AmongHeroes

A Cold Wind Blows...

Thank you, LT. Pavel will be fun to play, and the group here seems splendid. Thanks for the note about it being Midwinter night.

How's the weekend going?

A Cold Wind Blows...

Well, my post is up. Sorry it's so very long. I had a lot to cover since I came to the party late. If I need to change something due to me missing an important detail in the previous posts, please don't hesitate to let me know. Edits are easily done.

I do have one tiny request though, dearest LT. If you wouldn't mind, could Pavel be added to the 'Accepted Character' list? It would mean so very much to him...

A Cold Wind Blows...

CLANG

TING-TING

CLANG

TING-TING

Pavel’s hammer sang against the iron and the anvil, working the length of red-hot metal he held, with an almost songlike quality. Across the be-freckled skin of the man’s face, the fiery glow of the forge set the beads of sweat to gleaming like fiery diamonds. His eyes, narrowed as they were into a focused glare down to his work, shone like polished cherry wood disks—alight with much more than the reflection of the burning embers stoked by the bellows.

The ache of muscle and bone registered only distantly to Pavel as his hammer paused with a final strike against the iron. With his tongs, Pavel turned the length of metal onto its edge, and inspected it with a singular, critical eye. His mouth turned up at the edges in the barest of smiles.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Pavel plunged the length of iron into a barrel of cool water. The hiss and sizzle of the scalding metal was a pleasant finale to the hard and ringing symphony of his hammer strikes. The young blacksmith let out a fulfilled breath of air, and it immediately turned to a white cloud of steam. It was only then that Pavel perceived the frigid evening air that forced its way through the open walls of the smithy, fighting away the hardwood-fueled heat of the forge’s belly. Another small smile crept to his lips, and a shiver thrilled down the length of his toned back.

To Pavel, there was nothing quite so satisfying an endeavor as hard, honest work. It drove the cold from the bones, and filled the heart and soul with a calmness of purpose like nothing else could. With this thought upon his mind, Pavel removed the length of iron from its bath, and set it carefully next to its pair on a woolen cloth beside the water basin. With another few hours of crafting, the iron strips would find themselves pinned together into a set of hinges for the new grain barn. The hinges would be balanced as best as fallible human eyes and hands could achieve, and only a modicum of grease would be required to allow the heavy timber doors to close with but a gentle push. Anything less would not be acceptable to Pavel. A trait he had inherited from his father.

Father…

The smile that had found his face vanished instantly. It had happened this way for years, the sneaking pariah of what had become of his father would suddenly pop into his mind like a soap bubble. The thought would burst, and expel the pleasantness of the moment like nothing else could. No matter how hard Pavel worked to keep his mind free and clear of such burdens, the eternal tempest of past and present would find the shores of his thoughts.

Pavel looked up, staring beneath the eaves of the smithy, and up the small hill towards the handsome cottage just a stone’s throw away. The squat structure was built of warm and stout timber, with a high pitched roof covered with long planks of cedar. The roof was invisible now, as it was blanketed with a thick crop of snow, but Pavel could see the planks in his minds-eye even now. He had helped lay those planks, when he was but sixteen, and he knew every inch of their surface. His father had clucked and chided over him patiently as the pair had milled and planed the lumber themselves. The elder Alekseyev had looked upon his son with a proud eye as he offered the occasional tip in the placement of nails, or the most efficient way to grip the hammer.

In a rare moment, the memory teased a pleasant warmth to Pavel’s heart. The current squalid, drunken existence of the Mikhail Andreyevich Alekseyev was forgotten to the son for the most fleeting of instances, replaced instead by the man he had known as a boy. The man his father had once been. The man that Pavel wanted to be now.

As if called forth by the memory, a faint yet distinct voice carried on the wind through the walls of the cottage, and out into the frigid air. The emotion fell from Pavel’s face as the sound met his ears. Though faint with distance, the words were all too familiar to Pavel, and he had no need to strain to understand them.

“Alla!” The voice came softly, fading in and out with the wind. “Why did it have to be Alla!?”

Pavel’s features masked themselves into a neutral expression that could have been carved of granite. Turning to the forge, he deftly withdrew another length of iron that had lain heating in the bed of coals. With his tongs he placed the iron upon the anvil. In his right hand, the hammer rose, and set poised to strike.

Again the voice called, this time with more anguished force. “ALLA!”

Pavel struck the red-hot iron. The blow sent sparks flying from the metal.

“Alla!”

His next blow rang out louder than the first. The one that followed was even louder, and louder still. The hammer strikes crescendoed and quickened, elevating the sound in the smithy until all that could be heard once more was the symphony of hammer, anvil, and iron.

CLANG

TING-TING

CLANG

TING-TING

* * * * *

Later that night.

The scream from within the village breached even the thunderous reports of Pavel’s hammer. Looking up, Pavel set his work aside and stared down towards the heart of Adishi where the sound had emanated. From his vantage point, set above, and some distance from the center of town, Pavel could not see who had cried out. He had no time to look long.

Like a roiling, living, inky tide of baleful scorn, the black wave that the cry had heralded crashed against smithy and cottage. Choking, chattering cascades of horror enveloped Pavel, thrusting him back. His head fell downward, his equilibrium thrown by the force of the wave, and the sheer terror that chilled his veins. The anvil, unmoved and stoic amidst the roil, broke Pavel’s fall, and his grip upon consciousness was lost in a singular, petrifying, and blood-curdling cry.

* * *

Pavel’s eyes opened slowly. He blinked, his mind trudging up into the realm of reality with painful sluggishness. His vision came back just as slow, finally focusing upon the stone form of the forge just scant inches away from where he lay. Turning his head, Pavel was met first by a shock of pain from the base of his skull, then secondly by the sight of the anvil that seemed to tower above him.

In that long eternal moment upon with his back upon the floor, realization found Pavel at last. In spite of the nauseating spike in the back of his head, he sat bolt upright and gasped with fresh dread. Around him, things were eerily quiet and ordinary. Looking about, he saw that his tools, as well as the fire in the forge seemed undisturbed. The iron band that he had been working was yet still steaming upon the earthen floor, and the night air beyond the open walls of the smithy seemed no more ominous than any other countless winter night.

Using the anvil to help lever himself upward, Pavel stood to uncertain legs. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and threatened to bring him back to the ground. With gritted teeth and tightly shut eyes, Pavel forced the wave away, and willed himself to hold his ground. It was after this herculean effort that fresh cries came to his ears. These were not screams of warning or terror, as the one that had preceded the obsidian wave had been. No, these were cries of anguish and of his disbelief. The import of these voices were not lost upon Pavel, and his gaze snapped upward to the cottage just beyond.

Father…

As fast as his continued bursts of nausea would permit, Pavel set out up the worn path towards the cottage. Slipping and stumbling upon the fresh snow, he made the threshold, and shouldered the door open. The warmth of the cottage’s interior washed over him, as the fire in the large hearth danced with a virility that belied the darkness that had just swept across Adishi.

“Father?” Pavel said hoarsely, stepping inside.

His eyes scanned the room, alighting upon the heavy oaken table and its chairs, the stone hearth, the sideboard and cupboard, the pot rack. As with the smithy, all seemed undisturbed, and as regular as he had left it hours before. Save for one—his father’s chair was empty.

Set close beside the fire, covered with blankets of wool and fur, was a well-worn rocking-chair. The chair was a fixture that was occupied by Pavel’s father almost ceaselessly. Save for the occasion the man had to relieve himself, or when he was forced outside the walls of the cottage to retrieve more drink, Mikhail Alekseyev availed himself of that singular seat. But now, it sat conspicuously free of its usual burden.

A sense of dread prickled the hair upon the back of Pavel’s neck. With eyes wide, and his breath coming in short, hushed gasps, he began to step around the table. Every new move forward brought more of the floor and chair into view, and with that view came an ever sinking pit at the bottom of his stomach.

With a silent gasp, Pavel froze. His last step had culminated in the vision he had feared to find, but somehow knew existed the moment consciousness had returned to him after his fall. There, lying on his side, his face partially lit by the flames of the fire was the body of Mikhail. What little life had still glimmered in the hopeless man’s eyes, Pavel could clearly see existed no more. His father was crumpled upon the wooden floor, as if in death he had fallen from the seat of his rocking-chair, and had moved in one last effort with his dying body.

Pavel collapsed to his knees. There, just out of reach to his father’s dead, outstretched fingers, was the bright, clear, and shining glisten of a bottle. The liquid inside did not make itself even to the neck of the sideways bottle, and none of the spirit had been spilled upon the ground. Too much of it had been consumed. Mikhail Andreyevich Alekseyev had used his final moments to reach for the only thing that he had cherished since his beloved Alla had been taken from him.

Pavel stared in sorrowful disdain. His face turned to scowl, which then contorted into a mask of some unknown emotion. Tears welled at the corner of the man’s cherry wood eyes, and for the first time in over a decade, Pavel wept.

A Cold Wind Blows...

Well at least my decision will be an easy one to make .

A Cold Wind Blows...

Thanks LT! Shall I just wait to introduce him until you post once more?

A Cold Wind Blows...

Name: Pavel Leonidovich Alekseyev

Appearance

Age: 28

Occupation: Turner, Bandster, Blacksmith, Wheelwright—A jack of many trades.

Background: Pavel Leonidovich is a man of many talents, and a man much skilled with the work of his hands and the toil of a hard existence in the mountains near Adishi. While a tradesman and crafter of many things, he is not so skilled in his aesthetics and form as Vasily Vukašin. Pavel’s talents lie in crafting things of pure function, and he finds a silent beauty in his simple work. From making axles, to building wagon wheels, to banding wheat after harvest, Pavel finds his purpose in work, and a job well done is among his greatest of treasures.

His father before him was the same kind of man. Proudly and humbly he served the village as a reliable crafter of necessities, and a handy laborer when harvest came or wood required splitting. The elder Alekseyev endeavored to teach his son all the virtuous purpose that could come from a life spent in the service of one’s own talents, and the fulfilling pursuit of a job well-done. From the time he could walk, Mikhail apprenticed his son in the way of the world and of the life of a functional craftsman. Many happy years passed in this manner, and Pavel’s youth was that of a boy destined to proudly follow in his father’s footsteps.

That was, until tragedy struck the Alekseyev family. When Pavel was but seventeen, his mother, Alla, was heavy with child. There was much hope for the small family, as Mikhail and his wife had not yet been able to conceive following Pavel’s birth. One night, scant days from the Summer Solstice, Pavel awoke to the piteous cries of his father. In the night, Alla, and the unborn child in her belly, had died. There was no apparent cause, other than the strange mysteries so often associated with pregnancy. Though sudden and tragic, to Pavel’s mind, at least his mother and his unknown sibling had passed peacefully. The young man took the death in stride, mourning the loss, yet believing there was nothing more to do then to move on with life, and celebrate their memory.

Unlike his son, Mikhail took the death of Alla hard. Soon, he had fallen from his lofted and respected station in the village, and descended to nothing more than the town drunkard. Now, over a decade later, nothing much has changed for Pavel’s father. His time is spent either in the tavern, or tucked away in the corner of his darkened room in the Alekseyev household, his hands invariably clutched around the neck of a bottle or tankard.

For his part, Pavel lost both his parents that day. Refusing to descend to such depths of despair as his father, he loses himself in the pursuance of his many trades. The pair speak little, if at all, with the few exchanges being spurned only by the exchange of the few coins that Pavel leaves for his father upon the kitchen table each night.

A Cold Wind Blows...

Room for one more, perhaps? I have cookies to share...

The Last Kings of Orion

Gavin looked down into Deli’s dark eyes, and gave her the most genuine, appreciative smile he could muster. The light kiss she had gifted his cheek was among the most sincere gestures of gratitude he had ever received, and it truly warmed his heart. Of its own accord, his hand raised to press against his heart, and Gavin inclined his head to Deli in the slightest of bows.

“Deli, it was my utmost pleasure. Anytime you should require me, I am at your service.” His smile broadened, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled deeply. “As for the chess, I would very much appreciate learning a new opening. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

With that, just as in the manner she had arrived, Deli left his lab in a tempest of energy and whimsical gusto. Gavin shook his head and laughed. What a character.

Still lingering in Deli’s pleasant wake, Gavin peered through his reading glasses down to his wristwatch. His eyebrows rose. “Well, that shaved some time didn’t it?” he said to himself. The chess game, along with Deli’s treatment, had taken more time than he had intended. It was almost 1300 hours. He sincerely hoped that Abby was not waiting for him down in the galley for their lunch…date?

The idea of that word was almost comical, Gavin thought, as he was floating in a human ark a million-miles from nowhere. Everything he had known, hell, that humanity had known, was being made to undergo an inexorable shift in context. The Copernicus was many things besides just a ship. It was the womb in which the human race would birth its new identity—even down to where one could take someone on a date.

Gavin snorted a laugh. Hey there, beautiful. Want to go down to the cryo-deck and watch people sleep for a couple hours? Drinks are on me.

Even in spite of his internal sarcasm, there was a pleasant warmth that tickled around his heart. It was a sensation he had not felt for what seemed like an eternity, and when he realized what it was he almost laughed aloud once more. Gavin Raymond Brock, you’re nervous!

He rocked back and forth upon the balls of his feet, a wry smile springing to his cheeks in the solitude of the lab. Gavin looked up into the artificial lights above him, and shook his head. “It’s like university all over again.”

An afterthought came to him, and he glanced over at the large display that was his usual medium for interaction with OLGA. Gavin had not spoken with his digital ‘daughter’ since their short exchange at the briefing, when he had whisked her away to meet up with Hob. He felt some guilt for not asking after her, but resolved that he had been busy, and that hopefully her interaction with her friend had set to occupy her for the time being. There was plenty of work to be done soon enough, and Gavin would most certainly need OLGA’s assistance then.

With his guilt assuaged for the time being, Gavin set about a quick cleanup of his lab. In short order he had everything stowed, and the surfaces he had used were disinfected. His task complete, Gavin bent to the polished steel case of the pharmaceutical locker and appraised what he saw. His blue eyes stared back at him, and soon enough it prompted a shrug.

“It’s as good as it’s going to get, old boy.” Gavin winked at his reflection.

Popping a mint in his mouth, Gavin exited the lab, and locked the electronic hatch behind him. With his Converse shoes moving swiftly down the long main passage of the Copernicus, Gavin made his way towards the galley. As he wove his way through the traffic of technicians, engineers, miners, and soldiers, he hoped that Sergeant Abby Larson hadn’t beat him there.

Legions: Rise of Rome

De initio

“Form up those ranks, Ironclad!” Lealius yelled across the century of triarii.

The elite veterans of the VI Legion reacted automatically to the Pilus Prior’s command, cleaning up the lines of the maniple’s phalanx into orderly rows. The tips of their iron-tipped spears shone dully in the mid-morning light—a forest of deadly intent marching towards the Carthaginian lines.

Lealius looked ahead to the offset ranks of hastate and princepes that preceded his triarii. This main body of the legion was formed with a broad wedge at its center, with the maniples of legionaries set with a strong center to force their way through the entrenched Carthaginians. The Pilus Prior could see little detail as his comrades advanced towards their objective; the inexorable cloud of dust and haze that accompanied the march of the legion obscured his vision.

The Legio Sexta Ferrata was formed at the western flank of the Roman advance, with the rest of their brethren legions arrayed along the southern edge of the Arno River to their right. Even now, amidst the cloud of dust churned from the feet of thousands of soldiers, Lealius could still see the glimmer of the sea some distance off to his left. It was a heartening sight, and he found that it bolstered his grim spirit even as the first ranks of the velites made contact with the entrenched enemy.

Lealius’ attention was drawn skyward as the first deadly arcs of Gallic arrows leapt forward to assail the advancing maniples of the VI Legion wedge. The triarii were in place well out of archery range, and Lealius intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. If the triarii were needed to the front, it would be for Legatus Titus Pomponius Philo to decide. Until then, Lealius would hold his station.

“All halt!” Lealius called. The signalmen took up the Pilus Prior’s command, and the triarii skillfully arrested their march. Without a further order, the legionaries bent down upon their right knees, resting themselves for the rigors that may yet come.

For now, it was up to their brothers at the front.

Medius

“To me! To me!” Pomponius cried, his gladius raised above his head. Around him, the legionaries of the Legion Sexta Ferrata roiled in the barely controlled chaos of a tactical withdraw. It was the second time the wedge of the VI Legion had been repulsed by the heavily dug in Carthaginians on the western flank of the line, and the Legatus vowed it would be the last.

Calls of “To the Legatus!” and “Form ranks! Form ranks!” could be heard echoing through the cluster of hastati and princepes. The air was thick with smoke, dust, and falling arrows. Pomponius growled in determined frustration, very near the embodiment of the wolf that adorned his back.

“My Legatus! Sir, you are too close,” yelled the captain of Pomponius’ personal guard. The legionnaire did his best to position himself in front of his legate, attempting to shield the man from the rain of falling Gallic missiles. “Please, sir, withdraw behind the triarii!”

As if to emphasize the guard’s imploration, an arrow buried itself into the earth beside Pomponius’ foot. The shaft was painted a light brown, with an alternating pattern of black and light brushes of white. It was a pattern all too familiar to the soldiers of Rome, and its intent was known just as assuredly. The arrow was painted to mirror the skin of the Asp Viper, a common and deadly feature of Italy’s fauna. Though it could be just a tool to incite fear, it was just as likely that the arrow’s tip had been coated with the viper’s cursed venom.

“Form up, damn you!” Pomponius roared to the captain, his ire rising at the sight of the arrow. “The triarii are moving to their objective even now. We must press the attack to give them the chance they require.”

The captain spoke no further protest to his commander, and fell into step along with his brothers. Even amongst the chaos, the constant training and the hard-won lessons of combat were allowing the legionaries of the VI Legion to rally into yet another organized fighting force. It was time for a final push. The triarii, and the cavalry that supported them, needed their swords—and they would have them.

---

The Legio Sexta Ferrata had formed themselves upon the western flank of the combined Roman force. Mago’s army, while numerically inferior, had used their advance across the Arno to the utmost, and had heavily fortified their positions along the southern expanse of the river. In response, the VI Legion had deployed in a classic fashion, with the ranks of the hastati and princepes arrayed into a wedge. Behind the wedge, the triarii were formed into their traditional offset maniples. The cavalry, lightly armored as it was, was set in reserve.

As the battle began, the VI Legion advanced, and the wedge was twice repulsed by the Carthaginians. For a time, the western flank of the Roman attack was vulnerable, as the VI Legion fought to reorganize itself following their initial lack of a breakthrough. In a valiant effort, Legatus Pomponius joined the ranks of his legion, and led his men in a last effort to create an opening into the Carthaginian rear.

With the body of the VI Legion pressing along the western lines of the Carthaginians, Pomponius ordered his trarii to advance in force, supported by the cavalry, upon the eastern edge of VI Legion’s action area. This swift press allowed the triarri to break the lines of the Carthaginians, and wheel to the west in an effort to support their legion’s attack. The cavalry advanced through the hole punched by the triarii, and set themselves up to press eastward towards the bulk of the Carthaginian force.

While this maneuver succeeded in breaking an opening in the Carthaginian line, without swift support on the VI Legion’s right flank from the other Romans deployed eastward, it would be possible for Mago to advance into the short axis of the VI Legion’s right flank, and possibly separate them from the support of their fellow legions.

Legions: Rise of Rome

If no one else objects, I'm going to go ahead and post. My idea is to have the Legio VI create a possible opening. It will be up to the other Legate to choose to exploit it, or do something else entirely.