a rifle cracking in the distance. It made Ceridwen nervous, she knew little of New World Horrors, but in her line of work a quiet place was always filled with the most dangers - usually bandits staging a trap although she was unsure of the Shamblers ability to come up with such a plan. Nonetheless, Ceridwen kept one hand on a pepperbox at all times.

Quite a few of the squad seemed uneasy too, a few held their rifles, and the Inquisitor kept her claymore drawn at all times. Ceridwen was unsure of how effective that thing would be out here. The creatures of this continent were meant to be superbly resistant to the traditional methods - bullets and swords. The only reason that Ceridwen had chosen her weapons over an Ethergun was her ability to coat them in magic - the real weakness of the locals so to speak.

Ceridwen didn't even hear the corporal at the rear try to issue a warning, she was too focused on surveying the area ahead, and then a shambler attacked. It was surprisingly the Inquisitor who spotted it rather than Ceridwen or one of the trackers at the front of the party. Ceridwen was quick to react, pulling out a pepperbox and aiming it readily, but not before the shambler had already impaled itself on the Inquisitors sword. Seemingly dead she had cast it to the ground, and immediately the creature began to move once more. It was doing well until it the power of the gods struck it. Powerful stuff that divine magic.

As the inquisitor moved to finish whatever she had to do to assumedly cleanse the evil from the monster another appeared out of the alleyway. It was making headway towards the inquisitor. "Watch yourself, Inquisitor!" Ceridwen yelled at she fired towards the beast. The powder of her pepperbox sparked and let a bullet loose, approximately half way between where Ceri stood and her target it ignited in a powerful flame. Poor thing didn't stand a chance of keeping on its current course. By the time it connected the fire had evolved from a simple coating to what seemed to be an infernal spear.

The shambler was knocked aside by the shot causing it to slide a couple of meters before it came to rest. Unfortunately for Ceridwen, the fire that was intended to consume the shambler was extinguished by this ordeal. She ran to its side, placed her freshly turned pepperbox against its skull and let another shot loose. She needed to use her magic to cause the explosion that propelled the bullet so it wouldn't be as powerful as before but it didn't need to be. The flame laden bullet pierced the helpless creatures head ending its misery. She threw her head back as she finished the deed, "Those damned things put up quite the fight, don't suppose anymore are likely to show themselves anytime soon?" she asked, short of breath. Nothing seemed to be emerging from the buildings, but Ceridwen was keeping a close eye on them as she went about reloading her pepperbox proper. As fun as using magic in place of the flint and gunpowder was, it was less powerful and she liked ending things on the first shot where possible.

[An Outsider]

_{Roland Axis
New Stratton}

---

Roland was beginning to get the distinct impression that he wasn’t well liked amongst this group. Between the shit-dirty looks he was getting from the veteran corporals, and vaguely threatening glances he was getting from the Elven inquisitor, it was becoming exceedingly clear that he was Hoff’s squad’s persona non grata. He thought of responding with some veiled threats of his own, but in the end held to one of Theron’s favourite lessons; ‘The noisy cat never makes the kill.’ Simply put, threatening folks just didn’t a body any good. Better by far to hold your piece and let them think you an easily cowed fop. That way, if events ever got violent, they’d be all the more surprised when you slide a knife blade in between their ribs.

Besides, if it did come down to a mano a mano confrontation between him and the Templar, he wasn’t sure how much he liked his chances. That sword looked wicked long, and she handled it like it weighed no more than a lover’s kiss. No way a woman like that didn’t know what she was doing in a fracas. She was one problem that was going to take an application of cunning to sort out, not brute strength. Maybe he could even convince her that he was an ally, rather than an enemy? Doubtful, if the stories he had heard about her on the ship over were true, but still an option.

They waited for the heavy iron-reinforced gates to be hauled out of their way before setting off. Those same gates slammed behind them with a depressing finality, a deep, thooming crack echoing around the ruined buildings. There was no way those heavy timbers could be lifted out of the way in time if the worst was to happen, and the squad was forced to flee for safety. They’d be killed and devoured, just in sight of safety, long before the barriers were moved. Not a comforting thought for the young convict.

The silence as they trekked through the ruined city was oppressive. It weighed down on Roland, like a suit of old fashioned armour, pressing down upon his shoulders and neck, threatening to force him into the dirt. Even the quietest nights in Holden - those times when winter was at its coldest and the drunks, the whores, and the troublemakers decided that it was better to stay in their own warm homes than to risk the frigid streets - never became this silent. There was always some hint of noise. Cats fighting down alleyways, people talking to loudly in their homes, the gentle muttering of the derelicts perched in shadowed doorways. Here there was nothing, save the creak of old, battered structures swaying in the wind, the crunch of their own booted feet in the dirt, and the constant accompaniment of gunfire. It was unnerving in the extreme, and Roland clasped his loaded Ether gun closer to his chest, the weapon being the only thing providing him with a small measure of comfort in this awful place.

So alone was he with his own horrible imaginations that he didn’t even hear the rear-guard call out his warning. The thief kept marching forwards, one foot after the other, and barged into the man in front of him, a burly veteran. The two men grunted in pain, neither realising how lucky they were that Roland hadn’t accidentally stabbed his comrade with his bayonet. The bigger man turned around to glare at the conscript.

“Pay more attention to where you’re going, arse - ” suddenly the man’s eyes widened from narrowed slits, pupils going wide with fear and recognition. He shouldered his way past Roland and raised his rifle, aiming the barrel at a Shambler which was hurling itself at them from the shadows of a nearby building. The musket round went off with a thunderous crack, and the monster fell with a hideous, raking shriek.

Roland took a nervous back-step, then another. He’d never seen anything like the Shamblers in his life, or at least he’d never seen anything like it that could move. The things were rotting corpses, long strands of rotten flesh peeling from their decrepit forms, their long bony fingers curved into talon-like hooks. It was the eyes that were the worst though. How could they still be glazed over in death, yet still hold such a burning hatred in their dull pupils? What gave those orbs their animal-like cunning? Surely no power on earth had done that.

How could they expect somebody like him to fight something like that. He wasn’t a soldier, he was a thief! It was no wonder they were losing the war for this continent. He wanted nothing more to throw away his rifle and the flee from here, run all the way back to New Stratton, dive onto a ship, and sail all the way home. He tried to, too, but his legs wouldn’t listen to him. They were frozen to the spot, and he was helpless to do anything but watch on in horror as the Shambler hordes threw themselves at his small squad.

What happened next was all so quick that, thinking back, he was hard pressed to recall exactly what it was that had transpired, and in what order. Somewhere along the way he must have unloaded his own musket, though whether he hit anything, he just couldn’t say. His bayonet, when he checked it afterwards, was slick with blood and gore, and stunk to the heavens of a foul rot. He had vague memories of plunging it into a Shambler's belly, screaming profanities as he twisted the weapon, tearing at guts and bone. Had he killed the beast? He must have, there was the body, laying slumped in the dirt.

He was breathing heavy, and a cold sweat had drenched his back. The ammonia stench of warm urine tickled at his nostrils, and he realised with a start that he had pissed his own breeks during the fight. Considering the circumstances, he just couldn’t bring himself to care right now. The horror of what he had just faced was mingling with his joy at still being alive, and both emotions were so strong that he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be feeling.

The squad had been scattered during the action, and the only two he could see were the bounty hunter and the Inquisitor.

“I ... I never … Have you …” He struggled to arrange his words into anything even resembling a sentence, before doubling over and heaving his meagre breakfast all over the dusty ground. He continued to heave until nothing more but bile and spit came up. Then he heaved some more.