Azkott — Roleplayer Guild

The opportunity to board the Garrloch several days prior to its maiden voyage was a blessing. Dieter had never been one for social gatherings; the booming fanfare and raucous crowd far, far above were much too unlike the peaceful, rustling woods of his native Ghersland. "Not that a bobbing tin can's any better." he cynically thought to himself, looking about the sterile walls of the crew's shared quarters with a thoughtful gaze and a quiet, mirthless chuckle. "A job's a job," the grizzled mercenary silently recalled, casting his cloudy, silver eyes down to the long, canvas-wrapped weapon laid across his lap. The thick, acrid smell of oil and gunpowder hung heavily in the air as he carefully unveiled his prized instrument of war, hefting the sleek rifle with the gentle nature of a loving father. The delighted Gherslander bunched up the weapon's disposable wrappings in one hand, slowly running them over the steely length of the old rifle with painstaking care, mopping up the excess gun oil before tossing them aside in trained satisfaction.

After a brief moment of admiration for the relic of a weapon, Dieter nudged himself further into the creaking bottom bunk, gripping an old, military-issued satchel from besides his pillow and unlacing the stitch-strewn cover. He fumbles about the depths of the worn carry on, digging one of his hands in and between the countless items he deemed necessary to bear on his persona. Each held some kind of deeper meaning to him, despite many of them appearing to be nothing more than mementos and knick-knacks; needless wastes of space for a soldier. Finally, his probing fingertips find solace against a series of cold, cylindrical tubes; metallic objects he’s grown unhealthily fond of. Quickly seizing them, the mercenary draws out one of his spare clips, the neatly filed brass bullets glimmering in the dim, occasionally flickering light. He sets it just besides himself, taking his much beloved weapon by the stock and slowly drawing back its left-dominant bolt. The feeling seems almost… mechanical, by now.

Once more taking up his clip-bound rounds, he begins to hum a tune commonly heard amongst Ghersland’s notorious sharpshooter corps, pressing the neatly-filed bullets into the well-kept firearm’s receiver with a satisfying click. Five death-delivering cartridges sink into its depths in quick succession, returning only the empty, metallic clip, the like of which Dieter places between his gritted teeth as he slowly draws the bolt handle back into place. As he does, he can’t keep himself from looking over the mysterious, unintelligible inscription etched into the scratched receiver, as he always has. His scum of a father never spoke of it, though he’d never thought to ask; a pang of guilt courses through his body at the thought of the man. The retired soldier brushes his calloused thumb over the illusive etching before repressing the emotion once more, solemnly reminding himself that there’s a job to be done.

Rising, he carefully sets the loaded firearm on the relatively minimal cot, taking up his coat and assorted bandoleers from a makeshift peg he’s rather carelessly made with his curved dagger. As Dieter affixes his cuffs, he tears this dangerous-looking knife out of the wall, sliding it into its appropriate sheathe; cringing ever so subtly at the rather noticeable imprint it’s made on the once immaculate expanse. The mercenary shrugs after a moment of deliberation, scratching his roughly-hewn beard as he reaches past his weapon for the satchel, slipping it over and across one shoulder, before adding his ammo-packed bandoleers across the other. Finally, he reaches for the item which made him who he is today; his tried-and-true rifle.

Carefully slinging it over his left shoulder, the now fully-attired mercenary begins to walk out of the constricting crew’s quarters, fumbling about in his pockets for his only hope of relief against the onslaught of people he’s been entrusted with guarding; his pipe. Dieter manages to find it as he nears one of the vessel’s starboard bulkhead doors, already packed tight with last night’s leftover tobacco. Standing on the edge of the opened doorway, he squints at the morning rays of sun, setting the old pipe between his lips before setting its contents ablaze with a flickering lighter, housed in the body of a used bullet cartridge. With his right hand stuffed in his pocket and his left firmly on his rifle’s leather-strap, the Garrloch’s glorified guard makes his way over to the railing just near the gangway, observing the vessel’s proceedings in his usual fashion; calculatingly, and at a distance.
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