Bork Lazer

Bork's Bodega

The vampire is a creature of habit.

That was a lesson Hannibal taught him on his first proper hunt. That even monsters still had their routines. If vampires only cared about devouring humankind in the most efficient way possible, most of the country would be overrun in a couple of months by hordes of ghouls and newly Turned. No, instead, they had peeves and wonts about how they went about it. Traditions and rituals were passed down from each new generation of vampire and with every passing century, as humanity progressed, so did their palette. The Nosferati had entire ‘vinyards’ dedicated to fermenting blood into red wine. The Adze preferred congealing the blood into curds. The Yuki Onna adopted the tradition of ikizukiri - drinking humans slowly while they were still alive.

It was that singular characteristic, that weakness which had been exploited by better vampire slayers than him for centuries. So, when the trail led to yet another fishmonger this month, Eric almost could feel Hannibal berating him mentally for not spotting the obvious yet again and believing that vampires were more rational than they actually were.

It was the break of afternoon in New Orleans, when the sun began to nest in the Pontchartrain. Its orange rays bled down the dappled surface, the skyline bruised a hazy violet. It was at this hour when the French Quarter started to become alive, beating with the rhythm of jazz and dance - the oxygen of the Orient pumping and flowing through the streets from Chalamette to Jefferson. Yet, for where the music could not be heard, it casted shadows of silence across the Mississippi, where the brown waters bubbled and festered as it always had throughout the course of its thousand mile journey. And in that silence dwelled the coming night: ravenous in its zest for life.

He’d been tracking a pack of new arrivals for a month now - ten to twenty strong. They’d made their presence on the westside of Uptown, far away from the territories of other sects and the CBD where the NOPD strutted around like flamingos. The scent of the Great Lakes was smeared all over them - alpine smog and the dewy aroma of pine needles that followed in their wake. He pegged them as Krieger - maybe an Anchorite but most Anchorites preferred to stay in their wheat fields and little prariers. He had been watching them for the last few days, under the disguise of plain sight and from a fair distance as they skittered from the Garden District to the Quarter, playing themselves off as tourists. Eventually, that led him to where he was standing right now.

The Trawler was a squat olive drab block in a sparsely populated neighbourhood that was accommodated by overdebted university students and old-timers who were too fond of the past to move on. There was only a single pane of glass for the average onlooker to look at the product inside. Styrofoam boxes laid in an undignified pile near the front door with an overflowing trash bin as its neighbour, bones and fish guts attracting a horde of flies.

The bell jingled, alerting the shopkeeper who was busy wiping the counter with a stained dish cloth as Eric entered the shop.

“ Hey, buddy. Store’s closed. If you have an order, you’ll have to pick it up tomorrow.“ The fishmonger slapped his hand on the counter loudly to catch his attention. Eric ignored it, continuing to parse throughout the store, stopping to look at the rows of redfish and perch that were on display on beds of ice. “ You right in the head, man? If you don’t leave here now, I’m going to have to call the cops on you.”

Eric turned around and lowered his shades to take a better look. He took a look at the plastic name tag on his apron, with “Barry” written in flowery cursive.

“ So, Barry.....” Eric drawled as he walked closer towards Barry who was shrinking with each step he took. “ Would you believe me if I said this was a surprise inspection?”

Barry’s right shoulder shifted, warily reaching his left hand somewhere under the counter. He signed. It always seemed how things always seemed to end in his line of business.

“ Damn. That’s a shame.”

In one swift practiced motion, Barry pulled out the Mossenberg from underneath the register, barrel swiveling towards him. Were he dealing with any common human, the fishmonger would have put him in the morgue by now. Unfortunately for him, dhampir reflexes meant that the shopkeeper was moving like molasses. Eric shot his hand forward towards where Barry gripped the shotgun by the stock and jammed his thumb between the trigger and the index finger. The barrel was aimed at Eric’s forehead but all the fishmonger could feel was his index finger pushing down on the trigger uselessly. Eric ripped itout of the fishmonger’s hand and tossed it away, sending it clattering to the floor. The fishmonger’s face was now paper-white, his body frozen like a statue and paralyzed in fear.

“ I- I - have my rights! I don't know - “

“ Don’t say another word.” Eric lifted the collar of the butcher’s smock upwards to reveal his neck. It was thick, succulent with flowing, rich blood that just begged to be - Eric paused and shook his head as he mustered his concentration, turning his neck to the other side. His nostrils flared in disgust when he saw a cherry-red brand on his collarbone.

“ Now, listen here and listen good, familiar.” He hissed with contempt, the tips of his canines reflected in the fishmonger’s eyes. “ You’re going to walk out of this shop and call emergency services 30 minutes from now. If you dare call the police after I let you go, I will take this shotgun and ram it so far up your ass that you’ll go through puberty again, do I make myself clear?”

“ I had no - you can’t - They’ll hunt me down.” The fishmonger blubbered, eyes fidgeting anxiously. “ They’ll kill me. My master - URK!”

His speech stopped mid-way courtesy of a steel vice grip around his throat . The vampire slayer lifted him up a inch of the ground, his feet dangling uselessly in the air.

“ Only thing you gotta worry ‘bout is me hunting your sorry ass down.” He continued on, impassive to how Barry’s face was slowly becoming more red by the second. “ Now, you promise to not associate yourself with any unholy heathens from now on?”

“ Urgh.”

“ You promise to not seek out immortality through immoral means?”

“ Urghuh.”

“ You promise to pray to your lord and savior, Jesus Christ?”

“ Urgh?”

“ Nah, I’m just shitting you with the last one.” The fishmonger was then unceremoniously dropped to the ground. As he laid on the ground, heaving for precious air, Eric craned his neck down towards him and looked at him as if he were an insect.

“Now, scram. I’ve got work to do. ”

Bork's Bodega

Down Came The Rain

bomb_bag_Man: Happening tonight

Front_Line_452: Took your sweet time, kid. Was figuring out if you were still alive after the incident last Tuesday

bomb_bag_Man: fine

Front_Line_452: understatement

bomb_bag_Man: look, can we talk about what you need from me

Front_Line_452: you get the dirt on roxxon, I put the good word up to my boss to stop running headlines about u

bomb_bag_Man: u can’t do more?

Front_Line: murder isn’t something that goes away in news cycles

Front_Line: especially the murder of a war vet and his wife

Front_Line_452: but they’re mosquitoes, kid, their MO

bomb_bag_Man: don’t have to remind me about it

bomb_bag_man: just be there when it happens

---

It’s eight when Hobart Brown finally comes back home to the smell of microwaved Chinese food and rat shit in his apartment. His arms and legs feel ten pounds heavier and dropping his cleaner’s pack, half-full of dank grey water, doesn’t help. Ever since he took the window cleaning contract at Roxxon, sleepless nights and instant coffee packs have become a new reality for him.

Ben was where he was usually, lazing on the couch, arms outstretched. His skin was sallow and his chin was horribly tangled and mussed with a stubble. The guy had insisted on closing all the blinds and making sure the windows were closed, mentioning some kind of sensitivity to light. His job involved prowling around at night all the time so it wasn’t all off-putting to him. The red tinted sunglasses covering his eyes didn’t reassure Hob that he was some kind of Nosferatu, waiting to suck out his blood at night.

However, as quiet and mysterious as the guy was, he paid his rent on time. Plus, he did all of the cooking and whipped him up a stack of bonafide east-side wheatcakes one morning when he was late to work. He always did his laundry, did his share of the chores, never left garbage like his prior roommates and was all around a pretty swell guy. His dad taught him to never ask unnecessary questions and Hob wasn’t the landlord. If there weren’t any problems, then, he didn’t need to create any problems.

“ Hey.” Ben craned his neck and lifted his arm, something silver glinting in the faint light. “Found that key you were looking for. It was under the couch.”

“ God, thanks, man. “ Hob said in audible relief “ Owe you a solid for this.”

He reached his hand out to touch Ben’s shoulder in gratitude. Ben fidgeted as soon as his fingers neared his shoulder. Shit, he should have remembered. Another one of his quirks. One time, he had brushed the man’s shoulder and the man leapt to the other side of the room. It reminded Hob of all the times he had played with magnets in physics class, when the two opposite ends were against each other. Him and Ben were like that. Hob had learnt to accept it quickly, thoug. He’d written it off as probably something to do with his health condition.

“Sorry, it’s just –“

“ It’s fine. It’s fine,” Ben said, breath slightly quick. Hob walked to the kitchen counter, opening the fridge. Before then, it

“ Sure I can’t ask you to stay on for another month?,” Hob asked quietly, not wanting to let any sense of desperation probe into the question. His contract with Roxxon was soon due to expire and finding another high-paying contract to keep up with the rising rent was a bitch. The news about Stark Robotics developing another new automated gizmo to replace window washers was only the salt in the wound. His dad wouldn’t stop crowing about that any time soon whenever he went for family's gatherings at Ira's place.

“ Sorry, Hob. The gig’s on the West Side. It’d take two hours for me to reach work and….” Ben’s voice stumbled and a note of something entered it. Sympathy? “If you need an extension…..”

So, it was sympathy. Something about Ben’s tone made Hob’s gut coil in anger. It wasn’t ill-meaning but he had heard it a dozen times at family dinners and catch-up with friends. A storm of good lucks, sorries and that sucks rolled into one pile of fetid uselessness. He was the blue-collar worker of his family, the one still working 8 to 8’s while everyone worked a classical 9 to 5.

“ Nah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The small apartment became silent, punctuated by the sound of Hob scraping his spoon against the rim of his cereal-filled bowl and the television. He only paid half-attention to the news as he stared at the hundreds of unread messages on his OsPhone. Water bills, loans, college applications, a dozen small knives hovering over his head everyday. His eyes flicked back to the newscaster who was reporting something about the anniversary dinner that were holding for the Fisk Foundation. The titular man himself was there as well and Hob often found it surprising that the podium didn't immediately collapse under his immense weight.

"Say, how’s the traffic near Roxxon Plaza looking?”

“Crazy. Out of staters are funneling out this weekend.” Hob said absentmindedly. “Cops are having a headache with this new vigilante out there. You oughta be careful out there.”

“ I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Bork's Bodega

Drabbles and thoughts at an all time low. 90% off. Get them today!

So, this is where I post random crap that can't go into RPs since it's getting tiring to navigate through the storage bunker. Some of these things might get more thoughts. Others might not. Will intermittently update this thread as I go along.

REFRACTED UNIVERSE

fandom: marvel

down came the rain - vignette 1

heir to heaven [COMING SOON]

lonely man [COMING SOON]

job hunting [COMING SOON]

The Book of Blade

fandom: the blade fandom

The Ice Locker

Embers of a Rebellion

Daggers in the night make for quieter screams
- An unknown Durandal general

---

The news of the stranger being an enemy of the Duke wasn’t exactly surprising to the executioner. It had been a hundred ways

“ You’re not the only one these days,” Ogar groused as he poked the fire with the stick, watching her taking another bite of the pike. The night had now darkened past purple into a black curtain of stars and clouds and the glow of the fire illuminated the thinness of her figure. He’d seen starving soldiers before and she looked a quarter-way to contemplating human flesh for rations already. There was something that bubbled in Ogar’s heart, a pull to her akin to when you looked at another person drenched in rainfall as you were. Perhaps, he ought to -

Take her back to camp? Then, what, you fool? Another mouth to feed, another body in the grave? Why take one more risk?

The curtain of night had fully set now and the Thousand Fires bloomed in the sky like candlelights at a congregation. Ogar signed and walked over the fire, kneeling down to sweep ashes over it.

“We ought to take rest now. We can sit up in the trees. Keep the leeches from - ”

Ogar’s warning was cut short as he saw a flash of steel – crossbowman – in the bushes across the side of the river. He pulled up his axe and raised it towards Estelle -

---

The brutish oaf looked even uglier from here.

Yuren licked the wind, the salt of it, and he knew its taste was just right now. Now, he just needed the smell of iron from a good bolt to complete it. The wind stilled and Yuren took the chance. His finger pressed down on the trigger, the string releasing all of its taut energy in a loud snap.

---

-And threw it over the shoulder. The axe spun like a child’s dreidel, head twirling over handle. It passed by Estelle’s shoulder and it hit the bolt. He meant to smash it part. It was an old trick that served him well in the Lutin Wars. However, luck had other ideas. Instead of being splintered in half, the bolt deflected off the castle-forged steel and sunk into the upper right breast of his chest.

“ Shit.” Ogar kicked the ashes over the fire a moment later, scattering the smoke up. His eyes watered as the black fog drifted over the river water. The stinging was a low price to pay for obscure the crossbowman’s sight. “ Ambush. Got to get back to my camp. Safe there.”
A hot lance of pain ripped through his shoulder. Ogar leaned against the side of the tree, face shrouded in pain. The howling of the wylderbeasts split the night silence. His pain-addled mind swam with thoughts of who it could have been.

“ Think I need your help to carry me….Don’t know how much longer I’ve got.” A glob of blood drooled out from the corner of his mouth. “ Bolt must have been poisoned….”

---

The Thousand Flames – A constellation common during Durandelle summers. Commonly appears during times of warfare or great ucertainty.

The Lutin Wars – A series of civil wars between the Lutin Nation of Skofnung and the four great blade kingdoms. Each of them ended in temporary stalemates.

Embers of a Rebellion

---

“ Inviting one fly to dine on a corpse breeds maggots”
- Famous statement made by Archon Hrl (1) after the Sacking of Urladeen (2)

---

“ We all take some matter of risk,” Ogar replied while taking a bite of the roasted pike. The white flesh was flakey and good and thick. Pike like this was rare. You could only find it in the feast halls of kings, queens and nobles when they fished from their lakes. He wiped a smeck of grease from the corner of his chin. “I have no fire; I can’t see where I’m going. I have fire and beasts come upon you like moth to a light. It’s better to be attacked sometimes than to be completely blind.”

The first thing that struck Ogar about the woman – this Estelle - was her accent. He couldn’t tell if it was Skoffian or Calesvolian but it sounded oddly like a flute. It was hard to make out her words and it often reminded Ogar of whenever his captain liked to use fancy sounding words to make himself sound smarter except without the part with complicated words. This woman wasn’t obvious a Yonderguardian [3] that was for sure. He didn’t knew no Yonderguardian but a Yonderguardian would have silently snuck up on him like a fox and slitted his throat across his entire neck.

So, that was that. Ogar just watched the woman, orange light glimmering off his pensive face. She had given her name to him. The manner of courtesies and small-talk slowly returned back to him, words long abandoned at Beningrad. He had talked to the refugees but it was all instructions and yelling. The greeting came out like a cough, forced and rehearsed.

“Ogar.” He paused and then, spoke again. “Ogar. That’s my name.” He nodded to himself and his hand unconsciously gripped the axe to his side for comfort. It always did the talking, screaming and conversation for him. The whistle of the iron through the air and the feeling of flesh parting under its weight was how he made small talk.

His fingers unclasped and clasped around the handle, continuing to watch her. What would happen after the campfire? Take her back to camp. Add one extra mouth to the already starving mass of peasants and stuck-up nobles he was forced to nurse like a wet mother? Ogar didn’t voice it out, instead, choosing to ask her in a measured tone.

“ So, what are you doing out here in the YonderTimber?” Ogar asked, trying to not let his doubts show. “ You –“ look like you’re running “ – look tired. Not many travellers come from this side of the River Red.”

---

Yuren had been looking at the obscenely large man and the woman for a few minutes now. They had split up and abandoned their wylderbeasts. This part of the YonderTimber, so near to the River Red, had roots and bushes that made it nearly maze-like. It was suffocating to travel together in a pack so Barabas had suggested to them to split up.

He had chosen to go to the River Red instead of going north or south like the others. The others had said that the Lucroy had made it to the border but Yuren thought otherwise. People all across Durandelle and across yuren were naturally inclined to rivers as a source of water and refreshment. He wagered good coin with the others that he would be the first to find the Lucroy.

And now, he had won the bet. Yuren pulled the winch and loaded the bolt into the crossbow. It was a hunting crossbow made to take down the likes of fully reared war horses and fully plated knights in a single shot. The Lucroy would crumple like a tallow candle. He stilled his breath and aimed the crossbow at the back of her head.

---

Glossary

Archon Hrl – A famous archon in Durandelle who was responsible for instituting the modern structures of the Arch Adminsration and most importantly, fostering relationship with the Archivist’s Guild.

Urladeen – A former border town between Chamchir and Durandelle and one of the first open uses of a mercenary by the Arch Administration. Often regarded by archivists as one of the key events symbolizing the corruption of the Arch Administration.

YonderGuardian – A loose order of humans who hail from the Old Aeon and proclaim themselves the keepers of the YonderTimber. They are mainly responsible for the monitoring, guarding and ‘protection’ of the YonderTimber from foreign invaders. Many in the Arch Administration have often tried to issue decrees to formally reign them in as a military vassal but their decentralized nature and lack of formal leadership makes them especially hard to control.

Embers of a Rebellion

“The quarry of two separate hunts will always nest in the same burrow.”
- Ereau Siderman, nobleman from the Old Aeon

---

It was a good night to hunt.

Barabas knew it in his bones. The portents were already there. The sky glimmered with the Spear of Calesvol and he could see the head pointing to the Herd of Stars through the dense thicket of trees that the YonderTimber was famous for. He spurred his wylderhog forward. The beast dwelled in the north of Skof up in the high mountains. It was squat and was no substitute for a fine destrier or steed but the YonderTimber was inhospitable to all forms of cavalry. The brown-furred beast between his leg was akin to Durandal boars if they had bred with bears and had horns longer than most men.

Barabas blew a three-tone whistle – two high and one low. A shuffle of hooves and crumpled leaves indicated that they had all stopped behind him. He stepped off his horse and unslung his spear. It was carved from cinnamon wood and the tip held a barbed tongue of blue steel. He brushed the edge through a bush and narrowed his eyes upon meeting resistance. He pulled it out. The tip had stabbed into a torn piece of white fabric, stained brown and red. Barabas took off the tip and sniffed deeply. He turned around to regard the pack of mercenaries behind him.

“ What do you smell?,” He tossed the ragged piece of leather to one of his huntsman. His name trickled into his mind a moment later. Yuren. A new fusilier. He was from – Barabas pursed his lips – Chamchir. No, not Chamchir. A border town between Durandal and Chamchir. It was the olive skin and the slick black hair that would have him confused for one of the desert wanderers. The young mercenary took several sniffs and then, spoke in a measured tone.

“ Burnt tea wheat from Saryonne.”

“ What do you feel?,” Barabas asked again. Without a word, Yuren passed it to the next fusilier standing to his right. She was Orago of the Laughing Bell. Her family worked as bell tenders in the churches of the Holy Hundred. It was said that years of tolling the bells had rendered her mad and that the only sound that would make the bells go away in her mind was the symphony of screams.

“ Fine linen.” Orago closely rubbed it in between the pad of her thumb and ring finger with a giggle. “ Not woven. Needle-sewn by seamstresses.”

“ What do you taste?” The next fusilier was a obscenely large man from the alpines of Skof. In Barabas’s opinion, Skof men had the physique for a good hunt but were never shrewd or high-minded enough to make use of it. The Skoffian took the fabric and stuck into his mouth, slowly sucking on it like toffee.

“ Blood. Noble blood.”

“ The Lady of Lucroy -is cunning but not so cunning to outfox the likes of us.” Barabas crushed the fabric in between his fingers and signed in mock sadness. “ Ah, to think this hunt is so close already! I must applaud her for entertaining us so. I would not be so cruel to take out my rage on such a fearsome quarry such as her.” He smiled at his pack, his pack to command. “ A swift death would agree with her, wouldn’t it, boys?”

The mercenary crew cackled and laughed in chorus. Barabas mounted his wylderbeast and waved his spear in the direction of the densest thicket of the forest, where the fabric had been found.

“ She can run as far as she likes. It is no matter. Our wylderbeasts will ride her into the sun until she is blinded by its light.” His voice then became low. “She remains mine, though. A Lucroy is a rare quarry enough and Lucroys – lucroys will not go without a fight.”
Barabas took off the scarf covering his throat and his men flinched. A long mottled collar of white scar and pale pink flesh circled his neck. “I learnt that myself.”

---

Ogar was just about to reach over to take a bite of his fish when the stranger burst forward from the bush. His instincts took over, hand reaching for the comfort of his axe handle. He had brought up his axe and raised it just above his head, the fire illuminating his figure in ghastly orange light. His mind had been worn and weathered from the countless ambushes by Devereaux’s soldiers. The thought of killing, chopping off her head, came easy to him as offering a handshake. They had tried talking and negotiations first but after the second or third ambush, chopping off heads was a more effective way of communication. Why shouldn’t he? That was all he was good for. Chopping heads and forgetting.

He was about to swing down when the questions unmanned him. His arms trembled and then, he dropped his arms down. Her armor was soiled by mud, her long locks of brown hair had been marred by the YonderTimber and those brown eyes were full of desperation. She was alone. Ogar had always longed for solitude but he wasn’t so sure of it now after looking at this stranger who had disturbed his dinner.

“Oh, the Duke must be truly desperate now if he’s sending the likes of you to finish me off,” He whispered quietly. Slowly but surely, he tilted the head of the axe downwards, the blade cutting a thin groove in the wet river loam. Scratching the back of his head, he walked to the fire and tore off a hunk of pike, the skin charred black and brown. It was hot but his hands could handle it. He walked back to the stranger. Awkwardly, he kneeled down on his knees, hands parted out. His axe was set on the mud nearby, just within reach.

“ I’m –“ He nearly said his name but decided against it. “– I’m lost in this damn fucking forest is what it feels like. I was just about to have that nice big pike over there.” He nodded to the chunk of roasted fish in his hand and then, stared back at her with some modicum of sympathy. “ Look. I’ve been fighting constantly for the last ten moons and tonight’s the night I finally get some rest. Now, you can either keep treating me as though I’m going to stab a knife in your back or you can sit by the fireside to share that nice juicy pike with me.”

---

Glossary

[1] – Shan – One of the ten Arch-Lords who was responsible for the end of the Old Aeon. Shan is frequently both reviled and worshipped in Durandal for his witch hunts that ravaged entire villages out of fear and superstition.
[2] – Beningrad – The capital of Durandal.
[3] – Astrolancer – Astrolancers, practitioners of an obscure branch of thaumaturgy, receive generous stipends and offers from noble contractors to act as their personal wayfarers.
[4] – Colonial Fusiliers – A famous mercenary group hailing from beyond the Black Tide. Currently under the employ of the Arch-Administration.
[5] – Wylderbeasts – Chimeric fusions of regular animals. Believed to have been the results of magical experiments conducted by ancient Lutin.

Embers of a Rebellion

Aye, so, bade my song
Fear it. And wonder
At the darkest hour of Durandelle.
Fear the blade of thunder
And the west woman who wields it.
Fear her and the world under her wake.
- Unknown skall traced from the Lost Days of Yore

---

---

The Eastern Reaches, Durandelle

The season of Shan, Marcelle decided, was far too hot for his liking. Even at the night. Being an ambassador of the Arch Administration had its privileges such as being able to partake in exotic foreign pleasures such as drinking chilled mead atop the Far Edges of Skof or riding on one of the towering dromaderies of Chamchir. However, the weather of his homeland had welcomed him with all the grace of a tavern in the Southern Reaches. He had sweated non-stop. His beloved had given him pickled mustard stew as a means of relieving his ailments but all that had managed to do was imprison him in his privy for the last couple of days.

Darkness already shrouded the eastern reaches of Durandelle and was chasing the sun towards the south. The curtain of night was falling fast. From his window, he could see the sun desperately fading into the west past the Rive Red and into the emerald cradle of the Yonder Timber. Smoky fingers of cloud wildly grasped after it but kept their distance as if they were afraid to be burnt by it.

He dwelled on the sunset through the solar before returning to the brown, flaxen piece of parchment on his desk with contempt and boredom. It was the fourth message from the capital of Beningrad, sealed with the purple waxen fencefish of the royal court. He bended the scroll gently, the seal cracking apart as chips of wax scattered across the lacquered oak table. He didn’t bother looking at the decree. It had been the same one ever since he arrived at his hold a week ago. Dipping his goose feather into an inkpot, he and signed a messy scrawl before tossing it over his shoulder. The scroll fell into a heap that had accumulated over the past few weeks, paper mites crawling all over it.
All because of the damned Line of Lucroy.

The work had doubled – no, thriced – since Duke Devereaux had taken Saryonne from the hands of Estelle Lucroy like a fox in a hen house. Well, not directly. It was all seen as a normal succession crisis within a clan but even a blind man could read between the lines and see what had occurred. It was not an oddity for a noble family to be wiped from the face of the earth but it was odd for the Arch Administration to be this decisive about it. A common Durandelle saying was that people would die of starvation at the gallows long before the Arch Administration sent the headsman to chop their heads off. Now, a thousand owls had flown across the blue skies of Durandelle with proclamations of heresy, execution and revocation of rights in their claws. The retribution was so swift and unforgiving that Marcelle briefly pitied the former head of Lucroy.

As the sun set over yonder past the forest brush and Marcelle dipped his feather again in the inkpot, he cursed the duke for both lengthening his days and shortening the time he had on this earth to spend with his family.

---

The Yondertimber, Durandelle

“ I dare say, good sir, that you have been leading us in circles! Why, I tell you, if I must bear one more hour in the presence of these dirt hovelling peasants ”

“ Oi, headsman. Can ya slice the head of this gold-head farker!”

“ I wannnnnnt ma mmooomaaa!”

Ogar’s grip on his axe trembled. Oh by the Morning how he wanted to slice their heads off and bring blessed silence to the forest. The implacable control that had been drilled into him as the headsman of the Arch Administration had faltered for the first time today. That had not been the only reason though. They had been walking through the Western YonderTimber for almost five days now and the endless green planes of ash and hornbeam made his eyes ache.

“ All of you, quiet. Quiet.” Ogar’s voice was like a stone dropped in the middle of a placid lake. The clamor of nearly three dozen men, women and children stopped behind him. He turned on to regard the troop behind them. They were like an lead anchor on his leg. The closest to him were his fellow rebels from the capital guard. Turriere was behind him, the lieutenant of the bunch and the most experienced. Her red hair was cropped short to the root and her left eye was patched thanks to a crossbow that nearly went through her entire eye. There were three others: Alain, a wall pikesman, Orgyle the warren watcher who had freed the other captives and Bernadolle, a soldier who had been arrested and sent to the Pits for alleged theft.

The others were a motley crew of peasants and royal men who had been rounded up in the Warrens. When Orgyle had freed the lot of them from their cells, they were little more than skeletons in rags. The time spent fleeing and looting the countryside had sent fat and meat back into their bones and more. Hunger and survival had, to Ogar’s relief, destroyed any semblance of grudge or past errs between the prisoners but it had returned.

At first, it was just an argument or two about who deserved the bigger leg of rabbit or who needed to wash their clothes first. Then, it had escalated. The nobles had reclaimed their ballooned sense of self importance whilst the peasants had regained their superstition and distrust of the nobles that had wracked Durandelle into war. The camp had nearly broken out into fights several times and it was only with the threat of his longaxe that made their mouths gum up.

“ We stop here. It’s getting dark. You all set up camp now.” The unlikely troop behind him shifted and heaved off their packs, beginning to unfurl out sleeping furs and their assorted belongings. Ogar gave a second glance of the clearing they had stopped in. The grass was low and no high enough to hide vipers or men. The trunks of the trees were neck to neck with each other. It wasn’t enough to stop any army but even a dedicated horde of Chamchir whistlers would have trouble attacking them. The sun was already setting and the soft yellow light fled to herald the indigo dawn of sunset.

Once they had settled in, Ogar nodded to the remnants of the capital guard that had followed him.

“ I’ll go scout ahead. We should be near the River Red now. Turriere, watch over them. Have them quarter the moose. Start hunting for small game. Our provisions have nearly run out.”

“ Aye, God.”

Ogar bristled, biting back. “ I told you all not to call me that.” Only jeers and laughter greeted him and he signed as he watched his three – well, last three companions in the entire world bully and cajole the peasants into setting him camp for the night. He strode into the forest, his axe on his back, gathering his loose thoughts into his mind.

Even after a fortnight on the run from Beningrad, he still had no idea of where he was going or what he was doing, other than keeping his prisoners alive. He was pulling them from place to place like a shepard except if the sheep were all wild cats who kept clawing at him at every opportunity. It was all because of what he had chosen to do at that morning, at that time. Ogar tried to figure out what had made him attack the guard captain in the first place. He had sliced plenty of children’s heads off before. A holy man of the Blessing Path would find him irredeemable beyond salvation. So, why now? Why had his soul twisted when he saw her? The question wracked his head as he heard the sound of rushing water to his east and followed it.

He broke through a gooseberry brush and was relieved to find a slow-moving stream. The water was clear and the moonlight glittered off the black surface of the water. He kneeled down and dipped his hands through the water, splashing it through his hair. He brushed his short cropped red hair and took a moment to observe his face in the water. He was gaunter than before and the bruise that had blackened his sharp nose had faded into a splotchy purple. He pulled up his upper lip with his finger and winced at how one of his front teeth was chipped, a scar of his escape from Beningrad. His tongue licked it and the pain made his eyes water.

He sat still in the water, taking in the sights of the River Red and its silt and how it curved and cut through the wild green ravages of the YonderTimber. The air here was still and clear and free of anyone but himself.

He then speared his hand through the water and the pike that had been swimming near him wriggled in his sausage like fingers.
Moments later, it was staring at him with an open maw – perhaps in betrayal – over a blazing orange fire. With one hand on the axe, Ogar signed and leaned back against one of the great dagger trees that the region was famous for. The stars were out against the black tapestry of the night sky. Ogar didn’t get how the astrolancers could figure out the time of season and weather. To him, it just looked like grains of sand scattered over a great banner.

The executioner closed his eyes and signed. He would rest here for a few hours and return back to the camp. Hopefully, no soul would bother him here.

Embers of a Rebellion

The Arch Court

Major and Minor Lines

Known Factions

Individuals of Interest
To be added.....

Embers of a Rebellion

An RP between myself and @Shoopuf

LORE

Races

Humans

Supposedly the oldest, strongest and wisest race in the Occitente. The humans who occupy the Six Realms today state that their ancestry back to ancient Malakim who mated and bonded with Lutin and Fin alike. Other races speak of a time when they remember men armed with bone spears and adorned in woodmail rose out of the caverns and razed the lands to salt and ash. The splinters of once great human kingdoms make up most of civilisation today with the exception of Calesvolant.

Lutin

These creatures, thought to reside only in children bedside tales and the ballads of bonesingers, still live in warrens and refuges lost to both man and monster alike. Many Lutin in Skalesvol mourn of long gone friendships between Lutin and men to the disbelief of many. Instead of wishes and solstice gifts, they leave horrors and depravity for men to discover. The knowledge of the Lutin have been reappropriated by mankind such as herblore, the arts of reagentry, churgery and other scientific arts.

Fin

The aurochs raised in the wheat fields of Durandelle or the dromaderies roaming the deserts of Shirsham are not true Fin. Lowborn peasants have tried to claim that their crow was a Fin, only to realise that they could barely string a sentence together. A true Fin does not reveal itself but there are some clues. Fin live longer than most animals. They are capable of the same intelligent thought as most human beings. Most of all, they can communicate with each other through the wind without a single noise, their most dangerous attribute..

Malakim

Gods amongst men, the Malakim are the centre of many a roving cults pagan religion, with a thousand names for each of the Thousand-Eye Wonders. Those who see a Malakim or hear its cry are almost destined to die a death later. Whether this is out of pure circumstance or through a force of Enochian magic yet unseen, no one dares to test otherwise.

The Six Realms of the Occitente

Durandelle

Swooning princesses, dashing knights adorned in steel plate and monstrous wyrms terrorising hapless lowborn are what happened in the yore days of Durandelle past. Now, it is anything but that. Two centuries since the theft of Durandal and the departure of Roi Perriere, the remnants of his court have fractured and split the land in an attempt to consolidate power themselves. Men who once called themselves viziers and advisors have now taken the role of barons, dukes and rogue warlords as minor courts have sprouted across the land like weeds. The Enduring Land cries out for peace, yet, whether it is crafted in blood or treaty, time will tell………

Their blade is the Durandal, the Enduring Scythe. It typically takes the shape of a half-foot curved bastard sword. It is said to imbue its wielders with an endless reservoir of steely will to draw from.

Chamchir

Money moves like the desert rivers in Chamchir, never pausing, never moving, always shifting. The shaded tent-cities of Chamchir are seemingly primitive on the outside but underneath its colorful facade lies a proud history of conquerors and emperors buried under the dunes of pearl sand. Chamchir is ruled by a council of merchant guilds who have an iron fist over trade and the flow of goods in the region. Their most impressive achievement are the creation of the dowse houses, a network of deep water wells dug using reagentry and bone-smithing, to sustain civilization in the merciless heat of the Burning Sea.

Their blade is the Shamshir, the Gibbous Scimitar, pulled by Eulker the Wanderer. Those who wield the blade are said to be able to be burdened with the eye of the moon.

Kamoshak
In the first north, Kamoshak is embroiled in a furious dynastic war that has been ongoing for ten years between those who claim to have ancestry from the God-King of Winter. Merchants give differing accounts of the political situation in Kamoshak, although everyone is confident of two things. That the trees there are the height of mountains and that the winters there are so cold that even sunlight freezes in this merciless land.

Their blade is Kamoshak, the Miracle Sword, said to possess a mind of its own and others if they aren’t careful enough….

Calesvolant

Located to the far east past the Fog Wall, Calesvolant is rumoured to the birthplace of the Lutin Lords. Colonies of men were said to have arrived there in the Old Aeon during the First Shaping. Durandelle receives little news other than hearsay from fishermen that courts of Lutin and Fin live harmoniously amongst those first colonies.

Supposedly.

Their blade, Calesvol, is more myth than truth but historical texts state that the blade was originally a gift from the Men of Durandelle to the Fin Lords before they stole it for themselves during a treatise at the capital of Durandelle.

Skof

The people of Skof dwell in the high crags of the peripheries and edges of the Known World. Much of Skof's fragmented society owes it to the tumultous nature of the weather as the hot winds of Chamchir and the cold gales of Kamoshak meet here. It is a never-ceasing storm of hurricanes, rains, hot droughts and burning summers. One day is always different from the next.

Their blade, Skofnung, is known as the Cerine Cleaver and is said to imbue its user with the blood-thirst of a dozen wolf packs.

Nandoka

Nandoka is not a place but its people. Once occupying a jungle east of Chamchir, the realm of Nandoka fell apart after a calamitous earthquake that shook the roots out from the soil and scoured the green from its bountiful hills. Now, its people roam across the rest of the Five Realms, each seeking to reclaim a part of their own history.

Their blade, Nandok, the Joyous Kris, serves as a historical repository of all the minds of their society and is said to give their user the ability to break past the barriers of their own mind and ascend past mortal eyes, seeing as the Malakim once saw.

Esoterica

Bone-Smithing - TO BE ADDED

Reagentry - TO BE ADDED

Thaumathurgy - TO BE ADDED

Enochian Magic - TO BE ADDED

FALLOUT: ALOHA (RP)

EPISODE 1 - "Such a Lovely Place"

---

Tarhook was the first to wake to the conches. He blinked three times; the first time to make sure he was still living, the second time to see if he was still breathing and the third time to make sure he was in the mood for fighting. He slowly pushed pass the knot of limbs gently, extricating himself from the naked pile of people on the sodden mattress. He stood up shakily on his knees and walked to the large cracked pane of plexiglass on the far side of the crowded bunkroom. The room was crowded, buzzing with bloatfly spawn and the listless breaths of his people. He rolled his shoulders, grunting as his joints popped, and grabbed a nearby razor, the edge dulled with brown rust. Dabbing it in a bucket of jellyfish mash, he began to shave off his beard in chunks of hair. The pinpricks of pain that came with each stroke sharpened his mind, cleared his thoughts for the task ahead.

The sonorous bellow of the conch called to him again as he strapped on the kevlar vest. He heard the tones more clearly this time; one high and two low. A raid. He salivated at the thought. Finally. More and more were waking up in the bunkroom, coming to the same realisation as Tarhook. They began messily preparing themselves, shimmying on pants. Some opened satchels of black rust, carved from the hulks of decaying ships, and dabbed their fingers in it, powdering their skin. Others opened books of the old world, reciting cantos and old verses to faceless gods. A dozen rituals played out, the histories of them forgotten, in some hopeless attempt of preservation.

Just as Tarhook was oiling and checking the slide of his N99, a hand slapped his head from behind. It was Crabhead. The mirelurk claw embedded into the side of his left skull was not the reason for his namesake. He had earned it before his untimely accident due to his propensity for his face to become red during times of high stress or excitement. It was the latter. His face seemd to glowin the dark as Crabhead dragged out a long rusty chain. On the end of it hung an black iron anchor that was encrusted with dried blood and barnacle shells.

“ What’s got you acting up?”

“ Haven’t you heard? We caught a big one off the coast of Kaui.Cruiser size. ”

“ From where?,” Tarhook asked as he placed his ear next to the receiver.

“ Scouts report it came from across the Circle of Fire, rom the land of California.”

California. Tarhook nearly dropped his Colt when he heard that word. California. It was a different sort of ocean than the one he had grown accustomed to living in these past years. He remembered the sand that flayed his skin, the hot sun that beat down, the people that looke down upon him as the green skies above him thundered and shook. His finger thumbed the trigger excitedly back and forth like the jaws of a hound that had found its prey.

“ Then, let’s give these tourists a welcome party they won’t forget.”

---

Lower Decks, Green Horizon

There were three truths to living in the wasteland.

Rule number one. Expect the worst in everyone.

Rule number two. Always have a gun.

And rule number three? If rule number two doesn’t work, have a bigger gun.

The sight of a 10 foot tall supermutant toting a massive shotgun was enough to fulfill the criteria of the last two rules in many respects. The crowd in the lower deck parted around the standoff like water, paying little attention to it. The group of bandits eyd the glinting barrel of the supermutant’s weapon nervously but their morale hadn’t completely collapsed yet. After all, no upjumped mutated freak was going to dissuade them from the noble task of robbing underaged minors.

“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”
“ There’s only one of you, mutie,” The leader donning the tri-corn hat spoke with an air of bravado, albeit his voice shook.. “ I only see one of your ugly ass and no one else around. Seven’s more than one. Did your Master teach you how to count properly?”

Nervous chuckles were shared around the gang like popcorn. Their leader’s logic was mathematically sound. Seven humans did beat one genetically-mutated first generation super mutant. Even so, their bravery was paper-thin. A fewdropped their makeshift cubs onto the ground and began to run into the crowd, hiding themselves amongst the clatter of a bag of caps on the ground. One of the gang members to the left of the leader immediately scooped it up before any one could grab it. He shook the leather bag gently, feeling it in his palms to make sure it wasn’t fake. He slowly looked up at his leader with a pensive gaze.

“Fuck this shit, I’m out.”

“ Good luck, Col.”

“ Hey, wait for me!”

The raiders left one by one like rats leaving a sinking ship. The tricorn-hatted leader was now by his lonesome. His face was red, irate, on the verge of yelling as his gang dispersed into the crowd. The sound of gurgling blood then filled the air as a silver blade protruded out through the leader’s throat. Gloved hands scrabbled at the throat to stem the flow of blood. The leader collapsed on his front unceremoniously, a pool of blood slowly forming where his head was. Lying on his back was the power-helmeted islander scout. The child took a moment to wipe his blade on the deceased gang leader’s shirt before looking up at Hog and Galena.

“ OH, THANK YOU, YOU TWO! ”I’LL BE SURE TO PUT IN A GOOD WORD FOR YOU BACK IN THE-”

Screams erupted as a hideous metallic yawn pierced the eardrums of everyone in the lower decks. The pitch of the sound was taut, akin to an overstrung piano wire. Then came the rapid beat of rivets popping one by one. Kahana felt wetness at his feet and there he could see water rising inch by inch every second. The passengers of the lower deck churned and beat the floodwater with frantic pushes and steps as they The radio strapped on his vest chirped.

“ Scout Kahana, status report!”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THE HULL OF DECK 5-A WHICH HAS BEEN COMPROMISED.”

“ Scout Kahana, how severe is this hull breach?”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, BASED ON THE VOCAL PITCH AND VOLUME IN WHICH CIVILIANS ARE IN CURRENTLY IN DISTRESS AROUND ME ALONGSIDE THE RATE OF WATER ENTERING THE COMPARTMENT, IT WOULD FALL UNDER THE DEFINITION OF ‘EXTREMELY SEVERE’, SIR! REQUESTING IMMEDIATE EVACUATION, SIR!”

“ Denied, Scout Kahana. You are to immediately assist repair crews in this manner. You are to only evacuate if all occupants of the deck other than you are deceased, do you understand!”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THERE’S A PROBLEM.”

“ Scout - KZZZTT - , report the -KZZZZTTTof this problem.”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, I'M EMBARRASSED TO SAY - " Kahana had troubled finishing his sentence, sputtering the last few words out in embrassment." - THAT I CAN'T SWIM.,” Kahana leaned back, waiting to get scolded only for the radio to hiss back in a bubble of static. “ SCOUTMASTER?! SCOUT-”

Kahana paused as pale slime drooped from above and splattered all over his helmet. He touched it with his finger and rubbed it in between his fingers. It was cold, stuck to his hands like glue and smelt of rotting radgull. Rotting. Gooseflesh rose underneath Kahana’s clothes as he unsheathed his knife out again. Then, he heard it. Something large and wet landing behind him. He dove immediately to the front, feeling the hot breathe of a mawsnapping behind him. He turned around and though he’d seen plenty of their kind before, he could never.

Its black body was sleek and sinuous, damp and dark in the bowels of the ship. Pale white scars dotted its skin, each a tale of a battle long past. Two spade-like fins protruded out from its side, spines growing out of the edge in some sick fashion of a paw. It’s head was obesely packed to the brim with rolls of fat that dribbled out the side like melted wax. A long needle like mouth curved out from underneath its ruiuned face.

“ BLACKBOTTLE! BLACKBOTTLE ABOAR-!” was all that a Gold Galleon employee had to say before the mutant monstrosity launched itself forward on its two fins. It slid across the flooded floor, reminding Kahana of one of those pre-war ice skating holotapes his troop smuggled across from Maui. The Gold Galleon Employee screamed as the jaw grabbed him on the toros and lifted him into the air, before snapping him in two in a spray of blood and guts.

---

Upper Decks, Green Horizon

Sam was already dreaming of the sounds of caps jingling in his pockets. The amount of material he had gotten in this single hour alone would keep 89 on the airwaves for the next few weeks. Sure, he would have to cut out the seditionist remarks made by who he suspected had a bone to pick wit the NCR, maybe the Brotherhood or the Legion. Everything else was at least tolerable. As he thanked the last interviewee, Sam turned to the camera to make his final remarks.

“And there you have it, folks! Wastelanders from all walks of life determined to start anew in the Aloha Isles. This is Sam Gallagher from California 89 signing - “

“ Hold up, hold up,” A gold-ringed hand pushed the camera away and Sam was dumbstruck at who he was seeing. The Sunset Sarparilla floral shirt and the hideous shades barely covered the man’s sunburnt skin. His face looked as though someone had squished an overripe mutfruit and fingerpainted a smile and eyes on it. The coterie of swimsuit-dressed girls behind him didn’t help either. The man pushed down his shades and looked at Sam like a pest. “Who the fuck do you think you are, shitstick?”

“ Sam Gallagher of California 89. Um, do you mind moving, we’re busy wrapping up over here.”

“ What the hell did you just say to Dole Hannigan, you little pissant?” For the second time today, Sam had his personal territory invaded yet again as the businessman pushed himself chest to chest with the reporter, puffing his chest out like an obese radgull. “ Do you knowwho the fuck I am? In fact, I’m going to educate you today. Goreman, that piece of shit Codac is bugging the hell out of me. Get rid of it, would you?”

Before Sam could complain, a burly guard popped from behind the man, grabbed his cameraman’s Codac and chucked it overboard.

“ What the fuck was that for?” Sam yelped. “ You know how much that cost me -”

A spike of agony suddenly bolted through his legs, making him collapse onto the floor. Drool dribbled out of Sam’s open mouth as he faintly felt a hand yank his hair upwards, forcing him to look into grey eyes that were cut from slate.

“ Let me get it through your little molerat-sized brain just so we’re standing on the same ground. Aloha, Sam, is my territory. So, I don’t know what kind of dainty psy-op radio play bullshit you’re playing with me but you’re not gonna get to me. YOU’RE NOT GONNA GET TO ME.!” Sam tilted his head away in disgust at the smell of stale Nuka Cola and iguana steaks. “ So, get this. If I ever catch you filming for California 85-”

“ -It’s 89-”

“ Speak when I say you can speak, bitch!” If I ever catch you moseying on here again again, I will sue the piss coming out of your shithole when you go back home crying back to California.” The man pulled Sam up by the ear and whispered into his ear. “ Welcome to Aloha, motherfucker.”



It was at that moment that Dole Hannigan’s head chose to explode like a ripe pumpkin. Sam was mute as the shower of warm blood hit him and laid unmoving on the deck of the ship in shock. His mind was frozen, looking at the headless corpse of Dole Hannigan which laid next to him, his tongue lolling out of his decapitated head. The speakers turned on with an electronic whine and a smooth female voice began to speak in a reassuring tone.

“ All passengers, please remain calm. We are currently in the midst of a pirate attack. Please locate your nearest lifeboat. Your nearest Gold Galleon security representative will be there to escort you safely. Please remain calm.”

Warning klaxons blared out in unison as upper deck passengers ran across the deck like a herd of Brahmin. Security guards attempted to control the flow of people only to be trampled underneath the stampede. Sam shakedly stood up and blinked as dots of colours danced in his vision in the vast expanse of the blue sky. He squinted and then, noticed that there was something hanging off these dots. Namely, men. There were at least 30 of them floating towards the upper deck, strapped to ginormous spherical balloons that had strange symbols drawn on them. Some of them were dressed with the classic skulls and bones that every traveller in the Pacific would see whilst others had nails, fishheads, bottlecaps or gecko heads sewn into the fabric. A thin dogwhistle then shrilled through the air as the balloons were dozens of feet away from the upper deck. The balloons began bursting one by one in fiery explosions that turned the blue sky red. The wild evacuation stopped for a moment as onlookers stopped to observe the light show.

It was so pretty that Sam failed to notice the black human missile that pancaked the star-struck tourist in front of him into a sack of broken bones and skin.

he stepped back as the pirate shook her head, slightly dazed, and then, honed her eyes on him like a deathclaw. Her left eye had been replaced with a green-stripped pool ball, the letter ‘4’ staring back at him. Similar landings were occurring across the boat as the attackers began diving from the air, using the tourists to cushion their fall messily. Sam watched in horror as the pirate wrenched her foot out of a caved-in ribcage, drew her cutlass and yelled out loud in a crooked grin.

“ FOR LEVIATHAN!”