Abstract Proxy

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

No worries, I had the same thing happen, but I did get some planning done, lol.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Wonderful!

I'll start thinking about what Wen's been up to tomorrow (happy to collaborate or chat about it with anyone else as well).

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Wen

________________________________________ Qian Wen Female | Imperial Army Magician | Aspected _______________________________________________ // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Controlled Steeped in the arcane practices of the Imperial Army, Wen believes that mastery of her self is her most important service to the Beinan Empire. Uncontrolled thoughts are a danger. Uncontrolled words are a danger. Uncontrolled actions are a danger. And uncontrolled magic, the greatest danger of all, would threaten the realm itself. No matter the cost to herself, Wen refuses to willingly allow herself to lose control and she has carefully bound her innermost self with heavy chains of compartmentalization. Intrepid Although Wen is by no means impulsive, she is brave and will fight to the end if required, certain that her cause is just, and that her actions serve the greater good. Level-Headed Bitter experience and the careful tutelage of her instructors has afforded Wen with a deep reservoir of self-restraint and ability to contain unwelcome emotions. In times of trouble, her thoughts turn inward, and she no longer finds it difficult to separate herself from the situations that surround her. Pessimistic Slow to warm and slower to trust, Wen is a young woman forced by cruel necessity to accept her place in Beinan. Hatred can linger in any heart. Crime can lie concealed in any form. And kindness is seldom reserved for the doubtlessly accursed Aspected. There is no futile resistance left in Wen, no roaring torrent of despair, and no defiant pride. She expects little and hopes for less. She knows how others see her. She hears how others speak about her. And she remembers the abuses forced upon her. She is the reed that bends, rather than the mighty oak that breaks beneath unending hostility. Cold Conversationalist Distrust, grown heavy with repeated experience has imbued Wen with a coldness of being, a simmering, usually faint bitterness, that on occasion can leave others convinced that she is perhaps less than agreeable. Reserved Wen views others warily, seeing hidden blades and betrayal in every word and every action. She is hesitant to reveal much about herself, slow to share, and unless compelled to do otherwise, she prefers to remain safely obfuscated beneath the vestments of her profession. High-Principled Finding solace in her duties, Wen possesses the steady, unflinching integrity that only the almost fanatically devoted possesses. Over the years, her principles have been carefully forged into sharp blades of conscience that permit Wen to act with strict regard for what is necessary for the Empire. Cog in the Machine Wen is a dutiful servant of the well-oiled, if overextended, Imperial Army created by the Heavenly Emperor. Unfailingly convinced that the alternatives to the Heavenly Emperor’s Black Peace are far worse, Wen delivers Imperial justice with little hesitation, burying any guilt beneath mantras espousing unavoidable necessity. Melancholy Scattered across her being, deliberately guarded and contained, is an unmistakable sadness in Wen's demeanor. Joy does not travel far, nor last for very long, and Wen is generally unsuited to the task of sparking cheerfulness. Channeling her emotions into her work and perceived purpose, Wen nonetheless has moments, long nights of doubt, when she finds it difficult to see past her perceived fate. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Magician Gifted in the arcane arts, Wen is a product of the notoriously difficult Imperial Circle of Magi located at the center of the inhospitable mountain ranges of Huishan. Taught to be self-reliant by her military instructors, Wen is a deeply pragmatic and creative magician. She approaches problems with an open mind, utilizing judicious applications of unexpected magic to overcome her foes rather than the brutish displays of arcane prowess favored by many of her colleagues. Imperial Soldier Every magician in the Imperial Army is still a soldier and Wen is no exception. Wen has trained. Wen has marched. Wen has fought. When has shivered in the cold. Wen has sweated beneath the scorching sun. Wen has been wounded. Wen has starved. Wen has seen first hand the horrors perpetuated by the Northern Elves. Other soldiers may be stronger. Other soldiers may be faster. Other soldiers may wield martial weapons with greater skill. However, it would be a deadly mistake to underestimate Wen even when it comes to physical combat. Investigator Guided by her beliefs Wen seeks to protect the Black Peace by enforcing the laws established by the Heavenly Emperor and discovering any subversive threats that may still remain hidden in the lands. Uncompromising in her pursuit of those who commit offenses against the Imperial law, Wen often chooses to make little distinction between particular transgressions based on scale and scope. Crime is crime, rebellion is rebellion, and to threaten Black Peace is unforgivable. Seeing herself as an instrument of Imperial justice, Wen is known to stubbornly hunt down the most elusive clues and unhesitatingly reveal what others in Beinan would prefer to keep hidden. Educated Beyond her magical training, like all magicians, Wen has received the generous formal education afforded to all magicians trained by the Beinan government. Although no true scholar, free to pursue her own academic whims, Wen nonetheless commands a respectable amount of knowledge concerning applied mathematics, the great philosophical works of the many learned masters of the lands, key moments in the long history of Beinan, the famed artistic works popularized by the Heavenly Emperor, and a selection of the languages spoken across Beinan.

Physical Description Followed by fearful stares and chased by cruel whispers, Wen is an Aspected woman left with no hope of hiding the cursed blood that flows through her veins. Golden eyes, baleful orbs of solid color, unflinchingly meet the gaze of strangers. Two large horns grow atop her head and curve to the sides of her face, reaching a point just above her eyes. Long black hair that cascades past her horns, is kept in a tight bun with an ornate set of silver hair pins. Skin the color of cool sapphire bears the many scars expected of a magician serving in the Imperial Army and on the back of her right hand is the Imperial Mark given to all magicians that have passed the Imperial Magic Exam. Beneath layers of hemp and sometimes silk, Wen hides the build of a soldier well-used long days of travel. The source of unwelcome shame, Wen has a thick tail, almost always kept coiled around her waist to avoid causing unnecessary offense. Largely accustomed to the poor view many of the citizens of Beinan have of the Aspected, particularly those that appear distinctly inhuman, Wen still stands tall and straight, appearing taller than the average woman in Beinan. When performing her duties as an magician in the Imperial Army, Wen wears the familiar military uniform worn by soldiers across Beinan, bearing only the distinct signs of rank and specialization expected of an Imperial Magician in good standing. In her personal life or when discretion is called for, Wen dresses in a conservative fashion. Sensitive to her already provocative appearance, she adheres unfailingly to the gendered and hierarchical dress code still popular in Beinan. She wears waist length hemp jackets, covered by long skirts cut in the same cloth and dyed in colors appropriate to the season. A commoner by birth, Wen wears little in the way of decorations and only the silk sash worn over her waist is decorated with a delicate pattern. In a sign of modesty, she also wears a thick shawl over her head, doing her best to hide her horns in public. Motivation Memories Wen remembers her parents. She remembers her father, thick hands steeped in dirt, and a warm smile. She remembers her mother, bent over the loop, a whirl of soft fabric. She remembers her brother, her closet friend. She remembers a small farm, nestled below a foggy mountain. She wakes up some mornings and still remembers the smell of the white pines. She remembers the stories her parents told her. She remembers her fate. She remembers the curse. She remembers the crimes of a distant ancestor. She remembers little of her patron. She remembers only strange words, cold eyes, and a cheerful promise. She remembers the village, older than the Empire. She remembers the words the villagers called her. She remembers the fear in their eyes. She remembers their hatred. She remembers the rocks they would throw at her. She remembers the tears that burned at the edge of her eyes. She remembers the first spell she cast, no more than a simple cantrip, a fiery bolt of arcane energy that set a bale of hay alight. She remembers how they ran from her. She remembers the soldiers that came soon after. She remembers saying goodbye to her parents. She remembers the crying. She remembers the screaming, her own voice. She remembers being taken from the village. She remembers the Circle of Magi. The buildings carved into the desolate mountains with magic. She remembers the other students. She remembers the way they looked at her. She remembers the disgust of the high born nobles. She remembers the loneliness. She remembers the old wizard. She remembers his words. She remembers his lessons. She remembers his books. She remembers his threats. She remembers his beatings. And she remembers his kindness. She remembers when she learned to stop fighting. She remembers complex diagrams. She remembers ancient schematics. She remembers the writings of an ancient scholar, dead untold centuries before. She remembers accepting her place. And she remembers her fate no longer pained her. She remembers when they forgot. She remembers when they forgot to hate her. She remembers when they began to respect her. She remembers when her magic convinced them. She remembers the reluctant smiles. She remembers the muted praise. She remembers their shared suffering. She remembers the long nights. She remembers the purpose that bound them together. She remembers their private oaths. She remembers the Imperial Magic Examination. She remembers embers, embers of pride as they marked her with the Imperial Mark. She remembers the Northern Province. She remembers the cold. She remembers the hunger. She remembers the elves. She remembers the raids. She remembers strange magic. She remembers being afraid. She remembers war. She remembers a brash officer, a young noble. She remembers a pitched battle. She remembers the elven blade that drew red lines across her skin. She remembers the wounded. She remembers the dying. She remembers the dead. She remembers the soldiers that saved her. She remembers the fighting retreat that followed. She remembers stumbling into the fort days later. She remembers the weariness etched into her bones. She remembers huddling around a fading camp fire, sharing food, drinking with the other survivors, happy to see the sun once again. She remembers a letter. She remembers arriving in Bei Taiyang. She remembers an interview with a junior minister and a judge of the lower courts. She remembers a mention of her talents. She remembers explanations of her worth to the Imperial Army. She remembers the polite insults woven between the minister's gentle words. She remembers how the judge, the district magistrate, looked at her. She remembers no hatred, no fear, nothing save purpose, nothing save a demand for the truth. She remembers the slow seasons that followed. She remembers many roads. She remembers many places. She remembers many people. She remembers enforcing the Imperial Law. She remembers protecting the Black Peace. She remembers new purpose, new meaning that unfolded with the shifting winds of progress. Commanded by her immediate superiors in the Imperial Army, Wen has been dispatched to the northern provinces with orders to assist in the relief effort and cryptic instructions to keep her eyes open for any malevolent forces, other than the murderous elves, that might be operating in Ssanjuu. Uncertain of the meaning of these strange directives, Wen has disguised herself as the young widow of a recently deceased silk merchant, the elderly Jia Li, remembered by many in Bei Taiyang as an exceedingly eccentric, but proud, Beinan patriot. As the grieving Lady Jia, Wen has come to an agreement with one of the merchants heading north, trading a portion of her expected profits in exchange for transportation of her person and her wares to Ssanjuu. Other Information Definitely not a tiefling...

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Wrote some stuff, hopefully it mostly makes sense!

Wen

Wen

________________________________________ Qian Wen Female | Imperial Army Magician | Aspected _______________________________________________ // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Controlled Steeped in the arcane practices of the Imperial Army, Wen believes that mastery of her self is her most important service to the Beinan Empire. Uncontrolled thoughts are a danger. Uncontrolled words are a danger. Uncontrolled actions are a danger. And uncontrolled magic, the greatest danger of all, would threaten the realm itself. No matter the cost to herself, Wen refuses to willingly allow herself to lose control and she has carefully bound her innermost self with heavy chains of compartmentalization. Intrepid Although Wen is by no means impulsive, she is brave and will fight to the end if required, certain that her cause is just, and that her actions serve the greater good. Level-Headed Bitter experience and the careful tutelage of her instructors has afforded Wen with a deep reservoir of self-restraint and ability to contain unwelcome emotions. In times of trouble, her thoughts turn inward, and she no longer finds it difficult to separate herself from the situations that surround her. Pessimistic Slow to warm and slower to trust, Wen is a young woman forced by cruel necessity to accept her place in Beinan. Hatred can linger in any heart. Crime can lie concealed in any form. And kindness is seldom reserved for the doubtlessly accursed Aspected. There is no futile resistance left in Wen, no roaring torrent of despair, and no defiant pride. She expects little and hopes for less. She knows how others see her. She hears how others speak about her. And she remembers the abuses forced upon her. She is the reed that bends, rather than the mighty oak that breaks beneath unending hostility. Cold Conversationalist Distrust, grown heavy with repeated experience has imbued Wen with a coldness of being, a simmering, usually faint bitterness, that on occasion can leave others convinced that she is perhaps less than agreeable. Reserved Wen views others warily, seeing hidden blades and betrayal in every word and every action. She is hesitant to reveal much about herself, slow to share, and unless compelled to do otherwise, she prefers to remain safely obfuscated beneath the vestments of her profession. High-Principled Finding solace in her duties, Wen possesses the steady, unflinching integrity that only the almost fanatically devoted possesses. Over the years, her principles have been carefully forged into sharp blades of conscience that permit Wen to act with strict regard for what is necessary for the Empire. Cog in the Machine Wen is a dutiful servant of the well-oiled, if overextended, Imperial Army created by the Heavenly Emperor. Unfailingly convinced that the alternatives to the Heavenly Emperor’s Black Peace are far worse, Wen delivers Imperial justice with little hesitation, burying any guilt beneath mantras espousing unavoidable necessity. Melancholy Scattered across her being, deliberately guarded and contained, is an unmistakable sadness in Wen's demeanor. Joy does not travel far, nor last for very long, and Wen is generally unsuited to the task of sparking cheerfulness. Channeling her emotions into her work and perceived purpose, Wen nonetheless has moments, long nights of doubt, when she finds it difficult to see past her perceived fate. // SKILLSET S K I L L S E T Magician Gifted in the arcane arts, Wen is a product of the notoriously difficult Imperial Circle of Magi located at the center of the inhospitable mountain ranges of Huishan. Taught to be self-reliant by her military instructors, Wen is a deeply pragmatic and creative magician. She approaches problems with an open mind, utilizing judicious applications of unexpected magic to overcome her foes rather than the brutish displays of arcane prowess favored by many of her colleagues. Imperial Soldier Every magician in the Imperial Army is still a soldier and Wen is no exception. Wen has trained. Wen has marched. Wen has fought. When has shivered in the cold. Wen has sweated beneath the scorching sun. Wen has been wounded. Wen has starved. Wen has seen first hand the horrors perpetuated by the Northern Elves. Other soldiers may be stronger. Other soldiers may be faster. Other soldiers may wield martial weapons with greater skill. However, it would be a deadly mistake to underestimate Wen even when it comes to physical combat. Investigator Guided by her beliefs Wen seeks to protect the Black Peace by enforcing the laws established by the Heavenly Emperor and discovering any subversive threats that may still remain hidden in the lands. Uncompromising in her pursuit of those who commit offenses against the Imperial law, Wen often chooses to make little distinction between particular transgressions based on scale and scope. Crime is crime, rebellion is rebellion, and to threaten Black Peace is unforgivable. Seeing herself as an instrument of Imperial justice, Wen is known to stubbornly hunt down the most elusive clues and unhesitatingly reveal what others in Beinan would prefer to keep hidden. Educated Beyond her magical training, like all magicians, Wen has received the generous formal education afforded to all magicians trained by the Beinan government. Although no true scholar, free to pursue her own academic whims, Wen nonetheless commands a respectable amount of knowledge concerning applied mathematics, the great philosophical works of the many learned masters of the lands, key moments in the long history of Beinan, the famed artistic works popularized by the Heavenly Emperor, and a selection of the languages spoken across Beinan.

Physical Description Followed by fearful stares and chased by cruel whispers, Wen is an Aspected woman left with no hope of hiding the cursed blood that flows through her veins. Golden eyes, baleful orbs of solid color, unflinchingly meet the gaze of strangers. Two large horns grow atop her head and curve to the sides of her face, reaching a point just above her eyes. Long black hair that cascades past her horns, is kept in a tight bun with an ornate set of silver hair pins. Skin the color of cool sapphire bears the many scars expected of a magician serving in the Imperial Army and on the back of her right hand is the Imperial Mark given to all magicians that have passed the Imperial Magic Exam. Beneath layers of hemp and sometimes silk, Wen hides the build of a soldier well-used long days of travel. The source of unwelcome shame, Wen has a thick tail, almost always kept coiled around her waist to avoid causing unnecessary offense. Largely accustomed to the poor view many of the citizens of Beinan have of the Aspected, particularly those that appear distinctly inhuman, Wen still stands tall and straight, appearing taller than the average woman in Beinan. When performing her duties as an magician in the Imperial Army, Wen wears the familiar military uniform worn by soldiers across Beinan, bearing only the distinct signs of rank and specialization expected of an Imperial Magician in good standing. In her personal life or when discretion is called for, Wen dresses in a conservative fashion. Sensitive to her already provocative appearance, she adheres unfailingly to the gendered and hierarchical dress code still popular in Beinan. She wears waist length hemp jackets, covered by long skirts cut in the same cloth and dyed in colors appropriate to the season. A commoner by birth, Wen wears little in the way of decorations and only the silk sash worn over her waist is decorated with a delicate pattern. In a sign of modesty, she also wears a thick shawl over her head, doing her best to hide her horns in public. Motivation Memories Wen remembers her parents. She remembers her father, thick hands steeped in dirt, and a warm smile. She remembers her mother, bent over the loop, a whirl of soft fabric. She remembers her brother, her closet friend. She remembers a small farm, nestled below a foggy mountain. She wakes up some mornings and still remembers the smell of the white pines. She remembers the stories her parents told her. She remembers her fate. She remembers the curse. She remembers the crimes of a distant ancestor. She remembers little of her patron. She remembers only strange words, cold eyes, and a cheerful promise. She remembers the village, older than the Empire. She remembers the words the villagers called her. She remembers the fear in their eyes. She remembers their hatred. She remembers the rocks they would throw at her. She remembers the tears that burned at the edge of her eyes. She remembers the first spell she cast, no more than a simple cantrip, a fiery bolt of arcane energy that set a bale of hay alight. She remembers how they ran from her. She remembers the soldiers that came soon after. She remembers saying goodbye to her parents. She remembers the crying. She remembers the screaming, her own voice. She remembers being taken from the village. She remembers the Circle of Magi. The buildings carved into the desolate mountains with magic. She remembers the other students. She remembers the way they looked at her. She remembers the disgust of the high born nobles. She remembers the loneliness. She remembers the old wizard. She remembers his words. She remembers his lessons. She remembers his books. She remembers his threats. She remembers his beatings. And she remembers his kindness. She remembers when she learned to stop fighting. She remembers complex diagrams. She remembers ancient schematics. She remembers the writings of an ancient scholar, dead untold centuries before. She remembers accepting her place. And she remembers her fate no longer pained her. She remembers when they forgot. She remembers when they forgot to hate her. She remembers when they began to respect her. She remembers when her magic convinced them. She remembers the reluctant smiles. She remembers the muted praise. She remembers their shared suffering. She remembers the long nights. She remembers the purpose that bound them together. She remembers their private oaths. She remembers the Imperial Magic Examination. She remembers embers, embers of pride as they marked her with the Imperial Mark. She remembers the Northern Province. She remembers the cold. She remembers the hunger. She remembers the elves. She remembers the raids. She remembers strange magic. She remembers being afraid. She remembers war. She remembers a brash officer, a young noble. She remembers a pitched battle. She remembers the elven blade that drew red lines across her skin. She remembers the wounded. She remembers the dying. She remembers the dead. She remembers the soldiers that saved her. She remembers the fighting retreat that followed. She remembers stumbling into the fort days later. She remembers the weariness etched into her bones. She remembers huddling around a fading camp fire, sharing food, drinking with the other survivors, happy to see the sun once again. She remembers a letter. She remembers arriving in Bei Taiyang. She remembers an interview with a junior minister and a judge of the lower courts. She remembers a mention of her talents. She remembers explanations of her worth to the Imperial Army. She remembers the polite insults woven between the minister's gentle words. She remembers how the judge, the district magistrate, looked at her. She remembers no hatred, no fear, nothing save purpose, nothing save a demand for the truth. She remembers the slow seasons that followed. She remembers many roads. She remembers many places. She remembers many people. She remembers enforcing the Imperial Law. She remembers protecting the Black Peace. She remembers new purpose, new meaning that unfolded with the shifting winds of progress. Commanded by her immediate superiors in the Imperial Army, Wen has been dispatched to the northern provinces with orders to assist in the relief effort and cryptic instructions to keep her eyes open for any malevolent forces, other than the murderous elves, that might be operating in Ssanjuu. Uncertain of the meaning of these strange directives, Wen has disguised herself as the young widow of a recently deceased silk merchant, the elderly Jia Li, remembered by many in Bei Taiyang as an exceedingly eccentric, but proud, Beinan patriot. As the grieving Lady Jia, Wen has come to an agreement with one of the merchants heading north, trading a portion of her expected profits in exchange for transportation of her person and her wares to Ssanjuu. Other Information Definitely not a tiefling...

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Perfect, I'm mostly done with an Aspected Magician (totally not a tielfing), so will drop that within a day or two.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Shortly before the debriefing proper…

_{Collaboration with @Pilatus and @Th3King0fChaos}

"Never been better," Ziska said, sliding closer to Reya, and making a poor attempt at whispering, "Don’t listen to Doctor Yuri, she’s just looking for an excuse to confine me to my quarters, elegant as they are."

"How is it that you are still sober? You survived your first sortie! That deserves a drink. Here! Drink!" Ziska exclaimed, putting an arm around Reya's shoulder and pushing the bottle of Tikinov vodka into her hand. "Drink!"

A drink to celebrate her first sortie did sound like a good idea, but before she could take the thought any further, Ziska was forcing the bottle at her yet again. "Ziska! Oh my God!" She pushed the bottle away as fervently as it was offered. She knew how uppity she suddenly sounded and that the Mechwarrior had a certain talent in bringing out her more pretentious tones. She began to brush against Tarak as she fought with Ziska over the bottle like two children. The smell of whatever Dr. Yuri had applied to her wounds, the bandages and hard alcohol were revolting. "Get that away from me!" She protested. "The meeting is about to start, you’re gonna piss off the Colonel!"

"Lady Wyatt! You can’t refuse the celebratory drink offered by your most esteemed and wonderful colleague. If you don’t drink, then I will have to insist, and not even the Colonel will silence my protests," Ziska said, her voice sounding suddenly all Davion aristocrat instead of the rough, sharp Periphery dialect of a professional guttersnipe.

Tarak watched and laughed as Ziska almost played with Reya, offering a drink right before briefing was unprofessional, however the Colonel would never know if you didn’t yell too loud. Tarak lightly rocked Reya as she was near him as he said, "Come on, you lived through a tough one. Taking one sip won’t hurt’cha". Tarak looked to Reya with a big smile as he said it.

Seeing Tarak’s goofy smile again reminded her of his equally goofy mix-tape approach and quickly gave her another idea. She accepted the bottle from the Canopian guttersnipe, but instead of drinking it, put it in Tarak’s hand. "Then you drink it." She said with a sly smirk, arching one eyebrow back at him, like she had just handed him a live grenade.

"Oh ho~" left Tarak’s lips as Reya tried to get him to take a drink. Tarak stayed smiling as he said, "You learned something? That’s a surprise". Tarak said with just a bit of a chuckle as he ever so lightly kept it between his hand and Reya’s.

Ziska rolled her eyes, "I hear much talking, but observe a distinct lack of drinking. Need I remind you two that we are on a tight schedule here. The Colonel will no doubt soon deliver a wonderfully cheerful briefing and you risk leaving me alone in my celebrations. Let us barter. If you drink, I may perhaps be inclined to tell you where I hid Reya’s good table linens. Perhaps it slipped my mind in the haste of the moment, but I was able to secure them during our storied flight into these mountains."

"Lies, you can scantily find your way to your mech without me showing you." Reya said, holding her nose just slightly higher as she relaxed into her seat and let the bottle go, leaving it in Tarak’s hand. She had already accomplished what she wanted in disarming Ziska of her booze. "I was in the cockpit without you even knowing." She crossed her legs and took a sip of the tea that Ziska’s very own astech had given her. It was poorly made. Too hot, steeped too long and with too little water- a total crime, but in the cold air of the cave was just good enough. "Maybe Davids will figure out what else I did to it?" She said nonchalantly with a shrug. "Maybe not?"

She glanced back at Tarak examining his boots, pants and the rest of his ensemble briefly before speaking: "I’ve got to do some work on Black Phoenix first, but I’ll make my way back over by the time your techs are ready."

Tarak sighed as he took the bottle in his hand and set it on the table as Reya spoke what seemed to be about work. "Work already? Dang, can’t catch a break can ya?" Tarak said with a chuckle as leaned back into the seat and adjusted himself.[done]

"Argh, what bores the two of you are!" Ziska said, managing an ungainly stumble as she rose to her feet, grabbing her still heavy bottle of Tikinov vodka. Twirling and offing a mock bow, she tilted her head backwards, taking several long pulls of the burning liquid. Sitting down on top of the nearby table with her bottle still in hand, facing her two colleagues Ziska shot a mischievous smirk at Reya. "You know, I’m beginning to think that you are really the troublemaker in this esteemed company. Hiding advanced technology in innocent MechWarriors BattleMechs? Why Miss Wyatt, what will you do next?"

"Do you think I’m a troublemaker, Tarak?"

Tarak heard the almost key phrase that will put him on thin ice, a question that seems innocuous enough, however it felt as if the air cooled when the question was asked. However, like any good Mechwarrior, he kept his cool as he said with a quick rational thought, "You a troublemaker? Naw. Does trouble seem to find you? Maybe". Tarak chuckled as he said with a calm wave of the hands, "But that’s all of us, if trouble didn’t follow we wouldn’t have jobs nor would we be where we are. But causing trouble that ain’t nobody but Ziska and some of the crew". Tarak said as he lightly reached out to the bottle in Ziska’s hand.

Handing Tarak the bottle with a nod, Ziska smiled, "And here I thought we were friends, Tarak. I can’t believe that you would imply that I cause even the smallest amount of trouble. I am nothing more than the unfortunate victim of circumstance and the unfortunately common prejudice leveled at ComStar acolytes and citizens of the Periphery in equal measure."

Tarak laughed as he took the bottle and said, "We are friends, however you have caused enough mischief and headaches for our dear leader that I think our contracts have a few new clauses and I thought I heard the Colonel refer to you as ‘Trouble’ when we first took this job". Tarak took a swig from the bottle and handed it back to Ziska as a "Phew" left his mouth.

"I always enjoy when she calls me ‘Miss Wyatt’." Reya said with some satisfaction. Tired as she was, for a few moments she had felt like her old self, particularly as Tarak carefully tiptoed around the response to her question- An observation she enjoyed immensely. However, as the debrief got underway, she was quickly reminded of her other self; the one that had walked off the APC. The one that had just survived a combat mission and the one who was presently the caretaker of a small child. Her smile faded as the Colonel continued.

---

Ziska

Listening lazily to the debriefing, Ziska found her chair strangely uncomfortable, and her displeasure at having to sit still for more than five minutes was only mollified by the Colonel's interrupted description of her performance. Right idea was good enough and she filed the comment away under the header another job done right. She almost hoped the Crimson Fist pilot had survived. She needed someone to gloat at. Doubtlessly it had not been a pleasant ejection. Straight into the heart of the storm.

The arrival of the fresh stranger and his empty mason jar of moonshine perked Ziska up, and she smiled listening to banter that followed.

"A tragedy indeed, to fight a war without further spirits," Ziska said, offering a toast with her bottle towards the stranger. "But you might find our price too high for your liking."

Warhammer - Tilea - A Dogs of War RP

I too wish to express my interest in seeking employment with this company.

Experimental is always too much of a temptation.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

I'm always fine with a Discord, it can slow down the OOC thread, but it does make it easier to quickly chat through things.

Heavenly Steel // Black Peace

Interesting pitch! I've been waiting for a neat Advanced game to pop up for a while, so consider me interested, I'll get to character scheming asap.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Ziska

She was tired. Staying awake had required more effort than she remembered. Thomas. Thrice-Hanged. Seemed to know better than to bother her. She almost forgot he was still in the cockpit. Muscle memory sent her fingers clattering across keys, broadcasting her Battle Rom data to the Green Knight HQ. She liked the cave. She quite liked the cave. It was comfy, Ziska had argued more than once. She enjoyed the rough sparseness of their temporary base. There were less distractions. Less interruptions.

Only what mattered remained. Only what they could carry with them. It was only a matter of time before they had to move again. The Crimson Fists and government forces wouldn't be caught napping again. Hunters would be coming. The old game would begin again. Cat and mouse, well...cat and cat. They weren't just prey. And the Crimson Fists weren't just hunters. Every step, every sortie, every chance they got they'd make the Crimson Fists pay. In blood, in mechs, and in lives.

"Ziska?" A voice asked from far away, accompanied by the gentle hiss of the cockpit seal disengaging and a gust of mercifully cold air as the cockpit hatch opened. There was a familiar lilt to the feminine voice, a Combine clip, serious and to the point,"The Colonel said to keep the Raven running, he wants the ECM to stay on, he’s worried about surveillance devices."

"Yeah, yeah, I had heard him," Ziska managed, flicking switches until the RVN-3L patiently waited in standby mode, the fusion reactor no more than a gentle hum. "What are you going here, Doc?"

"You’re hurt," Doctor Yuri Nakajima said matter-of-factually. Ziska admired her directness, her professionalism. Nakajima didn't play games. She didn't pretend. She didn't tell people what she thought they wanted to hear. Just like Davids. Just like Davids, Nakajima made it a habit to correct Ziska, and she tried, damned if she didn't try to convince Ziska to drink less, to act less rashly, and to get into fewer fights.

"Says who?" Ziska managed, ignoring the throbbing pain.

"Ziska! Look at me," Doc said, peering down at Ziska over her sliding glasses.

"Sorry, Doc, it’s kind of hard to see right now. I tried wiping away the blood, but never was much good at cleaning. What was that the Colonel said about a briefing?"

"Don't worry about that now, let me take a look at you, that's a nasty cut."

"Turns out it's not a good idea to eat a volley of LRMs from an Assault...who would've thought?" Ziska rambled, laughing as she released her safety, and stumbled to her feet.

"Ziska, listen, you need medical attention! Sit down! Stop moving!" Doctor Yuri Nakajima snapped, pushing Ziska back into the seat. For all her many qualities, it was too bad Nakajima couldn't take a joke, Ziska recalled, remembering the last time the doctor had yelled at her.

"I need a drink. We can do this dance later. Let me go, Doc, I'm sure there's someone else you can fix first."

"Ziska, if you don't stop moving, I will simply have Master Sergeant Dalton secure you until I can properly treat your wounds. And I promise you, he won't be nearly as gentle as I will be."

"I can take him," Ziska said, doing her best to glare at the doctor with her guy.

"You're going to get yourself killed if you keep this up, Ziska."

"Nah, cat's got nine lives, don't you know? I'm only at fifteen. Plenty more to go."

"Are you going to behave or do I need to get the sedative?"

"Fine, Fine!" Ziska grumbled, raising her hands in mock defeat. "You can have five minutes, Doc. Glue or staples, it's all the same to me, just patch me up enough for the briefing. You can have your way with me after."

---

Supported by an exasperated looking Doctor Nakajima, Ziska emerged from the smoldering RVN-3L with a bandage covering the right side of head and an open bottle of Tikinov vodka clutched in her left hand.

Her technicians, already feverishly attacking the ruined armor of the BattleMech, looked up as Ziska sauntered forward with the help of the doctor. Seeing Ziska, Kesi's face turned pale, and for a moment Ziska almost felt bad. Kesi was too kind to be a mercenary, she thought. She was a good friend and Ziska knew she would be worried. Sunther pretended not to notice and offered a brief nod, before turning his attention back to the data pad in front of him. Minhas looked to be on the verge of tears, casting worried gazes at the RVN-3L and Ziska in equal measure. Kan, serene as ever, to Ziska's great annoyance, simply approached to offer Ziska a kind touch on her shoulder and gentle squeeze. Licht frowned, aware of the amount of repairs that would have to be done, but Davids, Davids was already raging.

"You call this being careful?"

"Careful enough," Ziska shot back with a grin. "Drink?"

"You can shove that bottle right up your ass, Ziska," Davids spat, picking up a wrench, storming down the gantry, and back to the RVN-3L.

"Well, more for me," Ziska said, shrugging as she took a slow, heavy pull from the bottle. Doctor Nakajima's frown did little to dissuade her.

"Minhas, don't look so worried! I'm fine. The RVN-3L is...uhhh...mostly fine. Traded some armor for a Crimson First RVN-3L, no more, no less. But now, help me get me to the briefing, Davids can manage without you for half an hour."