"Right, good to see some things remain constant. You know where to find me when we are ready to march."
Rolan was quick to make for the library once it was pointed out that there were indeed plenty of maps to be found there. He hadn't considered that, frankly, given he wasn't certain anything beyond what they could see existed, let alone was detailed enough for inspection. But finding the library was not hard, heading through the appropriate door and making his way there in relatively short order. He didn't know for how long they would be at this particular Candaeln before marching on the brilliant marble city. That was the most confusing landmark of all, quite frankly, nothing of the sort existed in the real world. Not anymore, at any rate, but that was neither here nor there. Gods willing he would find a map that would help clarify matters. Sure enough, once he was in the library it did not take much digging to turn up several maps, laying them all out on a clear table and starting to go over them, locating Candaeln relatively easily. Of course, that was the only thing that was going to be easy about any of this as it was about to turn out.
"...Right, so if this is Candaeln, this direction should be.... No, wait, hang on that doesn't quite align right. Not that it should, this isn't the real world, but significant landmarks don't just up and warp like that..."
Rolan's voice quietly trailed off, already muttering under his breath as he paused, and started aligning the maps to compare side by side instead of simply referencing back and forth. None of of this made any damn sense. Besides a landmark or two, none of the maps agreed at all on the broader scope of the land at all. There was also the fact that, according to every single one of these maps, that gleaming citadel city of white marble was Talderia?! Nonsense, that place wasn't a grand edifice of architecture, it was a blasted hole in the ground that spewed abominations and swallowed fools. Someone had tried to hire him to go look for someone who had been fool enough to go into that wretched hole, and he couldn't have left town much faster if he had tried. The talk of that sinkhole was never good, even when discussing what could be found there, and that was leaving out every problem that ever spawned from that place. One could dedicate an entire knightly order to containing and cordoning the place off, and it still wouldn't be enough on its own. That hole of a ruin couldn't possibly have been a towering edifice of architectural wonder, could it?
Even ignoring all that, if Rolan was a betting man, his coin would be on one simple fact. The ruination of Talderia would be waiting for them in that splendid view that they had seen returning to ground, and they had no other options in where to go, or even to attempt to go around it. The maps couldn't agree on where anything was except their destination, some of them even scrawling an entire region vaguely as 'Akitsushima?'. He had been hoping the maps would provide, well, something of an answer. He was left with a hell of a lot of questions and the unfortunate fact he had confidently identified their destination. He couldn't just go wandering back quite yet, and begun digging through the library for any information he could find that would prove useful, routinely returning to the table full of maps and other documents, his constant confidence even more of a mask than usual. The more information he had on how this particular space worked, the better, and when the time came he was sure someone would come looking for him. Or he would hear violence, and know it was time to get moving. Not like they had a particular rush to get into right now or anything, by the Witch-Knight's own words, they would return but a few minutes at worst past when they had been pulled here.
Rolan would have started quite vocally complaining, despite his usual airs of confidence and collected self, if it wasn't for the fact his whole hearted griping quite literally caught in his throat as the young, icy eyed girl began to speak. Things started making some semblance of sense as she elaborated on recent events. Handpicked Roses, cast into a dream sequence of training that condensed what could not be done in real life over the span of a night's sleep. He begrudgingly had to concede it made good sense to take advantage of a period of time that most times could not be used, even if, personally speaking, spending what was assumed to be a nightmare sequence fighting increasingly impossible foes alone. Apparently they had all passed her initial evaluation, though some tidbits of information given away lingered in his head as he glossed over the less important babbling.
Tyaethe was already skilled enough to not be dragged into this, a fair statement on its own, but what was more notable was not subjecting her to this, not being so cruel as to do so. That gave this place more reality, a more grounded understanding, of the past most likely, warped as it no doubt was for this contest. He'd have to prod the more learned of them, the Captain maybe, about the past, might give them an edge to look into what had happened before. Second, a blonde set of twins were quite literally tossed in their general direction, with a broom, and mention of a 'little sister' thinking her apprentice needed some more experience, and they needed more magic. That...Rolan would not comment on, even if he could mouth off like he wanted to right now. Magic was foreign to him, anything he did alchemically was firmly grounded in nature, but there were far too many questions about the....blondes dumped into their metaphorical laps to really muse on that any further.
What he most certainly did not appreciate was being dropped rather unceremoniously through the clouds and downwards. While his gut and sense of balance screamed bloody murder at him, Rolan focused the reasonable part of his brain on what he could see as they descended. Brilliant marble white city, empty green plains in every other direction, and of course the city was squarely in the way of their escape. Escaping was far too simple, and it would be pointless to assume he could just range ahead and slip out unscathed. More problematically, there was no promises that if one of them made it out, that it meant all of them made it out. That meant someone had to stay behind to make sure no one got stuck before being last to leave, and knowing how the last dream sequence of a training session went? No way there was a golden archway, complimentary snacks, and a fond pat on the back before shuffling back to what was real. Or, well, he assumed was real. For all he knew this was multiple layers deep and they had been blatantly lied to. Not like any of them was given the luxury of asking questions.
"Well, this answers what I was going to do, asking around about a certain dream that is. Leaves far too much unanswered, mind you..." The Knight-Captain looked unsteady, making a general statement about needing to move out. Well, yes, Rolan supposed that they had no other luxury besides moving forward. Not like wandering off in any of the other vaguely defined directions would do them any good at this point in time. He didn't know how long they had before hunger and exhaustion set in, assuming they did at all beyond combat exertions, which meant he would be keeping a sharp eye out for supplies. Game, fresh water, the sort of things a war party living off the land might need. It kept his mind grounded and not wandering too much, since there was little time allowed for any sort of questioning or gathering of thoughts as they marched, a most peculiar sight arose.
Candaeln, the Iron Rose base of operations, technically his home too. Not the same one mind, lacked a lot of what one expected to see laying around, and he had to hazard a guess that this was a past, simpler version of the place. The comment on cruelty towards a long lived vampire rang in his head again, and he began running the geography of the kingdom through his head again, working off memory right now. If this was Candaeln, of a sorts, then they could look at the current, modern age to guess at what this place held. Rolan was utterly convinced this was an amalgamation of the past right now, though his train of thought was interrupted by the sight of another legendary figure. Another dead one, mind, but here stood Cyrus the Hammer, as if he hadn't been dead many generations over by now. Right, he was kind of getting tired of legends walking out of the past to 'train' the present, but he didn't exactly get a say in the matter did he?
"Right, living legends all over again. Anyone got a map, I have a theory that I need to check. There have been too many tidbits of information that I think are going to add up to something peculiar. Or I am a completely wrong, who knows." Rolan wanted to compare what they had seen coming down, coupled with being in Candaeln, with the current state of things. That might just give them an inkling of what they were dealing with, or at least could hazard a safe guess. Even a slight bit of planning ahead meant a damn sight more than gawking at a man who could probably carry the assembled Roses without breaking a sweat, and break any number of them nearly as easily, and he would save that gawking for when he wasn't in the middle of trying to escape another damn dream. He didn't even remember going to sleep this time, which was what would have really annoyed him if he dwelled on it for too long.
Alright, with the Master sorted, its Servant time.
Name: Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Class: Assassin
Appearance:
Personality: Jekyll has two distinct, incredibly different personalities that change when the Noble Phantasm, Dangerous Game, is used. In his current summoned state, both Jekyll and Hyde remain in a constant state of struggle, most noticeable when danger is present, be it an enemy master, Servant, or other such significant threat. Hyde struggles to be let loose, to tempt, or force, Jekyll to imbibe in his serum and let the demon free. Jekyll, meanwhile, struggles to keep Hyde in check, silencing the demon until such a time that he is permitted to be let off his leash.
As Jekyll, he is a gentle, kind hearted man who would quite genuinely rather spend time in contemplation and study. While generally servile in nature, he maintains an incredibly strong sense of good and evil, and of justice, a firm believer in doing good for its own sake first and foremost. As a servant he would greatly enjoy spending time simply conversing with his Master, learning of the world he had been summoned into. Of his fellow Heroic Spirits, enemies as they may be, he would engage them in dialogue before a combat need arise, or even during circumstances where neither side can afford to fight. He lacks confidence in himself, perhaps stemming from his failure to subdue and remove Hyde from his life, though once talking he proves to be quite the pleasant fellow.
Hyde, however, revels in the hedonistic and cruel pleasures of the world. Constantly straining to be turned loose of his bindings, he greedily abuses every moment he is free. While released only for the sake of fighting, Mr. Hyde fully enjoys every moment of it, reveling in driving any foe he is turned loose on into a corner, playing with his prey and basking in their failure and mounting panic. Nothing is sweeter than slaughter, and if left unchecked would quite gladly go on a killing spree of anyone he could get his hands on. While restrained as a Heroic Spirit, however, he begrudgingly follows orders, though constantly complains and urges his Master to "Live a little" and let him at least have a little collateral damage. He will interpret anything formed as an order as creatively as possible if it means being able to cause more damage, though if the circumstances prevent him from being able to enjoy himself, he will turn the reigns back over to Jekyll since playing at human would bore him to tears.
Stats: (Note: Stats are listed as X/X, with the first being Jekyll's statistics, and the latter being Hyde's statistics.)
Strength: C+/B+
Endurance: E/B+
Agility: A+/B+
Mana: E/D
Luck: C/D
Noble Phantasm: C/C
Class Skills:
Presence Concealment: A. As Jekyll, the good doctor has gone to great lengths to conceal any of his misdoings or misdeeds as Hyde, and even more so now that he has to so readily rely on Hyde, it makes remaining unassuming far more important. For Hyde, concealing himself right up until the moment of strike lets him savor in the thrill of the hunt, of tracking down some dangerous game and jumping them, the upper hand making the game that much sweeter.
Personal Skills:
Monstrous Strength: B. Non functional as Jekyll, as the good doctor is no fighter, let alone a monster. Hyde, however, has shattered sturdy, custom walking canes in fits of rage with enough force to strike men dead in a single blow. Not even accounting for longer fits of rage after extended confinement by Jekyll that have left others dead from, at the time, a normal human's bare hands, this skill allows Hyde to, for short durations, boost his Strength Parameter by one rank.
Voice of Panic: A. Non functional as Jekyll, given the mild mannered and well meaning doctor could barely raise his voice to a shout at the best of times, let alone induce panic. Hyde, however, has the fury and madness of a long caged hedonistic thrill seeker, capable and more than willing to voice his desires of slaughter and debauchery to the heavens, to make God himself quake. Performs a mental attack on his targets with a resounding voice that weakens the minds of people who hear it.
Self Modification: D. Does nothing as Jekyll, as he is simply a man hiding a monster. While functional as Hyde, due to the duo being summoned as an Assassin-class Heroic Spirit, the rank of the skill has been notably decreased. Hyde shows some small refinement of his body towards combat capabilities, though the changes are relatively minor, and easily missed by someone who isn't keenly aware of the changes that are occurring at all.
Powerless Shell: A. The skill that defines Jekyll, rather than Hyde. It is a representation of a lifetime of struggle with perceived inner demons, with a hedonistic and sadistic darker half that he could not, as a proper Gentleman, ever allow free, and the cause of him developing the serum that would become known as the Dangerous Game. This skill is what locks his other personal skills away, and combined with the Assassin class Presence Concealment goes a great ways in protecting and hiding Jekyll long enough for him to release Hyde onto the stage, should the need arise.
Noble Phantasm(s):
Name: Dangerous Game
Rank: C
Type: Anti Unit
Appearance: A rather unassuming bottle with a peculiar stopper, the contents within never draining when drank, no matter how much is imbibed. The taste of the compound is utterly repulsive and vile to the drinker, regardless of personal taste or desire, it will always be the most foul tasting fluid one could ever imagine drinking. Despite its taste, it has a rather regal purple coloration that would make one think it might actually be a pleasant concoction.
Effects: Quite simply, it is the key that allows Jekyll to become Hyde, and vice versa. The recipe of the serum is known only to Dr. Jekyll, and by extension Mr. Hyde, though actually making a new dose of the serum never seems to be necessary due to its constantly refilling state, a side effect of being a Noble Phantasm. What this serum would do to someone who isn't Jekyll or Hyde is unknown, although even Hyde would act to prevent this from occurring should the circumstances arise.
Alignment: Lawful Good (Jekyll)/Chaotic Evil (Hyde)
"Plenty of pews left to fill, so more the merrier."
Rolan casually remarked on the arrival of....the name either eluded him or the two weren't previously acquainted, it was hard to say. Either way, Rolan didn't pursue that train of thought for very long as the duo went and seated themselves beside Amy. Or, rather, Dame Amy, and a low grin came to rest on Rolan's face, though he didn't have quite the time to get a comment in edgewise. Pursuing a woman of the faith, that took some stones, though from the sounds of it they were already at least somewhat acquainted with each other from previous battlefield encounters. Still, he inclined his head as Amy began the quiet prayer, mulling over the whole situation. To say he was familiar with sitting in a shrine praying would have been a lie, he had never been much of one for faith. Always left that to the priests and such who actually seemed to have a rapport with their divinity of choice, but as the saying went, no such thing as faithless in a battleline, so he never begrudged faith.
The prayer did not run for terribly long, a good thing as far as Rolan was concerned, and he leaned on the pew he had been standing next to while, what was his name... Spaghetti? No, no that wasn't it, while what's his name introduced his half brother Abele and was practically tripping over his words, at least as far as Rolan was concerned. He cocked an eyebrow at the mention of discussions had in a tent, and a less tactful man might have started snickering right then and there. Oh no, Rolan was a class act, he would start snickering AFTER he opened his mouth. "Courting a lady of faith in the shrine of her goddess, you have to have some serious stones on you mate."
Rolan couldn't help but laugh at his own remark, betraying that, while he was teasing...SERGIO, that was the name, it had to be at least if his memory was to be believed. Reigning in his laughter to a chuckle, he stretched as he stood himself upright from his lean, dusting himself off, mostly as a gesture rather than actually a necessary act. Mockery aside, he had to acknowledge it was a thoughtful gift, long as it didn't turn out to be a burnt husk of a pie or something. Not like he knew his way around a bakery, so it was probably better than anything he could craft. Still, he wasn't keen on watching the love birds making sideways eyes at each other, he wasn't brave enough for romance, too many pitfalls that. "Right, thanks for the prayer Amy, I won't overstay my welcome. Tyaethe, need me to report anywhere, or just stand by for the inevitable marching orders we're bound to get if half of what you've said is to be believed?"
Rolan wouldn't stick around for long after that, either heading off to where he was needed or going for a walkabout to stretch his legs. He really was a restless soul, not able to stay in any one place for longer than completely necessary. Besides, it had been awhile since he had just walked around and took in the sights, so it wouldn't hurt to see what was different since his last walk about the Iron Rose base of operations.
Personality: Kilian is a generally amicable individual, pleasant at first discussion and, by and large, it is an accurate assessment. Between practicing an art that takes time and practice, as well as having a smaller base of practitioners, and the family tradition of deliberately avoiding being embroiled in conflicts with other families, Kilian has a generally pleasant, almost laissez faire outlook on life that permeates everything he does. His only real concern beyond an intense focus on not just replicating Runes but mastering the oldest of their kind is survival. This means that Kilian is a patient man first and foremost once someone insists on prying past the general pleasantness of his daily demeanor, one who has no trouble or qualms with simply waiting for the next opportunity if it means safeguarding his own wellbeing and knowledge. There is no such thing as an unmissable opportunity, not if it costs one their life. After all, what good is anything one could desire if they don't live long enough to collect on the matter?
This creates a dangerous mix of pleasant pragmatism, seeing no action as anything other than 'just business' when it comes to life. No action is out of the question, no deal beyond considering, if it meaningfully advances his goals without breaking the rule he keeps for himself, that nothing he does should keep him from his long term goals. Any action he takes keeps this in mind, so while one minute he might be an ally, the next he has no qualms stabbing someone in the back should the need arise, genuine in his apologetic remarks after such an event. It truly is just business, and he would expect nothing less of anyone else should the positions be swapped.
Skills:
Medical Training - Kilian sees this as a necessity when it comes to dealing with the Witchcraft his father preferred to teach him. He has learned to clean and stitch wounds, set bones, treat the ill and otherwise handle most common ailments one might stumble across with enough time and effort.
Physically Fit - Also part of his training, Kilian has learned to not only be in good physical shape, but durable as well, bouncing back from injuries, both self inflicted and otherwise. He knows how to box, though more as a hobby than anything else, preferring to defend himself using his Runes when able.
Abilities:
Quality of Circuits: B Quantity of Circuits: B Elemental Affinity: Fire, Wind Attribute: Sacrifice, Conversion
Magecraft - Kilian is the descendent of two distinct branches of the Halloran family, spending half of his upbringing with one, and half with the other, learning magecraft from both and combining their preferred Thaumaturgical systems into an art of his own, one that he has spent his entire adult life refining and improving upon.
Runecraft - His mother's side of the family prefers Runes, one that Kilian took a natural shine to. Having access to the family archive of Modern replicas of runes, the goal of half the family is finding the Primordial Runes, and rather than simply replicate them, utilize them to their fullest. Kilian is no exception to this, having scarified numerous runes across his body as well as items, using a sacrifice of his flesh and blood to empower each rune beyond what his magical circuits could normally provide, meshing witchcraft with his runes. Notably, the following runes are scarified on his person:
Gandr - Amplified by scarification along each index finger, Kilian is capable of producing Finn Shots with impacts equivalent to a shotgun blast, typically staggering each shot by alternating hands. However, he can't restrain the power of these shots, due to the use of Witchcraft as part of the process of preparing the runecraft for use. While normally lacking a rune, the scarification is of a family design that is designed to amplify weaker family member's potential, or amplify a potent member even further.
Raido - Scarified on his calves, Kilian can invoke these runes to temporarily boost both his ability to move and traverse an area, both in speed and in efficiency, for the duration of the effect. The longer the need, the more energy they end up requiring.
Ehwaz - Scarified along the inward side of Kilian's arms, they act to harden his arms and hands, providing durability far beyond what flesh and blood could, to the point of being able to stop mundane blades without breaking the skin, though much like Raido, require a constant source of energy to maintain the effects of for longer than short bursts.
Sowilo - Scarified into his palms, Kilian can invoke the runes to create fire out of thin air. Normally blue in coloration, reflecting the heat, he can use the conjured flames in a variety of uses, both combative and mundane.
Tiwaz - Scarified over his heart, Kilian had this prepared as a failsafe should he find himself unable to evade harm. Tiwaz projects a barrier in response to impending trauma, protecting him when he can't evade an attack, though the barrier can only sustain so much damage before failing and requiring Kilian to restore it, either naturally over a rest period or more immediately through a sacrifice of blood.
Black Magic: Witchcraft - Kilian learned this system from his father's side of the family, and while he does not pursue its deeper mysteries like them, has learned to blend it with his runecraft and Attributes to empower his abilities as a magus. Used in a supporting role, the focus on the sacrifice of flesh and blood comes to the forefront. Runes are either scarified or made with spilt blood mixed into their creation, willingly given blood even more potent in effect, allowing effects normally beyond what Kilian could normally sustain. In a pinch, he can spill fresh blood on his runes to boost them even further, though obviously too much of this manner of amplification will be lethal.
Assets:
Mystic Code: Ceallraí - The trinket that hangs from behind his left ear, Ceallraí is a rather conventional Mystic Code that has a certain amount of Kilian's blood stored within it, and whenever used in conjunction with either his runes or witchcraft can be used to attain the effects of a blood sacrifice without actually spilling his own blood. He can only store five charges at most currently within the trinket, and recharging them requires a blood sacrifice, but doing so safely after the fact is far easier than during a dire situation.
Mystic Code: Cothromaíocht - A pair of rings, perfectly fitted for Kilian's middle fingers, do nothing on their own, even when supplied with magical energy. They require the activation of a rune along with the empowering of the rings to have an effect, allowing Kilian to alter the normal effects of a rune. His Finn Shots, for example, can be converted into an amplification of a thrown punch, the entire force condensed into a single point of impact. The further a departure from the intended use of a rune, the more taxing the effect, to the point that they often get used in tandem with Ceallrai to offset the increased exertion imposed by Cothromaíocht.
Mundane Assets - Kilian has a modest amount of funds on available to him at any given time, for dealing with the world as a whole, often times converting the funds to those appropriate for the region or country he might be visiting at any given time. He also has his assorted collection of scarification tools, as well as a small pocket knife specifically prepared for a ritualistic use in witchcraft.
Brief Backstory: Kilian Halloran is the latest in a long running family of magi, though being the firstborn son, and inevitable head, of the somewhat recent, by magus terms, marriage of two different families into one has forced him to lead a somewhat odd life. Spending his entire childhood training and studying under both halves of the family he would lead, Kilian would learn to uniquely wield both halves of the family traditions in order to effectively lead them when the time came. Granted, this would not be for quite some time since, perhaps fortunately, the current family leadership had many, many years left in their lives before even considering stepping away from the reigns, let alone dying. This left Kilian fairly free to pursue his own studies.
Despite initial reservations, Kilian aligned himself with the Thule Society as many in his family had prior. The long standing membership of the group did give him some advantages during his studies, although convincing fellow members to even cooperate often took a significant amount of effort and negotiation. Kilian grew to loath any dealings with his fellows in the Society in a formal regard, often spending great deals of time abroad chasing rumors, proof of theories, and seeking knowledge of lost or forgotten runes. Nominally he also cooperated with the Thule Society when the need arose, assisting each other and slowly prying what secrets he could from their tight fisted grip. Never mind that Rune Magecraft was already niche, it was a hassle enough getting them to share even basic information on runes he could demonstrate knowledge of already.
Kilian treated the appearance of the Command Seals as a nuisance, first and foremost, as he had been in the middle of a rather promising, or so he had hoped, series of investigations in Scandinavia when they appeared. However, it seemed that there was advantage to be gained from participating in this contest after all. While some in his family had made a variety of suggestions on wishes he could make, he took a longer looking, more pragmatic look. He didn't need to win to benefit from the contest, though obviously the Wish could very readily accelerate his learning and mastery of Rune magecraft beyond what he could attain in a single lifetime. Even if he found himself in a situation that would prevent him from winning the wish, he could no doubt make useful discoveries and, circumstances willing, allies who owed him for favors granted during the contest. With that practical consideration in mind, how could he refuse the summons the Command Seal made?
The first thing Rolan noticed about the pale horned woman was how chipper and kind she presented herself to be. Between the bow, sudden two handed handshake of a greeting, and her rather intense focus on teasing Tyaethe, well, it was fairly apparent she was peculiar as far as knights were concerned. Of course, he had no room to talk, still dressing and conducting himself like a crossbowman rather than a knight, but given the unique situations the Iron Roses seemed to routinely find themselves facing, having some individuals who were atypical would be a useful boon to have, as far as Rolan was concerned. As far as he could tell, the two couldn't be more different, but her antics still got an amused snort out of the former bounty hunter, which rolled into a chuckle when the vampire started grumbling. "A pleasure to meet you Amy, name's Rolan. I tend to spend a lot of my time on farther flung assignments, but you might catch me between tasks situation depending. From the sounds of it Tyaethe, you got yourself a certified rain maker of a pup right here."
Rolan leaned into the teasing, though mostly lightly piggybacking on Amy's own shenanigans. Once Tyaethe began catching him up to speed, that casual smile faded a notable bit. Assassination attempt, strange relics that shouldn't have been in the nation being stolen, and a consolidation of the entire order in the face of what was to come. Leave it to formal knights to miss the assassin, especially as described, but he couldn't really judge. He had been chasing troublemakers through the wilderness and hills, not standing by the core contingent of the Iron Roses. As the vampire wrapped up her brief summary, Rolan crossed his arms and whistled briefly. "Hell, things have been even busier than I would have wagered. Here I was hoping that strange dream would have been the most concerning thing to happen for the foreseeable future..."
He felt sorry for the Knight-Captain, given everything that occurred and how much blame would be heaped on her. He still believed no one that young should be forced into such a role, but he didn't hold that against her nor say it out loud. His train of thought was interrupted by the mention of prayers to the moon goddess, either for celebration or necessity. He wouldn't have considered his most recent activities praise worthy, it was clean up duty that someone was going to have to do, and while he had never been devout, there was a saying his father, loathe as he was to remember it, was fond of saying. No such thing as unbelievers in battle lines, and even if he rarely ever prayed or even considered the divine beyond when the subject was brought up around him, he understood that, between a wall and a towering brute, anyone would throw a prayer to whoever they thought fair. Besides, like was said, it couldn't hurt. "I would say the two of you drive a hard bargain, but its not much of a hard sell. I'm rusty on my prayers, so I'll let one of you lead the way in that regard."
"About time it stopped pissing down rain, was getting tired of wringing out my cloak..."
Rolan Herzog was resting at a small campsite, the sun low in the sky as the day grew close to its end. He had been on assignment, looking into reports of particularly evasive troublemakers that were reported to have ties to the wrong side of the War of the Red Flag. His orders had been to go investigate, and if they were indeed tied to the rebels report back and join the contingent sent to sort them out. If they didn't, he had been given liberty to deal with them himself. It had turned out that, in fact, they had been using the name without any ties and, with that report sent back to Candaeln so he could focus on cleaning up. It had been a busy few weeks, tracking them was tricky under good conditions, and it had been pouring rain for almost the entire time. He had just finished up cleaning out the last of the troublesome individuals, leaving him too late in the evening to depart immediately, instead resting by a campfire on the outskirts of town. While officially grateful, Rolan knew full well that taking advantage of that would go poorly, so he made camp outside the town and planned to depart at dawn. While restringing his crossbow, he found his mind wandering to, once again, how the hell he had found himself as an Iron Rose.
"So you are the bounty hunter the locals keep praising so highly?"
Rolan remembered the opening remark from the leading and senior most Knight. A spitting image of a knight, all noble obligation and the kind of experienced presence that most people would have expected from someone who held a position of authority in a knightly order. Doubly so, the fabled and legendary Iron Roses. Rolan was annoyed at the time, though, he had been rather busy trying to track down the reason he had been approached. Smugglers, at least that is what they called themselves, but these particular fellows were barely better than bandits. Trade goods and farmers would get jumped, robbed, and their goods would get sold at less discerning markets for a fraction of their worth. All profit for the smugglers, but a massive loss for the honest folk. Rolan had been planning to do the work for a few nights food and board, while he figured out where to go next, but he now had a band of Iron Roses looking for him to lead them right to the hideout of these smugglers.
He hadn't been forced, of course, Rolan had been made abundantly aware of that. It was for the good of the many however, and they had hoped he would help them out and, in return, let them help clear out the self proclaimed smugglers. He begrudgingly agreed, and they departed immediately. Rolan had been preparing to make the trek alone, and he recalled his annoyance with how slowly, deliberately, the knights moved. They had a mission to accomplish, a job to do, and Rolan had a rather heated debate with the senior Knight of the contingent during the one night at camp. He had argued that all the knights were currently doing was slowing him down, giving the bandits playing smuggler ample time to prepare and fortify. There had been no signs of them fleeing, especially with so much time to prepare on home territory. The Knight had countered that a forced march into the heart of the bandit power was just as foolish as taking too long.
A compromise was reached, Rolan forcing the issue by threatening to simply leave the Knights behind, standing around like a bunch of fools. He would take the lighter, faster members of the contingent to harass and harry the smugglers, and not give them the chance to fortify in peace. Rolan knew that he wasn't popular with the selected knights, but quickly proved himself by leading, loosely speaking, raids as the main contingent moved into position. The harrying attacks at odd hours kept the smugglers from digging in too much, and Rolan volunteering to join the main assault also seemed to endear him to the Knights. Apparently most would have taken the coin for leading the way, regardless of what was said prior, and let them handle the rest. Rolan, though he wouldn't admit it, frankly didn't think the Knights would pull this off on their own without someone making sure it went well.
His worries were, of course, unfounded. The Knights were skilled and, even if Rolan would not say it, probably did not need to harry the smugglers after all. Still, Rolan made sure to keep picking off threats that would otherwise pose even a minor risk to the Knights from beyond their normal reaches. He was also quick to point out attempts to escape or evade the contingent of Knights, several members peeling off to keep them from fleeing, hemming attempted escapes back in before resuming the cleanup. Before long anyone who had not surrendered was dead, and the prisoners were handed over to local authorities to be tried and punished. Rolan had been preparing to go and collect his payment from both the Knights and locals, in that order since the locals had only promised food and board for a few days, when he was made an offer that genuinely stunned him.
"Playing at bounty hunter doesn't suit you, frankly, given the way you conduct yourself. If you are prepared to accept a higher calling, there is a place in the Iron Roses for you."
The rest of the Knight's pitch had been frankly a blur. Rolan had been expecting to have to haggle or argue to get his promised pay from the Knights, and now he had been offered a place in the Order. Apparently he had been someone to keep an eye out for, his continued efforts and general lack of exploitive treatment of the towns and people he found himself in had reached the right, or wrong, ears. Part of him had to wanted to reject outright, to just give him his damned coin and leave him alone. An old feeling, one that he had heard nearly his entire childhood from a father who had inherited that same hatred from his father, and so on and so forth. But, pragmatically speaking, he would have been a fool to not accept. Knighthood meant nobility, which meant that, after enough service, he could coast on easy glory found parading around playing at hero. He had told the Knight he needed to sleep on the decision, that it wasn't something to make a light decision on, regardless of choice. Apparently that only convinced the man further he was material for the Iron Roses, but he was given the chance to sleep on it, and if he wanted to take the offer, meet them at the edge of town at dawn so they could set out and return to Candaeln to report their success, and formally induct him as a Knight. The following dawn found Rolan joining them and, well, the rest was history.
This had been a year ago, and Rolan had been kept incredibly busy chasing and tracking problems ill suited to more conventionally noble knights. Rolan had been careful to keep his family name out of the knowledge of his fellow Knights, simply claiming he had no family name prior to joining the Iron Roses. No one had called him out on it yet, either out of courtesy or genuine lack of knowledge, but it didn't serve him any to make a troubled family history known to his fellows. Fortunately, when out on his own and at camp, it was easy to muse on such things. Especially since, well, it beat just sitting around with an empty head. Satisfied with the maintenance on his crossbow, he stood and rigged his surroundings with some rudimentary alarms. An old trick he learned before the Iron Roses, but anyone not paying attention would trip over them and cause some loosely balanced camping supplies to topple over loudly. Of course this would wake Rolan up, ideally, and it was part of his standard practice when he couldn't take turns standing watch on the times he had company with him. With camp secured, he retired to sleep. He planned to make an early morning of it, and get back to Candaeln. It was almost two weeks out on foot, and the sooner he started the better.
"C'mon you bastard, the last one put an end to this dance quicker. Aren't you supposed to be tougher?!"
Rolan had cursed his focus on getting a proper sleep in after getting back to Candaeln while evading the armored juggernaut bearing down on him again. Once he was asleep, all hell had metaphorically broken loose. A looming, empty arena and a creepy observer. After realizing what was going on he had taken a shot at her in the hopes of ending this song and dance early. No such luck, and the foot soldier who had manifested thought to take advantage of an unloaded crossbow. Poor fool hadn't realized that Rolan knew his way around in a close quarters fight, using his knife to turn the reach of the spear into a hinderance. Of course, the first fights were the easiest. A bandit who charged headlong into a crossbow bolt into the chest, some shambling undead that had taken a few strikes with the blunt end of his crossbow to break apart, and common foot soldiers were giving way to more trouble.
The first notable fight was an unmounted knight, a junior one to be sure but fully clad in plate all the same, wielding kite shield and arming sword. A practical dangerous combination that provided ample protection against even a crossbow's powerful force. Rolan didn't waste a shot on the advancing knight, lowering his stance slightly and watching the shielding advance turn into a charge, a lunge that Rolan was waiting for. Springing sideways, he evaded away from the knight's shield arm and fired his crossbow into the man's side, the near point blank shot punching through the armor and digging deep into his side. Dancing out of reach, Rolan was a deft hand at reloading even under duress, having created enough space to deftly pick his custom made wippe lever off his belt, draw the string back and slip it back into place before the knight had closed the distance again. Again, Rolan delayed his shot as the knight advanced on him more cautiously, painfully aware of the weakness in his armor now, at least at close range. Rolan backstepped the brisk downwards swipe, aiming low and putting a shot into his knee now that his foe was shielding high enough to prevent another flanking shot.
The junior knight kept advancing, having no other option but to engage Rolan as he danced out of reach again and again. Rolan was patient, a hunter circling his prey now that is was wounded and limping, only striking when he could ensure a damaging blow. Eventually the junior knight made a desperate last effort, just trying to rush down the crossbow wielding Rolan. Sidestepping the man, he slammed the stock of his crossbow against the helmet of the knight, sending the wounded man reeling long enough to put a vital shot into his foe. But before he had time to think, he was cast into the next fight, and the next, and the next.
The first problem had been several experienced skirmishers, archers hiding out in a woodline while he had little cover to return fire from. Rather than trade shots, he had closed the distance, forcing them to scatter into the woods and give him a chance. It wasn't much of a chance, with each archer he pursued the others harried him from the flanks, eventually wearing him down and killing him with a final volley. It was then Rolan realized the absurdness of the game he played. For each opponent he clawed a hard fought, fraught victory from, there were plenty more who could weather his crossbow volleys until he was left without a bolt left, or could close the gap fast enough to render his ranged advantage moot. More importantly, each death just meant facing the next, more dangerous foe, and the fights only grew more difficult.
The first of the truly one sided fights was a seasoned knight, as heavily armored as the warhorse he was riding. He couldn't land a good shot on either horse or knight, and the first charge had forced him into a desperate evasion, and each time the mounted knight wheeled it was moving too fast, too erratically to draw a good shot on. Once out of crossbow bolts, that left his knife and, unsurprisingly, it was a fool's errand to fight a mounted knight with a knife. It was an unlucky lance strike that had sent the crossbow hurtling from his grip, shattered into pieces, while the same charging blow had left his arm nearly torn from his body. The last thing he remembered of that fight was trying to go for the charging horse's throat, a shifting blow of the lance rending his head clean from his body.
Snapping back to his current predicament, Rolan couldn't land a single shot that could even penetrate the layers of angled plate, practically designed to withstand regiments of archers firing volleys into a breach. One crossbow in comparison was practically a stiff breeze in comparison, and sure enough he was finally out of crossbow bolts. Discarding the crossbow, unthinkable before but now it didn't matter knowing it would return win or lose, he drew his knife and rushed in. The iron clad juggernaut tossed the tower shield aside, two handing the bastard sword he had wielded so deftly with one, meeting the crossbowman's challenge in melee openly. Steel scraped across steel as Rolan sought an opening in the towering man's armor, ducking under the first counterstroke and staying in close. This worked until a feinted swipe smashed the pommel of the bastard sword into his spine, sending him to the ground unable to feel his legs. Struggling to rise, the juggernaut brought his bastard sword down, cleanly executing the struggling Rolan in one fell strike.
Rolan grasped at his throat the moment he was restored again, knowing he hadn't somehow mystically become able to function without a body, staring across the open field of an arena to see who he was being thrown against now. The sight of who it was drained what little energy he had to struggle with out of him, at least at that moment.
"Oh, and here I thought I was actually making some headway..."
Anyone would recognize a founding member of the Iron Roses, and Rolan was no exception. The Shooting Star Parvan himself, standing at the peak of his strength and prowess like he hadn't been laid low. He had to respect the drive in making one last attack from death's door, at least if the stories were to be believed, but as he readied his crossbow for a quick bout, Parvan called out to him from across the field. That...wasn't expected, none of the others had said a word to him.
"Not even going to say anything clever like to the earlier challengers? And here I was hoping to trade taunts as well as blows!"
Rolan couldn't help but scoff at that. He'd get a shot off, if Parvan was feeling sporting, before getting run through and torn to pieces by a surge of explosive mana. The scoff came with an almost bitter remark, as much as Rolan lived his life fighting uphill, there was a difference between uphill and a sheer cliff face.
"If your mouth is half as sharp as your spear, it'd be wasted breath."
The Shooting Star shouldered his spear, giving the crossbow wielding knight a casual up and down glance before grinning, flourishing the spear before slamming it down. The surge of mana from the blow buckled the ground, but rather than attack like Rolan expected, continued to casually speak with Rolan. He wasn't sure right now whether or not he preferred the sudden attacks without a word spoken, or the confidence that practically radiated from the founding knight currently squaring off with him.
"Tell you what, you've put on such a good show so far, here's a deal so you don't completely bore me to tears. I'll only retaliate after each attack you make, as long as you at least try to seriously land a single hit. How's that sound for not wasting your breath?"
Rolan considered Parvan's words, the taunt snuck in not going over his head at all. If he was the prideful sort he would be offended, but fortunately pride didn't mean much when fighting for your life. Even if he was dead several times over now, at least he could make an argument for never just rolling over and dying. Raising the crossbow to his shoulder, he couldn't keep that confident, though cocky would be more fitting at this moment, grin off his face since there was an argument that he could at least make a single hit land. Nevermind that all Parvan had to do was deflect first, and then counter.
"Deal. Let's see if I can get deathblow out of you, should be good at them with the practice right?"
Rolan snapped the crossbow back up, deliberately firing low to try and fake out the legend he was squaring off with. Parvan casually slapped the bolt aside, flourishing the spear before dropping into a low stance. The spear flashed with charging mana before he launched forward, the lunge narrowly missing as Rolan threw himself sideways, the clasp of his cloak shattering from the near miss as the following detonation sent him hurtling away from the Shooting Star. Rolling across the ground, the knight righted himself and skidded to a halt, reloading and firing again. This time Parvan lunged again, Rolan ready for it and sidestepping and trying to slam the stock of his crossbow down on his opponents head. A duck, and mana infused shoulder check blew Rolan across the arena.
"Oooh, almost Iron Rose, almost! Your much too slow though, much too slow."
Rolan was coughing up blood as he forced himself to his knees, reloading again as he stained his crossbow with blood. Dumping a vial of toxins on the bolt, he ran through his injuries. Several broken ribs, it felt like he could barely breath so he probably had lost a lung at this point too. He didn't have long to continue trading blows like this, even a near miss was dragging him down in injuries. He was struggling to lift his crossbow now, and as it shook he hurled a dagger with his off hand, having been trying to hide his offhand with his body. Parvan casually tilted his head, dagger hurtling past.
"Here I thought you would actually land a strike."
Parvan twirled the spear in his hand, a wide stance as he made ready to hurl his weapon straight into Rolan's heart. Rolan struggled to his feet, crossbow shaking in his one hand, the other one clutching his side. His eyes were dull right up until Parvan hurled the spear, screaming with enchantment, that his eyes lit up again. Shifting sideways, the spear ripped his arm off, throwing him sideways with enough momentum to pull his crossbow up one more time. He had been banking on the Shooting Star to finish him with a thrown strike, and right before the explosion consumed him he fired. The bolt, splattered with his blood and the toxins he had dumped onto it, slammed into the legend's shoulder. A bloody grin, and Rolan was incinerated in the blast, long dead before he could ever have seen if the poison would have been enough or not.
The next thing Rolan could pick out, he could hear clapping. Parvan, uninjured and restored like he was, had a wide grin on his face.
"Look at you, stealing my own trick. Giving up your life to make one last spiteful strike, trying to follow in my footsteps Knight?"
"Maybe I am, not like I am banking on much more than making it to the next day."
Parvan shouldered his spear again, knowing that he didn't have much longer to converse with Rolan before the next challenge came.
"Look, coming from someone who threw his own life down to make one last strike, make sure that, when the time comes? You make it count. You don't get to know if that final throw from the brink is going to matter or not, and that, is a bitch. Have fun getting your ass kicked by what comes next!"
Rolan couldn't help but laugh at the remark, as Parvan faded and he was left wondering, in that brief moment of silence before he was thrust into the next fight, just how much of that he could take at its word, and how much of it was just showboating as to what was 'right' by the observer still hovering far above, unmoving and unwavering this entire time. When he saw who his next opponent was, he felt obliged to make what any polite company would consider an incredibly crass, rude gesture towards the figure in the sky before the next bout began.
It had been a long two week's march back to Candaeln, though to call a lone Knight returning from a fairly inglorious tasking a march was generous to say the least. What had made it a long march was the fact the damned dream was still keeping him from really focusing his mind on anything else. Had he been going mad already, after only a year of formal service? He would have to discreetly poke around with some of the other knights once he returned to Candaeln. Rolan had slept off the exhaustion that came from that initial day, though he couldn't afford to slow down on that first day, in fact he had made double time back to Candaeln, to look into whether this dream was just limited to him or any of the other Iron Roses. By the time he reached his destination, he at least looked as well rested as someone who just spent weeks on the march.
Rolan stretched as he strolled along, keeping an eye out for anyone of sufficient rank to report back to. Returning to Candaeln was quite the luxury compared to moving through the villages, though he never felt exactly at ease in the seat of the Iron Roses. Sure, he was a Knight and was officially quartered here, but it didn't feel like a home or even a base to operate out of for him, it never had. Hence why he always volunteered for longer, far flung missions that took a bit more of a delicate hand than an armored gauntlet might otherwise offer. Still, it wouldn't take him long to end up passing the Candaeln Shrine, and spot a Knight only the blindest fool would miss, and a complete stranger alongside her.
"Well, good as time as any to report my return. Get a measure for this new person too..."
Approaching the shrine, Rolan made no efforts to try and stall any further. Might as well check in, see what he missed, and if he was lucky get a new set of marching orders. Unlikely, he would probably have to at least check in with the Knight-Captain given how long he had been on assignment, but at least he could get everything in motion right now. He announced himself upon entering the shrine properly, hand raised in casual greeting. Tyaethe was a well known face, even if he spent more time away from the other Iron Roses than most, but he honestly did not recognize the smaller, pale woman. Horns, pale skin, pale hair, like someone had pulled a plug and drained the color from her. He had better things to do than gawk and judge though.
"Tyaethe, found yourself a new friend, looks like. Finished that clean up job, my last report on them not being related to any remnants of the rebels made it back here I assume."
Rolan is roughly 5'9" in height, with a lean figure that lacks almost any shreds of fat, either burned off during regular exertions during daily life, or deliberately worked off during exercise. He always keeps his hair short but otherwise unkempt, failing to obscure his dull red eyes.
Personality: Rolan, first and foremost, is an incredibly pragmatic soul. Everything he has, does, or considers falls under the idea that it needs to have some practical, genuine purpose. Be it hunting between missions, gathering reagents for his alchemical studies, performing maintenance of his equipment, or even during times of rest, it all has a purpose behind it. He wears a pleasant, if mildly brazen, confidence as a face for those he deals with, showing the same casual demeanor that he does a lowborn beggar, and the most noble of blood. Anyone can lose everything and plummet into nothing, he knows his family is one long running story of that, so he only puts stock in what is practical and provable. Still, he keeps an even keel and tries to not let things get to him, taking it as a personal challenge to keep that confidence he wears going strong even in the face of terrible odds or downturns of fortune.
In reality, Rolan knows damn well he is fighting an uphill battle. The family legacy dogs him rather persistently, and his constant bounty hunting has made him a number of enemies in low places. He knows that someone is coming to collect on his actions sooner rather than later, but rather than fight it or try and run from it, he just keeps on living his life. No point trying to course correct when he can at least claim to enjoy his life currently, even if its more violent than he would have liked thanks to not taking kindly to bandits being problematic. Regardless, he thinks its enough to keep meeting the day with that same casual confidence that he wears as a mask, determined to not let it slip when he thinks anyone is looking. Last thing he needs is people prying into his private life, especially if they recognize who his family is. Of course, he never bothers to include his family name, even having gone so far as to say that he doesn't have one, that intent on stepping away from the many mistakes they have made.
Brief Backstory: Rolan Herzog would describe his family legacy as "Wasted potential", and he isn't far from the mark. The only son of a lineage of disgraced nobility, his family has the infamous specter of disgrace hanging over them and dogging their every step. His great grandfather, a vocal opponent of the ruling family of Thain, and of the practices of thrusting children into leadership, referring to the Iron Roses. This came to a head in a minor revolt that left the patriarch of the family dead and his surviving heirs shamed and stripped of much of their wealth, prestige, and standing. What little the family had would be wasted on seeking revenge, and with each generation that passed would end up having less and less to work with, until they had little more than a few heirlooms that hadn't been sold off to make ends meet.
Rolan, raised with the constant reminders by his aging father of what they had once been, mostly treats this legacy as a nuisance. Nothing comes of it besides sideways glances and muttered mentions in taverns and markets, becoming more pronounced the more upscale and civilized the place he visited. As such, once his father passed, he bid farewell to his mother and left for the woods. He intended to avoid all this nonsense of reputation, family lineage, or responsibilities for a life simply living in the wild. For her part, Rolan's mother knew she would not outlast her husband by long and had concealed her failing health from him, so that her death shortly after his departure would be a shock to all, including Rolan. Rumors, of course, abounded about how the boy had abandoned her, and after the funeral rites he was quick to vanish again.
Rolan intended to just spend his days hunting and practicing what he had learned, from marksmanship with the family's last heirloom they still owned, an ornate and well kept crossbow that still had the name Rittersturz engraved along the body of the weapon, to hunting and alchemy that he picked up during his time in the woods. He would rarely return to the local village the woods bordered, bringing back excess from his hunts so that nothing went to waste. He also began, albeit unofficially, helping out around the town when he visited, using it as a chance to not completely forget social interactions and trade for things he couldn't make or find for himself. Certainly not because he had gotten bored and, even, lonely in the woods. That would be absurd. He even saw off the odd bandit or two, though this quiet life would not last forever.
Bandits would raid the village that Rolan had taken a liking to, coming back to find it had suffered a great deal of damage and injuries, though fortunately no one who had been wounded couldn't be saved. There were a few dead, and he made a decision to go out and start hunting down the bandits in question. Tracking the gang that had raided the town, rather than make an attack outright, he began hunting and hounding them, picking them off a few at a time before withdrawing into the woods again. He couldn't take them all at once, and he knew it, so he dedicated his efforts to whittling them down and not giving them enough respite to recover. He would whittle them down like this until he could taken the rest of them out before they scattered completely, and went back to report his success to the village. Hopefully now things would go back to being calm.
Of course, things were never just that simple. Rolan had found he had a knack for tracking down criminals, bandits, and other troublemakers, and his abilities were quickly recommended to surrounding villages by the grateful folk who thought they were helping. Rolan begrudgingly began carrying out a sort of bounty hunter's life, preferring to bring in problems dead, regardless of the price for them alive. Life was simpler that way, plus it would hopefully keep vengeful encounters with those he had dragged to justice out of his life. Of course he would start building a reputation that would start making him enemies in certain parts of the country, and one that would no doubt get him into serious trouble. Until then, however, he would keep working, unaware fate, or chance perhaps, was nudging him towards a chance encounter with a certain knightly order.
Equipment: Rolan still carries his family pride and joy Rittersturz, a crossbow modified to maximize the amount of draw weight it could sustain without flying apart after repeated firings. He has a specially made wippe lever for reloading purposes, and a bolt case for his spare ammunition. He also has a variety of small tools, portable alchemical supplies and reagents, a sturdy knife that, while stated for cleaning hunted game, has shed more than its fair share of blood in combat when Rolan gets caught in close quarters. The vial he wears on his hip looks sinister, but is, in fact, a jam that he learned to make from his mother, and keeps handy for snacks.
Skills: Rolan lacks many of the typically knightly qualities one would expect of a noble in the Iron Roses. His combat capabilities are focused on crossbow and dagger, mostly the former, proving to be a talented shot in medium ranges, though he makes up for this lack of longer range finesse with a sharpness for firing into chaotic situations safely. When pressed into melee, rather than disengaging using his dagger, he aims to get in close, under the guard and reach of larger, longer weapons, and open them up from vulnerable points in armor. Compared to a dedicated fighter, however, he mostly relies on speed and brutality for when he cant evade melee.
Learning from his mother, Rolan is a practicing alchemist and hunter, enjoying both in equal measures. In alchemy he focuses on natural reagents and mixtures, adding to the family journal the various recipes and mixtures he has discovered, from poisons and herbal remedies to mixtures that burn on contact with air and the odd modification to his bolts to carry said alchemical mixtures. He also knows his way around general wilderness survival, be it hunting, finding shelter, procuring clean water, and other necessities for living in the wilds. By extension, he is rather capable in remaining unseen when he chooses to, though he has no formal training in such, tracking game undetected gives one a knack for stealth when the need arises.
However, when it comes to classical skills like riding, Rolan has not had the time nor opportunity to practice. He can keep himself on a horse, but is unlikely to be fighting from horseback to any degree without just dismounting and fighting on foot. Needless to say he also lacks any skill or knowledge of magic, knowing that it exists but little else. He also never particularly picked up on courtly graces, and can no doubt easily get into trouble if expected to be properly diplomatic on missions dealing with other knights and nobility in formal senses.
Rolan is roughly 5'9" in height, with a lean figure that lacks almost any shreds of fat, either burned off during regular exertions during daily life, or deliberately worked off during exercise. He always keeps his hair short but otherwise unkempt, failing to obscure his dull red eyes.
Personality: Rolan, first and foremost, is an incredibly pragmatic soul. Everything he has, does, or considers falls under the idea that it needs to have some practical, genuine purpose. Be it hunting between missions, gathering reagents for his alchemical studies, performing maintenance of his equipment, or even during times of rest, it all has a purpose behind it. He wears a pleasant, if mildly brazen, confidence as a face for those he deals with, showing the same casual demeanor that he does a lowborn beggar, and the most noble of blood. Anyone can lose everything and plummet into nothing, he knows his family is one long running story of that, so he only puts stock in what is practical and provable. Still, he keeps an even keel and tries to not let things get to him, taking it as a personal challenge to keep that confidence he wears going strong even in the face of terrible odds or downturns of fortune.
In reality, Rolan knows damn well he is fighting an uphill battle. The family legacy dogs him rather persistently, and his constant bounty hunting has made him a number of enemies in low places. He knows that someone is coming to collect on his actions sooner rather than later, but rather than fight it or try and run from it, he just keeps on living his life. No point trying to course correct when he can at least claim to enjoy his life currently, even if its more violent than he would have liked thanks to not taking kindly to bandits being problematic. Regardless, he thinks its enough to keep meeting the day with that same casual confidence that he wears as a mask, determined to not let it slip when he thinks anyone is looking. Last thing he needs is people prying into his private life, especially if they recognize who his family is. Of course, he never bothers to include his family name, even having gone so far as to say that he doesn't have one, that intent on stepping away from the many mistakes they have made.
Brief Backstory: Rolan Herzog would describe his family legacy as "Wasted potential", and he isn't far from the mark. The only son of a lineage of disgraced nobility, his family has the infamous specter of disgrace hanging over them and dogging their every step. His great grandfather, a vocal opponent of the ruling family of Thain, and of the practices of thrusting children into leadership, referring to the Iron Roses. This came to a head in a minor revolt that left the patriarch of the family dead and his surviving heirs shamed and stripped of much of their wealth, prestige, and standing. What little the family had would be wasted on seeking revenge, and with each generation that passed would end up having less and less to work with, until they had little more than a few heirlooms that hadn't been sold off to make ends meet.
Rolan, raised with the constant reminders by his aging father of what they had once been, mostly treats this legacy as a nuisance. Nothing comes of it besides sideways glances and muttered mentions in taverns and markets, becoming more pronounced the more upscale and civilized the place he visited. As such, once his father passed, he bid farewell to his mother and left for the woods. He intended to avoid all this nonsense of reputation, family lineage, or responsibilities for a life simply living in the wild. For her part, Rolan's mother knew she would not outlast her husband by long and had concealed her failing health from him, so that her death shortly after his departure would be a shock to all, including Rolan. Rumors, of course, abounded about how the boy had abandoned her, and after the funeral rites he was quick to vanish again.
Rolan intended to just spend his days hunting and practicing what he had learned, from marksmanship with the family's last heirloom they still owned, an ornate and well kept crossbow that still had the name Rittersturz engraved along the body of the weapon, to hunting and alchemy that he picked up during his time in the woods. He would rarely return to the local village the woods bordered, bringing back excess from his hunts so that nothing went to waste. He also began, albeit unofficially, helping out around the town when he visited, using it as a chance to not completely forget social interactions and trade for things he couldn't make or find for himself. Certainly not because he had gotten bored and, even, lonely in the woods. That would be absurd. He even saw off the odd bandit or two, though this quiet life would not last forever.
Bandits would raid the village that Rolan had taken a liking to, coming back to find it had suffered a great deal of damage and injuries, though fortunately no one who had been wounded couldn't be saved. There were a few dead, and he made a decision to go out and start hunting down the bandits in question. Tracking the gang that had raided the town, rather than make an attack outright, he began hunting and hounding them, picking them off a few at a time before withdrawing into the woods again. He couldn't take them all at once, and he knew it, so he dedicated his efforts to whittling them down and not giving them enough respite to recover. He would whittle them down like this until he could taken the rest of them out before they scattered completely, and went back to report his success to the village. Hopefully now things would go back to being calm.
Of course, things were never just that simple. Rolan had found he had a knack for tracking down criminals, bandits, and other troublemakers, and his abilities were quickly recommended to surrounding villages by the grateful folk who thought they were helping. Rolan begrudgingly began carrying out a sort of bounty hunter's life, preferring to bring in problems dead, regardless of the price for them alive. Life was simpler that way, plus it would hopefully keep vengeful encounters with those he had dragged to justice out of his life. Of course he would start building a reputation that would start making him enemies in certain parts of the country, and one that would no doubt get him into serious trouble. Until then, however, he would keep working, unaware fate, or chance perhaps, was nudging him towards a chance encounter with a certain knightly order.
Equipment: Rolan still carries his family pride and joy Rittersturz, a crossbow modified to maximize the amount of draw weight it could sustain without flying apart after repeated firings. He has a specially made wippe lever for reloading purposes, and a bolt case for his spare ammunition. He also has a variety of small tools, portable alchemical supplies and reagents, a sturdy knife that, while stated for cleaning hunted game, has shed more than its fair share of blood in combat when Rolan gets caught in close quarters. The vial he wears on his hip looks sinister, but is, in fact, a jam that he learned to make from his mother, and keeps handy for snacks.
Skills: Rolan lacks many of the typically knightly qualities one would expect of a noble in the Iron Roses. His combat capabilities are focused on crossbow and dagger, mostly the former, proving to be a talented shot in medium ranges, though he makes up for this lack of longer range finesse with a sharpness for firing into chaotic situations safely. When pressed into melee, rather than disengaging using his dagger, he aims to get in close, under the guard and reach of larger, longer weapons, and open them up from vulnerable points in armor. Compared to a dedicated fighter, however, he mostly relies on speed and brutality for when he cant evade melee.
Learning from his mother, Rolan is a practicing alchemist and hunter, enjoying both in equal measures. In alchemy he focuses on natural reagents and mixtures, adding to the family journal the various recipes and mixtures he has discovered, from poisons and herbal remedies to mixtures that burn on contact with air and the odd modification to his bolts to carry said alchemical mixtures. He also knows his way around general wilderness survival, be it hunting, finding shelter, procuring clean water, and other necessities for living in the wilds. By extension, he is rather capable in remaining unseen when he chooses to, though he has no formal training in such, tracking game undetected gives one a knack for stealth when the need arises.
However, when it comes to classical skills like riding, Rolan has not had the time nor opportunity to practice. He can keep himself on a horse, but is unlikely to be fighting from horseback to any degree without just dismounting and fighting on foot. Needless to say he also lacks any skill or knowledge of magic, knowing that it exists but little else. He also never particularly picked up on courtly graces, and can no doubt easily get into trouble if expected to be properly diplomatic on missions dealing with other knights and nobility in formal senses.
Watcher was content to spot that his first salvo had been effective on all counts. The dish had taken critical damage, the one team of MAs had been torn to shreds by the smart munitions, and the turret housing the cannon he had targeted was down for the count. Fire support effective, and while monitoring other pilot activities, he noted that Fallen Angel was effectively engaging the enemy, though not engaging in lethal tactics. He was tracking targets as they went down, noting the attacks had disabled rather than killed. As long as the enemy was dealt with and couldn't get back up, that would suffice for these circumstances. In an actual war, that was not the best plan, because while dragging back downed allies did take more resources, they could be sent back into combat at a later point. Dead was dead, and would require fully replacing. But, given the situation, it would not be worth pursuing any sort of commentary.
The warning on avoiding his ear drums getting blown out by the wall of noise being sent towards the Ultima comms channels. Better them than Watcher, though he synced his fire control systems with the newcomer as well, gathering further information while considering the circumstances. Four Augs were a tough thing to slow down, let alone stop, and that would continue to be the case when he picked up a new target while preparing to continue mopping up cannons before they could target lock and open fire. Arthropod, slow, durable, and capable of bringing incredible force into the battlefield. Besides the obvious main heavy laser cannon, the variety of turrets meant possible point defenses. He couldn't hammer it down alone, but he didn't have to. Right now he was in a relatively safe spot to act, being the farthest away, and in spite of the locking cannons and sudden Arthropod line threat, his voice was dead calm.
"Blinding the Arthropod with countermeasures, stay clear. Recommend focus firing cannons during countermeasure window, then coordinating all points attack on the Arthropod." While Walker spoke, he was loading another missile firing sequence into PAMS. First missile was HMAA, aimed at one of the cannons still operational. A top/down strike by the missile would hopefully bypass armor. The remaining three missiles in this batch would fire nearly at the same time, one HMAA and the deliberately named 'Countermeasures', two of his three WPCF missiles. The first HMAA would hopefully draw initial point defense fire, so that one of the WPCF missiles could effectively blind the Arthropod. With everything in order, Watcher sent the launch signal, the next batch of missiles firing off. The HMAA tasked towards a cannon would arc deliberately high before spiking down towards the, hopefully, vulnerable top armor. The remaining three would hurtle towards the Arthropod, the HMAA aimed for the base of the heavy laser cannon. The two WPCF missiles would be armed to detonate in front of the Arthropod, scattering an initial screen of chaff and flares to interfere with non visual targeting systems, while the White Phosphorus smoke screen would block visual acquisitions. With the agility of the team, they would be able to move around the blocking screen if need be should it overstay its welcome, and buy them enough time to finish the cannons ideally. Almost as an afterthought, Watcher fired his reloaded Thermal Accelerators, aiming at the cannon he had sent an HMAA missile towards, focusing his fire to bring another cannon down before beginning to reload all spent systems.
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