Interested. What would you say to a mercenary company that specializes in catching mutants and monstrosities and using them as attack dogs / mounts / beasts of war?
Cairo
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Azoth: the Red Desert (Fantasy War/Character/Faction RP, Mercenaries)
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7 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
Thomas's heart was in his throat when the monster broke away from him and threw itself on the screaming noble and sank its teeth into him. But then the beast recoiled, burned, and disappeared, and just like that, it was over.
Thomas was still standing stock still, his eyes wide, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, when the hunchback stopped by to rest a hand on his shoulder and impart some fatherly advice. It was all he could do not to salute and shout an affirmative on pure instinct - instead, he managed a mumbled nod. He would love nothing more than to never wag his tongue again - unfortunately, he still had his orders. He wiped the flat of the blade, still dripping with monster blood, off on his leg, and slid it back into its scabbard. The pretty blonde girl - Golde - and the hunchback immediately went to see to the noble's wounds, and Thomas tried not to blush when she called him (well, all of them, but him by extension) a 'hero'. Not a hero. Nobody's been saved yet.
He took a deep breath. What happened next could be decided in baby steps. The beach was dangerous - there were monsters here, which made it an insecure perimeter. They would have to leave, find somewhere else, make camp, build a fire. He was fairly confident they could freeze to death in these waterlogged clothes without a fire. Then? Establish chain of command, find a way to contact friendlies, regroup with friendlies, and repeat. That seemed like it was a good plan. That seemed like it made sense.
Thomas spoke, attempting to project as much authority and calm into his voice as he could - though all he really managed was a slow, serene monotone, it was better than he'd been doing thus far. "We need to move," he began. "We don't know if more of those things are going to come back, and we don't know if driving that one off was just a fluke. The beach is unsafe. If anyone can't walk, they need to be helped by the people who can. We'll catch up with the crazy naked lady, we'll find a defensible location, make a fire, dry off..." he trailed off, looking around between the others. "And then figure out what we do from there."
Thomas was still standing stock still, his eyes wide, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, when the hunchback stopped by to rest a hand on his shoulder and impart some fatherly advice. It was all he could do not to salute and shout an affirmative on pure instinct - instead, he managed a mumbled nod. He would love nothing more than to never wag his tongue again - unfortunately, he still had his orders. He wiped the flat of the blade, still dripping with monster blood, off on his leg, and slid it back into its scabbard. The pretty blonde girl - Golde - and the hunchback immediately went to see to the noble's wounds, and Thomas tried not to blush when she called him (well, all of them, but him by extension) a 'hero'. Not a hero. Nobody's been saved yet.
He took a deep breath. What happened next could be decided in baby steps. The beach was dangerous - there were monsters here, which made it an insecure perimeter. They would have to leave, find somewhere else, make camp, build a fire. He was fairly confident they could freeze to death in these waterlogged clothes without a fire. Then? Establish chain of command, find a way to contact friendlies, regroup with friendlies, and repeat. That seemed like it was a good plan. That seemed like it made sense.
Thomas spoke, attempting to project as much authority and calm into his voice as he could - though all he really managed was a slow, serene monotone, it was better than he'd been doing thus far. "We need to move," he began. "We don't know if more of those things are going to come back, and we don't know if driving that one off was just a fluke. The beach is unsafe. If anyone can't walk, they need to be helped by the people who can. We'll catch up with the crazy naked lady, we'll find a defensible location, make a fire, dry off..." he trailed off, looking around between the others. "And then figure out what we do from there."
How I picture Varric telling the others to stop:
Action hero Thomas, here to save the day!
One advantage of waterlogged clothes is that it will be hard for the others to tell he just pissed himself.
One advantage of waterlogged clothes is that it will be hard for the others to tell he just pissed himself.
Really, it was probably for the best Thomas didn't have to think of a comeback to the short-haired girl's insult - he was never much good at that sort of thing on his best day, and this was most certainly not that. The best he could have done probably would have been a high-pitched waterlogged sob. Of course, being killed by the pale monstrosity that emerged from the rocks wasn't much better.
Thomas had just managed to get his sword out when the mumbler head-butted the monster to the ground, the sound of snapping bones apparent.The blade was still dripping and he had trouble keeping his grip on the soaked masterpiece, but this was what he was here for. There would be time enough later to wonder where it had come from, what it was, or how it was mimicking their voices - for now, it was a threat, and he would not, could not, allow his charges to be threatened. Thomas gritted his teeth and advanced on the prone form just in time for it to surge back up, snapping at the one who'd laid it low.
Without thinking, Thomas rushed forward, slashing wildly at the monster and trying to interpose himself between it and its target. He meant to shout a mighty warcry, something to get the beast's attention, but all that really came out of his mouth was a burst of shrieks and high-pitched curses. He stumbled and scrabbled on the sand, trying to keep the blade between him and the monster, weighed down by waterlogged clothes. At last, he found words to shout at the others on the beach. "Get behind... get behind me!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nearly-naked woman charging off into the darkness, yelling about chasing the child and getting answers. "Don't leave!" he screamed after her. "That's the opposite of securing the perimeter!"
Thomas had just managed to get his sword out when the mumbler head-butted the monster to the ground, the sound of snapping bones apparent.The blade was still dripping and he had trouble keeping his grip on the soaked masterpiece, but this was what he was here for. There would be time enough later to wonder where it had come from, what it was, or how it was mimicking their voices - for now, it was a threat, and he would not, could not, allow his charges to be threatened. Thomas gritted his teeth and advanced on the prone form just in time for it to surge back up, snapping at the one who'd laid it low.
Without thinking, Thomas rushed forward, slashing wildly at the monster and trying to interpose himself between it and its target. He meant to shout a mighty warcry, something to get the beast's attention, but all that really came out of his mouth was a burst of shrieks and high-pitched curses. He stumbled and scrabbled on the sand, trying to keep the blade between him and the monster, weighed down by waterlogged clothes. At last, he found words to shout at the others on the beach. "Get behind... get behind me!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the nearly-naked woman charging off into the darkness, yelling about chasing the child and getting answers. "Don't leave!" he screamed after her. "That's the opposite of securing the perimeter!"
Thomas is currently wearing the last Gleifast Army Uniform. Waterlogged or not, it's also probably worth more than he is.
I'll hold for whatever Mok does - anything I would post right now would basically just be Thomas halfheartedly declaring that they should definitely go check out those lights, AKA what everyone was doing anyway.
The first thing Thomas heard was the sound of waves, gently lapping on the shore. He smiled, although his head was pounding and his face was half-buried in the sand. All the pain seemed very far away, and he was alone in the darkness with that lovely sound. When he was a child, the sound of waves had always helped him sleep. Then he remembered where he was.
Commander Thomas Drennerson rose from the sand like a man possessed, splashing in the shallow water and staggering to his feet in the span of a few seconds. He fumbled at his hip and felt to his relief that his sword was still there - it was exquisitely made, a parting gift from Captain Archibald and probably worth more than he was. His musket, of course, was nowhere to be found, though admittedly the powder would have been soaked even if he'd managed to keep his grip on it in the mess. Still, he shouldn't have lost it. Stupid.
The details of the wreck came flooding back to him. He'd been on deck with the other 'official' personnel, clinging to the railing by the helm and trying his level best not to get in anyone's way. The sea had churned and tossed, threatening to spill the ship and all the souls in Thomas' charge into the depths below. In a long life of impotence and irrelevance, Thomas had never known more clearly what it was to be useless.
At the very least, he wasn't alone. There were other survivors on the beach not far from him - he could hear them talking just over the sound of the waves. Even still, his first instinct was to slink away from them, or to rush over and hope that one of them would tell him what to do, but neither was an option. As the last proud soldier of Gleifast, it was still his duty to protect these people - as best he could.
He staggered over to them, trying to keep a proud bearing despite his waterlogged uniform. He recognized a few from the ship; there was the scholar with the birthmark, the freckled girl in the tie, the lord that always seemed to be scowling at him... and a nearly naked redhead swigging from a bottle. Oh, god, he was staring. They had all almost died and he was staring. He shook his head and cleared his throat, and spoke in what was supposed to be a voice of calm authority but which came out as more of a robotic whine,
"The Gleifast Army Disaster Response Checklist: Step One, Secure Perimeter. Step Two, Establish Chain of Command. Step Three, Establish Contact with Friendly Forces. Step Four, Regroup with Friendlies. Step Five, Repeat." He coughed, still spitting up seawater, and scrunched his brow when he remembered that he was supposed to identify himself first in these situations. "Private Thomas Drennerson, acting Commander of the Gleifast Army, Military Attache to the Legend's Forgery." He trailed off again. "Um... don't worry. Everything's... going to be... fine."
Commander Thomas Drennerson rose from the sand like a man possessed, splashing in the shallow water and staggering to his feet in the span of a few seconds. He fumbled at his hip and felt to his relief that his sword was still there - it was exquisitely made, a parting gift from Captain Archibald and probably worth more than he was. His musket, of course, was nowhere to be found, though admittedly the powder would have been soaked even if he'd managed to keep his grip on it in the mess. Still, he shouldn't have lost it. Stupid.
The details of the wreck came flooding back to him. He'd been on deck with the other 'official' personnel, clinging to the railing by the helm and trying his level best not to get in anyone's way. The sea had churned and tossed, threatening to spill the ship and all the souls in Thomas' charge into the depths below. In a long life of impotence and irrelevance, Thomas had never known more clearly what it was to be useless.
At the very least, he wasn't alone. There were other survivors on the beach not far from him - he could hear them talking just over the sound of the waves. Even still, his first instinct was to slink away from them, or to rush over and hope that one of them would tell him what to do, but neither was an option. As the last proud soldier of Gleifast, it was still his duty to protect these people - as best he could.
He staggered over to them, trying to keep a proud bearing despite his waterlogged uniform. He recognized a few from the ship; there was the scholar with the birthmark, the freckled girl in the tie, the lord that always seemed to be scowling at him... and a nearly naked redhead swigging from a bottle. Oh, god, he was staring. They had all almost died and he was staring. He shook his head and cleared his throat, and spoke in what was supposed to be a voice of calm authority but which came out as more of a robotic whine,
"The Gleifast Army Disaster Response Checklist: Step One, Secure Perimeter. Step Two, Establish Chain of Command. Step Three, Establish Contact with Friendly Forces. Step Four, Regroup with Friendlies. Step Five, Repeat." He coughed, still spitting up seawater, and scrunched his brow when he remembered that he was supposed to identify himself first in these situations. "Private Thomas Drennerson, acting Commander of the Gleifast Army, Military Attache to the Legend's Forgery." He trailed off again. "Um... don't worry. Everything's... going to be... fine."
My post may take a bit, but it should be up by tonight. Apologies for my inactivity - been dealing with a difficult real life situation that is fortunately, I think, drawing to a close. I've been looking forward to some good old-fashioned escapism. :P
The black-cloaked figure strode across the forest floor with long, measured strides. He swung his arms by his side as he walked and whistled a low tune under his breath, but his feet made no sound as they padded across the roots and leaves, and the forest behind him left no trace of his passing. Unconsciously, he fingered the knife he kept sheathed at his waist, close at hand. If you can’t get a weapon in your hand in two heartbeats, it’s not a weapon. It’s dead weight. His father taught him that.
He’d been meeting with the Stoats when the message came – a war council of his most trusted lieutenants, called to plan the destruction of another upstart gang that was trying to carve out a piece of the city for themselves. The meeting took place, as they all did, in a smoky room that smelled of sweat in the basement of the Maiden’s Trust, the brothel that had been Harvey’s first ‘acquisition’ back when he first arrived to make his fortune. Harvey was crouching over the table, pointing to some alleyway or another, when the child was ushered in to stammer out the message. The King has killed the ranger Brand. The ranger Brand is dead.
In that moment, Harvey became unlike himself – he had never in his life been struck dumb before, not even with a blade to his neck, but with the boy’s words echoing in his ears he had no words to speak. Madge came running downstairs and tried to throw her arms around his shoulders, to draw him close to her, but he shoved her away, harder than he should have. Nobody in the room spoke for a long time, and Harvey muttered to Jeremiah ‘Knives’, his second-in-command, that he expected the rival gang to be gone by the time he returned.
He departed the next morning before the sun rose. He told the Stoats that he had to leave to ‘pay his respects’, but those closest to the prince of scum knew the look he wore on his face when he meant to go to war.
Heading back into the woods was like going back in time – in the eleven years since he’d left home, Harvey’s world had been rooftops and grimy alleyways, deals and powerplays and alliances forged in blood and gold. He’d taken the handful of ragged street-toughs he met on his first night in Ovragos and shaped them into something more than a gang; he had created an empire. He’d buried some enemies but far more he had won over to his side, because anyone with a head on their shoulders knew he was better to have as a friend than an enemy. All of that was Brand’s teaching, really; how to navigate a hostile environment, how to seek out advantages in places nobody else would think to look, the advantage of striking hard and fast and most importantly, first. Of course, the most important thing he’d learned on his own; the one thing his father hadn’t taught him, the one thing his father lacked. Vision.
Harvey brushed his fingers against a softly glowing rune as he crossed into the Barrow, a dozen childhood ghosts flitting before his eyes. A smell that was almost but not exactly like a dog assailed his nostrils, and a grin crept across his face. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one to come, and he had hoped he wouldn’t be the first.
He strode into the graveyard with an exaggerated swagger, his black cloak swirling about him as he went. “Izzat you, Dak? I’ve been hearing a lot about you, you know. Great mercenary, riding queens and fucking dogs. Or might be I have that the wrong way round. Either way, we are all so proud of you. Though might be you don’t go sayin’ ‘Elf-Scalper’ when the others get here, yeah? I won’t bring it up if you don’t.”
He’d been meeting with the Stoats when the message came – a war council of his most trusted lieutenants, called to plan the destruction of another upstart gang that was trying to carve out a piece of the city for themselves. The meeting took place, as they all did, in a smoky room that smelled of sweat in the basement of the Maiden’s Trust, the brothel that had been Harvey’s first ‘acquisition’ back when he first arrived to make his fortune. Harvey was crouching over the table, pointing to some alleyway or another, when the child was ushered in to stammer out the message. The King has killed the ranger Brand. The ranger Brand is dead.
In that moment, Harvey became unlike himself – he had never in his life been struck dumb before, not even with a blade to his neck, but with the boy’s words echoing in his ears he had no words to speak. Madge came running downstairs and tried to throw her arms around his shoulders, to draw him close to her, but he shoved her away, harder than he should have. Nobody in the room spoke for a long time, and Harvey muttered to Jeremiah ‘Knives’, his second-in-command, that he expected the rival gang to be gone by the time he returned.
He departed the next morning before the sun rose. He told the Stoats that he had to leave to ‘pay his respects’, but those closest to the prince of scum knew the look he wore on his face when he meant to go to war.
Heading back into the woods was like going back in time – in the eleven years since he’d left home, Harvey’s world had been rooftops and grimy alleyways, deals and powerplays and alliances forged in blood and gold. He’d taken the handful of ragged street-toughs he met on his first night in Ovragos and shaped them into something more than a gang; he had created an empire. He’d buried some enemies but far more he had won over to his side, because anyone with a head on their shoulders knew he was better to have as a friend than an enemy. All of that was Brand’s teaching, really; how to navigate a hostile environment, how to seek out advantages in places nobody else would think to look, the advantage of striking hard and fast and most importantly, first. Of course, the most important thing he’d learned on his own; the one thing his father hadn’t taught him, the one thing his father lacked. Vision.
Harvey brushed his fingers against a softly glowing rune as he crossed into the Barrow, a dozen childhood ghosts flitting before his eyes. A smell that was almost but not exactly like a dog assailed his nostrils, and a grin crept across his face. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one to come, and he had hoped he wouldn’t be the first.
He strode into the graveyard with an exaggerated swagger, his black cloak swirling about him as he went. “Izzat you, Dak? I’ve been hearing a lot about you, you know. Great mercenary, riding queens and fucking dogs. Or might be I have that the wrong way round. Either way, we are all so proud of you. Though might be you don’t go sayin’ ‘Elf-Scalper’ when the others get here, yeah? I won’t bring it up if you don’t.”
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