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Nestor, having heard the bright-eyed man’s response, concluded, he’s efficient and harrumphed, jumping down from the bench. As he landed(Time – 0), he took a few moments to brush dirt from his otherwise-adequate cloak. Once finished, (Time – 2) he looked over at the stranger and, with a emphasized nod, pointed down to his hand (Time – 3). With his hand, he was pointing towards the man in leather armor. “Prove you’re in this group, first,” he commented, his eyes straining slightly. (Time – 5)
His expression gradually became more stressed over the next few seconds as he said, “there are plenty of rogues in these crowds, you have to make sure you can trust each other.” First, he pointed in the opposite direction of the man in leather armor, emphasizing the word rogues as he spoke. (Time – 7) Next, he pointed over his right shoulder, emphasizing the word, trust as he spoke. (Time – 10) He then dropped his hands and awaited the man’s response, his eyes shifting across the crowd, scanning.
From where they stood, there were a great many groups of men forming. Among them were at least three groups with men in the same leather armor as the man Nestor gestured at. Two such groups were located in the directions Nestor gestured at, one next to the fountain, the man in leather armor near another bench and a few others, and a larger group near the stairs to the town hall. From Nestor and Kyoht’s position, all three of these groups were almost equally distant from one another.
As Nestor awaited the stranger’s response, (Time – 13) he managed to whisper without moving his lips, barely uttering, “meet me in Rusty’s Bed and Breakfast.” (Time – 15) With these words uttered, he fixed his gaze directly at the golden eyes of the stranger and, with a newly relaxed gaze, held out his hand. “Let’s see if that scroll of yours has the right number, eh?” he commented, presenting a painfully fake smile.
- Last Seen: 6 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Icicle
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 252 (0.06 / day)
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As Reggie reached for a cup of dried Shin ramen, he heard Matt’s response and grimaced. He then assumed that Matt already knew how horrible his comeback was, and decided not to respond. With a pitying shake of his low-hung head, Reggie placed the cup of ramen on the kitchen counter and walked over to the water-heater. It was annoying to wait for water to boil, but the taste of ramen was worth it. Nonetheless, we should get better quality food soon… he mused, filling the small tank in the water heater with water.
The two had not gotten a call in eleven days, and were beginning to ration their supplies. Their agreement was to accept any job given to them by a certain number, but with no calls, there was nothing to do. Reggie occasionally practiced his surgical skills on the unfortunate rodents who wandered into his room, or his first aid on his greatly annoyed roommate. Beyond these things, all he could do is go to the shooting range and play cards. Reggie wasn’t a very sociable person, so wandering the streets was painful to Reggie just to envision. Chills shot down his spine with the thought, and a frown creeped across his face as he imagined another two weeks without activity.
As Matt passed by behind him, Reggie looked around in the cupboards for extra spices, eagerly awaiting the steady, “beeeeep” of the water heater as it completes its task. He found a few veggie packets and a bag of soy sauce, but the rest of their extra ramen supplies were gone. “Hey, Matt,” Reggie asked as the soldier shut the refrigerator door with his foot, “where did all the extra spice packets go? I swear there were at least five extras in here!” With his question posed, he turned around, ramen cup in hand, to barely see the foot of Matt as he turned the corner.
Reggie predicted that Matt would have no idea where the packets were, or what happened to them. Sure, Matt was the only other person around to have touched them, but only Reggie himself used the ramen-drawer at the top-left. Matt tended to stick to the silverware drawer and the refrigerator only. Still, Reggie wanted to use the question to start a conversation, as he wanted to express his distaste with waiting for a call.
The two had not gotten a call in eleven days, and were beginning to ration their supplies. Their agreement was to accept any job given to them by a certain number, but with no calls, there was nothing to do. Reggie occasionally practiced his surgical skills on the unfortunate rodents who wandered into his room, or his first aid on his greatly annoyed roommate. Beyond these things, all he could do is go to the shooting range and play cards. Reggie wasn’t a very sociable person, so wandering the streets was painful to Reggie just to envision. Chills shot down his spine with the thought, and a frown creeped across his face as he imagined another two weeks without activity.
As Matt passed by behind him, Reggie looked around in the cupboards for extra spices, eagerly awaiting the steady, “beeeeep” of the water heater as it completes its task. He found a few veggie packets and a bag of soy sauce, but the rest of their extra ramen supplies were gone. “Hey, Matt,” Reggie asked as the soldier shut the refrigerator door with his foot, “where did all the extra spice packets go? I swear there were at least five extras in here!” With his question posed, he turned around, ramen cup in hand, to barely see the foot of Matt as he turned the corner.
Reggie predicted that Matt would have no idea where the packets were, or what happened to them. Sure, Matt was the only other person around to have touched them, but only Reggie himself used the ramen-drawer at the top-left. Matt tended to stick to the silverware drawer and the refrigerator only. Still, Reggie wanted to use the question to start a conversation, as he wanted to express his distaste with waiting for a call.
(OOC:( There’s no need for a timestamp if the chronology of your writing doesn’t influence the flow of events. You can mention the time in-character when you look at the clock.))
Reggie took yet another deep breath as he lay on his cheap couch, eyes closed as he thought to himself. Matt’s insatiable urge to throw his knife around and ruin furniture will undoubtedly influence our rent next month… he thought, feeling around a slash-mark in the arm rest of the cotton-woven furniture item. Reggie always planned ahead in all aspects of his life, sometimes too far, especially with finances, which neither of them had to worry about anymore considering their jobs. Nonetheless, Reggie preferred to keep something in mind, at least to keep his good habits uninhibited, and he did not particularly esteem Matt's knife habits, either.
The bulky asian stretched for a few seconds as he convinced his lazy self to sit upright once more. He was not “bored” so much as, “distanced from action and excitement.” The medic looked around the room with his bright green eyes as he engaged with his consciousness in an internal debate about his future course of action for dinner. Cup ramen or cliff bars…that is the question… With a yawn, the medic stood up, brushing a few stray pieces of yarn from his urban camo uniform.
The material was optimal – it was resistant to cuts and tears, didn’t burn easily, was very breathable(except he sprayed his uniform with aquaphobic product) and didn’t inflict friction burns like wool. Despite this, Reggie took the properties of his clothes for granted because of the five extra pairs he kept in his closet. Reggie also ignored his boots, for the most part. He didn’t even wear them in the apartment, because they were very uncomfortable in the given setting. Nonetheless, Reggie understood the value of his clothes as the hem of his pants caught on the leg of a coffee-table, causing him to trip.
Unlike Matt, Reggie had taken aikido, so instead of thudding against the ground, he rolled off his shoulder and quickly got back up. “A pain in the arse…” he grumbled, walking towards the kitchen. As he reached the door, he heard the whine of Matt’s desk drawer opening. With a condescending grin, Reggie called out a threat, “keep up your knife spinning and, one of these days, you’ll lose your trigger finger.” He then walked into the kitchen and looked through a few drawers, staring blankly at their supplies as his internal debate continued.
Reggie took yet another deep breath as he lay on his cheap couch, eyes closed as he thought to himself. Matt’s insatiable urge to throw his knife around and ruin furniture will undoubtedly influence our rent next month… he thought, feeling around a slash-mark in the arm rest of the cotton-woven furniture item. Reggie always planned ahead in all aspects of his life, sometimes too far, especially with finances, which neither of them had to worry about anymore considering their jobs. Nonetheless, Reggie preferred to keep something in mind, at least to keep his good habits uninhibited, and he did not particularly esteem Matt's knife habits, either.
The bulky asian stretched for a few seconds as he convinced his lazy self to sit upright once more. He was not “bored” so much as, “distanced from action and excitement.” The medic looked around the room with his bright green eyes as he engaged with his consciousness in an internal debate about his future course of action for dinner. Cup ramen or cliff bars…that is the question… With a yawn, the medic stood up, brushing a few stray pieces of yarn from his urban camo uniform.
The material was optimal – it was resistant to cuts and tears, didn’t burn easily, was very breathable(except he sprayed his uniform with aquaphobic product) and didn’t inflict friction burns like wool. Despite this, Reggie took the properties of his clothes for granted because of the five extra pairs he kept in his closet. Reggie also ignored his boots, for the most part. He didn’t even wear them in the apartment, because they were very uncomfortable in the given setting. Nonetheless, Reggie understood the value of his clothes as the hem of his pants caught on the leg of a coffee-table, causing him to trip.
Unlike Matt, Reggie had taken aikido, so instead of thudding against the ground, he rolled off his shoulder and quickly got back up. “A pain in the arse…” he grumbled, walking towards the kitchen. As he reached the door, he heard the whine of Matt’s desk drawer opening. With a condescending grin, Reggie called out a threat, “keep up your knife spinning and, one of these days, you’ll lose your trigger finger.” He then walked into the kitchen and looked through a few drawers, staring blankly at their supplies as his internal debate continued.
Character #3:
Name: Lazlo Czartes 30534
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Occupation: Combat Engineer/Tactician
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Appearance: Similar to this guy facially, but more stockily built.
Bios: Journal Entries -
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"Psh,” the rough man scoffed, staring at his scroll, “it’s as if I’m the cursed one now.” The Vanisher continued walking along, calling his number time and time again, his keen eyes scanning the crowd for anyone who looked his way. To his dismay, he could not hear a single person yell even the word, “hundred” for an entire ten minutes. His search went on fruitlessly for another few minutes, then he stopped moving and stood on a bench. That’s it, he thought, if no one reacts in the next five minutes, I’m going on my own. With this thought, Nestor held his scroll above his head and continued shouting, “one forty-three,” repetitively.
Right before giving up, Nestor noticed the crowd parting (with a noticeable displeasure at the source) and calls of apology. The Vanisher stared at the man responsible, but continued calling his stock phrase in case someone else from his group happened to pass by. He watched the dark-haired man shoot through the crowd with a curious expression, then stopped as the man approached him. Many people were annoyed at having gotten smacked in the face by the man’s bow, but no one seemed to be annoyed enough to pick a fight.
He’s either notorious, weak, or efficient Nestor thought, a smirk forming over his face for a brief second before being engulfed by a questioning gaze. The man posed his question to the Vanisher with a hopeful tone, pulling at the broken heartstrings within his chest. The ragged traveler loosed a sigh of relief, then collapsed down onto the bench in a seated position, smiling at the other person with condescension. Without answering the question, Nestor asked, “how many others do you think are in my group? Just one? Maybe two besides me?”(Time-0 sec) With this rhetorical question proposed, the Vanisher stared over at a man in leather armor by a small fountain who he noticed was still watching him.(Time-.5)
The man in leather armor stared back at the Vanisher in surprise,(Time-1.5) then stood up and started to walk towards them, shouting, “Do you need something from me?”(Time–2) Nestor narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but waved his hand “negative,”(Time-2.5) and looked back at the person with dark brown hair. The man’s eyes were glowing with a pale gold color, an oddity even among sight-power users. Nestor paused a second, then commented, “Or do you think I’d be better off with just one,” with a skeptical look on his face, gesturing towards the man in leather armor as he seated himself on a bench once again, still staring at the pair. (Time-3.5)
Right before giving up, Nestor noticed the crowd parting (with a noticeable displeasure at the source) and calls of apology. The Vanisher stared at the man responsible, but continued calling his stock phrase in case someone else from his group happened to pass by. He watched the dark-haired man shoot through the crowd with a curious expression, then stopped as the man approached him. Many people were annoyed at having gotten smacked in the face by the man’s bow, but no one seemed to be annoyed enough to pick a fight.
He’s either notorious, weak, or efficient Nestor thought, a smirk forming over his face for a brief second before being engulfed by a questioning gaze. The man posed his question to the Vanisher with a hopeful tone, pulling at the broken heartstrings within his chest. The ragged traveler loosed a sigh of relief, then collapsed down onto the bench in a seated position, smiling at the other person with condescension. Without answering the question, Nestor asked, “how many others do you think are in my group? Just one? Maybe two besides me?”(Time-0 sec) With this rhetorical question proposed, the Vanisher stared over at a man in leather armor by a small fountain who he noticed was still watching him.(Time-.5)
The man in leather armor stared back at the Vanisher in surprise,(Time-1.5) then stood up and started to walk towards them, shouting, “Do you need something from me?”(Time–2) Nestor narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but waved his hand “negative,”(Time-2.5) and looked back at the person with dark brown hair. The man’s eyes were glowing with a pale gold color, an oddity even among sight-power users. Nestor paused a second, then commented, “Or do you think I’d be better off with just one,” with a skeptical look on his face, gesturing towards the man in leather armor as he seated himself on a bench once again, still staring at the pair. (Time-3.5)
As Flake observed Oruin’s response to his actions, he felt underwhelmed. This guy has given me absolutely no help, he thought, frowning at the medic as he reached down for some supplies. Then again, I expected as much from a prison medic, he continued, waiting as the medic prepared a bottle of water and a few healing wraps. Flake had no open wounds, as he well knew, so he figured the medic was pulling out bandages for something else.
When Flake briefly looked over towards Raine, he noticed that her expression had not changed in the least. Looking back at Oruin, Flake leaned in towards Oruin and, in a voice soft enough for an ant, whispered, “the next moon is three days from now. It’s bad luck this cycle,” with a quick, unassuming wink. With this, the bounty hunter stole the medic’s bottle of water and flicked out the stopper. He then drank a bit, splashed some water over his face to clean some of the blood from his jaws, and passed it back to Oruin. As he held out the bottle, he commented, “if you’re going to pray, pray for her heritage and for my blade.”
With all this said, Flake started to lie down on his bedding once more. As Oruin pointed out, it was his decision whether or not he would sleep, but the bounty hunter could not make a decision. He wanted to rest, but it would leave him unaware of his surroundings, a risk he wasn’t willing to take outside of his home-shack. Although, I will need to sleep eventually…otherwise I’ll die of some stupid fault.
When Flake briefly looked over towards Raine, he noticed that her expression had not changed in the least. Looking back at Oruin, Flake leaned in towards Oruin and, in a voice soft enough for an ant, whispered, “the next moon is three days from now. It’s bad luck this cycle,” with a quick, unassuming wink. With this, the bounty hunter stole the medic’s bottle of water and flicked out the stopper. He then drank a bit, splashed some water over his face to clean some of the blood from his jaws, and passed it back to Oruin. As he held out the bottle, he commented, “if you’re going to pray, pray for her heritage and for my blade.”
With all this said, Flake started to lie down on his bedding once more. As Oruin pointed out, it was his decision whether or not he would sleep, but the bounty hunter could not make a decision. He wanted to rest, but it would leave him unaware of his surroundings, a risk he wasn’t willing to take outside of his home-shack. Although, I will need to sleep eventually…otherwise I’ll die of some stupid fault.
Character Sheet:
Name: Reginald W. Charylson
Nickname: Reggie, "Gibber," or, "Mireggie"
Age: 35
Race: Asian(S. Korean)
Sex: Male
Height: 6'1"
Weight: ~210lbs
Appearance Description: A stocky male with a fairly dark blonde, disheveled mat of hair, light green eyes and a constantly close-cut shave. He is just about as athletic as a non-Olympian can get, and as deliberate in action and word as any man can hope to be. His neutral expression is rather grumpy and he is almost always fighting to keep his eyes open. His smile is very natural and sweet, but he rarely ever smiles. As a norm, his expression is entirely stolid. As a result of his military experience, he never slouches for any reason, and he always respects his elders with eye-contact. He has a few noteworthy scars, two shrapnel wounds on each arm, a bullet wound on his left quad, and a slightly stumpy left thumb. ((I'm not willing to write an essay, but I can't find a good picture either, so I wrote a short description))
Character traits of Reggie:
-He shaves his face every day, whether using his bayonet, a scalpel, or a disposable razor, with or without shaving cream, and never cuts himself.
-Strategist. He never attacks outright, even in a raid.
-Upon discharge from the military, he studied Kenjutsu and Aikido, adding to his experience in Krav Maga, basic firearms, and Systema from military hand-to-hand and basic training. His medical knowledge allows him to prioritize non-lethal shots and disabling blows to enemies. He is skillful enough to disable an entire squad of men on his own without inflicting critical wounds.
-Savant level intelligence. He won't admit it to anyone, but he scored higher than Albert Einstein on an IQ test. He is a brilliant tactician and computer programmer, but a horrible negotiator. He is also extremely proficient at multi-tasking and focusing. When sleep-deprived, he significantly loses focus, but his innovation and planning are benefited somewhat.
-Proficient at suppressing fire with all military-approved automatic weapons, and exceptionally accurate with automatic assault rifles. He often used a 5.56 M249 SAW on active duty, but found it too heavy, and preferred assault rifles after his dismissal. He trains with weapons at the NRA firing range every week.
-He prefers to make a plan before heading into combat, but he is perfectly comfortable with improvising if a situation needs to be rushed.
Loadout and Supplies:
-In all situations, he wears both his dog tags wherever he goes, along with his OKC-3S bayonet, his wallet, car keys, his sat phone, a cliff bar or two, and his first aid pack. He is always ready to heal minor wounds and even suture. Also, he wears a uniform with an urban camouflage texture.
-In a combat situation, he carries his medical pouch, a 5.56mm M27 with Surefire 60-round magazines(with an attached laser pointer/flashlight and a variable-zoom ACOG sight), a 10mm G22 with 22-round magazines, two m84 flashbangs, his OKC-3S bayonet, a bullet-proof chestpiece and helmet, classy sunglasses, 30 zip ties, his sat phone, 300 feet of paracord, and plenty of spare ammunition(most of his ammunition is standard FMJ or rubber). Overall, with all of his combat gear, he weighs around 300lbs.
Expertise:
-Tactical analysis, planning, programming/hacking, reconnaissance, emergency medicine(all but poison and pathology), suppressing fire, leading(large and small bodies of troops), and hand-to-hand combat.
-Highly proficient at holding off small bodies of infantry in an urban environment. Exceptionally proficient in non-lethal take-downs and suppression from any range.
-20/20 vision, corrected by LASIK surgery. Left ear is slightly less sensitive to noise due to a shooting range incident; hearing is otherwise perfect.
-A remarkably aggressive driver. Even off-duty, he'll accelerate through yellow lights and pass people at any opportunity. Fortunately, he is also exceptionally good at maneuvering and avoiding collisions. When it comes to aerial vehicles, he leaves it to the pros.
Personality:
-Very serious under most circumstances. Only his family and the sight of friendly artillery or gunner support can make him smile. He will include some humor or a joke to lighten the mood for his troops.
-Very good at listening, but very bad at conversations. He was always edging on the side of being introverted. Still, he knows how to emotionally support both wounded and healthy soldiers in almost any situation.
-Whenever he needs to think really hard about a situation, he sits at Seiza, a kneeling position, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped together at his knees. Habit or not, he claims that it helps.
-Reggie does not care what he eats so long as he meets all of his nutritional requirements for the day. He isn't a picky eater, nor does he check nutritional facts constantly, but he plans out his meals nonetheless. As a side note, he is a horrible chef, as he quotes, "A bit of black doesn't do jack."
-He doesn't mind packing a few extra instruments and supplies in his combat pack if it means increasing survivability.
Flaws:
-Reggie is horrible at negotiation and conversation. He can make friends quickly, but isn't the best at keeping them.
-He is exceptionally compassionate and merciful, to the degree of providing medical attention to wounded enemies in certain situations.
-Due to his heavy load of supplies, he can't sprint very long in combat, and often needs a defensive position in order to function properly in combat. Thus he is always paranoid of being flanked or sniped.
-He cannot conduct special operations on his own and requires extra men to effectively and efficiently work through a combat situation.
-Sometimes he doesn't plan ahead far enough due to lack of information or reconnaissance.
-He will not injure targets which he believes could be non-combatants, except in very minor ways in extenuating circumstances.
-He is very self-sacrificial. An example of this was a time when he sprinted through an enemy-held position to relay communication to another friendly squad in order to spite an enemy signal-jammer. He has plenty of scars to show for this trait, but no permanent physical damage.
Name: Reginald W. Charylson
Nickname: Reggie, "Gibber," or, "Mireggie"
Age: 35
Race: Asian(S. Korean)
Sex: Male
Height: 6'1"
Weight: ~210lbs
Appearance Description: A stocky male with a fairly dark blonde, disheveled mat of hair, light green eyes and a constantly close-cut shave. He is just about as athletic as a non-Olympian can get, and as deliberate in action and word as any man can hope to be. His neutral expression is rather grumpy and he is almost always fighting to keep his eyes open. His smile is very natural and sweet, but he rarely ever smiles. As a norm, his expression is entirely stolid. As a result of his military experience, he never slouches for any reason, and he always respects his elders with eye-contact. He has a few noteworthy scars, two shrapnel wounds on each arm, a bullet wound on his left quad, and a slightly stumpy left thumb. ((I'm not willing to write an essay, but I can't find a good picture either, so I wrote a short description))
Character traits of Reggie:
-He shaves his face every day, whether using his bayonet, a scalpel, or a disposable razor, with or without shaving cream, and never cuts himself.
-Strategist. He never attacks outright, even in a raid.
-Upon discharge from the military, he studied Kenjutsu and Aikido, adding to his experience in Krav Maga, basic firearms, and Systema from military hand-to-hand and basic training. His medical knowledge allows him to prioritize non-lethal shots and disabling blows to enemies. He is skillful enough to disable an entire squad of men on his own without inflicting critical wounds.
-Savant level intelligence. He won't admit it to anyone, but he scored higher than Albert Einstein on an IQ test. He is a brilliant tactician and computer programmer, but a horrible negotiator. He is also extremely proficient at multi-tasking and focusing. When sleep-deprived, he significantly loses focus, but his innovation and planning are benefited somewhat.
-Proficient at suppressing fire with all military-approved automatic weapons, and exceptionally accurate with automatic assault rifles. He often used a 5.56 M249 SAW on active duty, but found it too heavy, and preferred assault rifles after his dismissal. He trains with weapons at the NRA firing range every week.
-He prefers to make a plan before heading into combat, but he is perfectly comfortable with improvising if a situation needs to be rushed.
Loadout and Supplies:
-In all situations, he wears both his dog tags wherever he goes, along with his OKC-3S bayonet, his wallet, car keys, his sat phone, a cliff bar or two, and his first aid pack. He is always ready to heal minor wounds and even suture. Also, he wears a uniform with an urban camouflage texture.
-In a combat situation, he carries his medical pouch, a 5.56mm M27 with Surefire 60-round magazines(with an attached laser pointer/flashlight and a variable-zoom ACOG sight), a 10mm G22 with 22-round magazines, two m84 flashbangs, his OKC-3S bayonet, a bullet-proof chestpiece and helmet, classy sunglasses, 30 zip ties, his sat phone, 300 feet of paracord, and plenty of spare ammunition(most of his ammunition is standard FMJ or rubber). Overall, with all of his combat gear, he weighs around 300lbs.
Expertise:
-Tactical analysis, planning, programming/hacking, reconnaissance, emergency medicine(all but poison and pathology), suppressing fire, leading(large and small bodies of troops), and hand-to-hand combat.
-Highly proficient at holding off small bodies of infantry in an urban environment. Exceptionally proficient in non-lethal take-downs and suppression from any range.
-20/20 vision, corrected by LASIK surgery. Left ear is slightly less sensitive to noise due to a shooting range incident; hearing is otherwise perfect.
-A remarkably aggressive driver. Even off-duty, he'll accelerate through yellow lights and pass people at any opportunity. Fortunately, he is also exceptionally good at maneuvering and avoiding collisions. When it comes to aerial vehicles, he leaves it to the pros.
Personality:
-Very serious under most circumstances. Only his family and the sight of friendly artillery or gunner support can make him smile. He will include some humor or a joke to lighten the mood for his troops.
-Very good at listening, but very bad at conversations. He was always edging on the side of being introverted. Still, he knows how to emotionally support both wounded and healthy soldiers in almost any situation.
-Whenever he needs to think really hard about a situation, he sits at Seiza, a kneeling position, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped together at his knees. Habit or not, he claims that it helps.
-Reggie does not care what he eats so long as he meets all of his nutritional requirements for the day. He isn't a picky eater, nor does he check nutritional facts constantly, but he plans out his meals nonetheless. As a side note, he is a horrible chef, as he quotes, "A bit of black doesn't do jack."
-He doesn't mind packing a few extra instruments and supplies in his combat pack if it means increasing survivability.
Flaws:
-Reggie is horrible at negotiation and conversation. He can make friends quickly, but isn't the best at keeping them.
-He is exceptionally compassionate and merciful, to the degree of providing medical attention to wounded enemies in certain situations.
-Due to his heavy load of supplies, he can't sprint very long in combat, and often needs a defensive position in order to function properly in combat. Thus he is always paranoid of being flanked or sniped.
-He cannot conduct special operations on his own and requires extra men to effectively and efficiently work through a combat situation.
-Sometimes he doesn't plan ahead far enough due to lack of information or reconnaissance.
-He will not injure targets which he believes could be non-combatants, except in very minor ways in extenuating circumstances.
-He is very self-sacrificial. An example of this was a time when he sprinted through an enemy-held position to relay communication to another friendly squad in order to spite an enemy signal-jammer. He has plenty of scars to show for this trait, but no permanent physical damage.
Nestor’s green eyes shot across the crowd in search of maps as he met the undulating masses at the base of the staircase. The Vanisher did not want to use his power to make the searching faster, despite his urge to do so, because he found that the repercussions would far outweigh the benefits. Instead, he observed others and listened, his ears perking at the sound of voices crying, “One Forty-“ and then absolutely everything except the beloved “three” he wanted to hear. He was by no means desperate to find his partners, but he especially did not like wasting time as he was doing.
As the man looked around in the crowd, he witnessed a great diversity of groups. Most groups took the tactic of grouping together tightly and lifting one member up to call out the number and hold up a map so as to find members more easily. Some members just gathered around in a group and waited, while others left alone, possibly supposing that they’d more easily find their group as it left. Nestor wandered around and shouted the phrase, “One Forty Three” at anyone who neared him, hoping to arouse an excited response. Of course, he got none.
His actions continued on for a few minutes, then they suddenly changed. Nestor was debating whether or not he should continue his search the entire time, but decided that he had best wait for the crowd to thin out a little more. “This was not a very insightful system,” he commented aloud, “I will never know whether or not my group left without me unless I wait until sunset.” A person nearby heard him and walked over, stating his agreement in an exasperated tone. The two of them talked for a minute, then the man perked up at the sound of, “One Ten!” and ran off in the direction of the call without a single word.
Nestor sat down on a bench and watched the crowd move about for a few minutes, watching as individuals slowly grouped together in larger, more organized groups. “Now it should be easier,” he commented, standing up and looking around once more. The Vanisher continued searching for a half-hour after the doors to the town hall opened, only capable of seeing due to the dim moonlight shining down from the sky-holes and the light cast by held torches and candles. The man was nearing anger as he asked what seemed like the hundredth group for their number. “One would think that the chances get higher at each question,” he posed, “but they seem to be getting lower!”
A few more conversations and one quick skirmish later, Nestor gave up looking in the huge crowds. He had checked all of the large groups, so he assumed that his group would be very small. The man observed that people from small groups were assembling along the edge of the town plaza, so he decided to do the same. “One Forty Three,” he called, his voice as strong as it was when he started, “if you’re in group one forty three, come to me!” His tone was lathered in impatience but he was starting to become more eager to find someone else. He continued calling as he passed by a few groups, walking past buildings and stone walls, benches and beggars. From what he observed, there was not a man in the city who carried the fabled number 143.
As the man looked around in the crowd, he witnessed a great diversity of groups. Most groups took the tactic of grouping together tightly and lifting one member up to call out the number and hold up a map so as to find members more easily. Some members just gathered around in a group and waited, while others left alone, possibly supposing that they’d more easily find their group as it left. Nestor wandered around and shouted the phrase, “One Forty Three” at anyone who neared him, hoping to arouse an excited response. Of course, he got none.
His actions continued on for a few minutes, then they suddenly changed. Nestor was debating whether or not he should continue his search the entire time, but decided that he had best wait for the crowd to thin out a little more. “This was not a very insightful system,” he commented aloud, “I will never know whether or not my group left without me unless I wait until sunset.” A person nearby heard him and walked over, stating his agreement in an exasperated tone. The two of them talked for a minute, then the man perked up at the sound of, “One Ten!” and ran off in the direction of the call without a single word.
Nestor sat down on a bench and watched the crowd move about for a few minutes, watching as individuals slowly grouped together in larger, more organized groups. “Now it should be easier,” he commented, standing up and looking around once more. The Vanisher continued searching for a half-hour after the doors to the town hall opened, only capable of seeing due to the dim moonlight shining down from the sky-holes and the light cast by held torches and candles. The man was nearing anger as he asked what seemed like the hundredth group for their number. “One would think that the chances get higher at each question,” he posed, “but they seem to be getting lower!”
A few more conversations and one quick skirmish later, Nestor gave up looking in the huge crowds. He had checked all of the large groups, so he assumed that his group would be very small. The man observed that people from small groups were assembling along the edge of the town plaza, so he decided to do the same. “One Forty Three,” he called, his voice as strong as it was when he started, “if you’re in group one forty three, come to me!” His tone was lathered in impatience but he was starting to become more eager to find someone else. He continued calling as he passed by a few groups, walking past buildings and stone walls, benches and beggars. From what he observed, there was not a man in the city who carried the fabled number 143.
As Raine responded to Flake, he watched her intently, remaining still as a statue. His cold, grey eyes followed her as she walked over to her bed. He resented how she had not given him a single opportunity to respond as she spoke, continuing to stare at her as she lay down on the filthy bedding. After a few minutes, he sighed and checked to see if the bleeding had stopped in his nose. After releasing his hand and wiping off as much of the red liquid as he could manage, he noted that the bleeding had stopped. With that done, he carefully lay down on his own bedding and closed his eyes, waiting and listening for noise. He knew for certain that he had not a chance at falling asleep at that time a day, so he took the time of silence to think about the past.
Before long, Raine had fallen asleep and Flake had found a comfortable position on his bedding. The minutes passed like hours. All the same, thoughts of dishes he heard of and fantastic missions he missed out on flooded through his mind, distracting him from the minor pain in his side. As he was dissociating from reality, a few brief noises from the other side of the room alerted him. He instantly shot out of bed and looked around to see Raine tumbling around in her sleep, whimpering. Flake got up, feeling slightly light-headed from doing so as quickly as he did, and walked over to observe her. Without his leather armor and boots, his footsteps were all but silent as he approached her sleeping figure.
Once he reached her, he loomed over the tossing girl and his eyebrow shot up. Her expression was terrified, the same as a bounty target pinned against a wall. Sleep, the conversation with one’s self, he thought, grinning slyly. She turned away from him after a few seconds, still turning around in her sleep and whimpering. A sound shot down from the stairwell, calm footsteps following soon after, alarming Flake. He felt his nose once more as he headed back over to his bedding pile, then lay down, relaxed, and closed his eyes, adopting the illusion of sleep. Best to trick than to be tricked he mentally recited, awaiting the nearing sounds.
The noises were not the metallic thuds of a guard’s armor, but the pat of leather boots, the soft type a citizen would wear. Flake heard the cell door open and cracked his right eye open to see who it was. The figure he saw wore the garb of an herbologist, so Flake judged that the man was “Oruin” the prison medic whom Raine had spoken of. He closed his eye and waited, pretending to sleep as he listened to the interaction between him and Raine. The man seemed to be compassionate enough to trust, but Flake questioned his judgment, especially after waking up a sleeping prisoner by contact.
Again, Flake felt resentful towards Raine due to the way in which she described the acquisition of his injuries, but retained his sleeping persona. He heard the man approach and also observed the sound of clinking metal and wooden materials, likely the tools of medicine in his bag. Flake planned a response mentally as the man went about assembling his tools. As he finished, Oruin shook Flake and asked, “Excuse me, but do you mind waking up so I can properly treat your wounds?” Within a second of contact, Flake’s arm shot from under his head to the medic’s wrist, breaking his contact, then used the momentum to sit up.
Once again, Flake felt light headed due to the sudden change in altitude, but the bounty hunter’s cold eyes stared into the medic’s soul. Flake needed a few seconds for his light headedness to go away, then he asked, “How do you expect to treat me, ’properly,’ Oruin?” His eyes shot over to the tools on the ground, then back at his eyes. “Do your tools mend bones and restore blood as well as rest?” he continued, wiping some more blood from his nose. The bounty hunter saw Raine watching from his peripheral vision after his question and thought to himself for a moment with slightly softened eyes.
Before long, Raine had fallen asleep and Flake had found a comfortable position on his bedding. The minutes passed like hours. All the same, thoughts of dishes he heard of and fantastic missions he missed out on flooded through his mind, distracting him from the minor pain in his side. As he was dissociating from reality, a few brief noises from the other side of the room alerted him. He instantly shot out of bed and looked around to see Raine tumbling around in her sleep, whimpering. Flake got up, feeling slightly light-headed from doing so as quickly as he did, and walked over to observe her. Without his leather armor and boots, his footsteps were all but silent as he approached her sleeping figure.
Once he reached her, he loomed over the tossing girl and his eyebrow shot up. Her expression was terrified, the same as a bounty target pinned against a wall. Sleep, the conversation with one’s self, he thought, grinning slyly. She turned away from him after a few seconds, still turning around in her sleep and whimpering. A sound shot down from the stairwell, calm footsteps following soon after, alarming Flake. He felt his nose once more as he headed back over to his bedding pile, then lay down, relaxed, and closed his eyes, adopting the illusion of sleep. Best to trick than to be tricked he mentally recited, awaiting the nearing sounds.
The noises were not the metallic thuds of a guard’s armor, but the pat of leather boots, the soft type a citizen would wear. Flake heard the cell door open and cracked his right eye open to see who it was. The figure he saw wore the garb of an herbologist, so Flake judged that the man was “Oruin” the prison medic whom Raine had spoken of. He closed his eye and waited, pretending to sleep as he listened to the interaction between him and Raine. The man seemed to be compassionate enough to trust, but Flake questioned his judgment, especially after waking up a sleeping prisoner by contact.
Again, Flake felt resentful towards Raine due to the way in which she described the acquisition of his injuries, but retained his sleeping persona. He heard the man approach and also observed the sound of clinking metal and wooden materials, likely the tools of medicine in his bag. Flake planned a response mentally as the man went about assembling his tools. As he finished, Oruin shook Flake and asked, “Excuse me, but do you mind waking up so I can properly treat your wounds?” Within a second of contact, Flake’s arm shot from under his head to the medic’s wrist, breaking his contact, then used the momentum to sit up.
Once again, Flake felt light headed due to the sudden change in altitude, but the bounty hunter’s cold eyes stared into the medic’s soul. Flake needed a few seconds for his light headedness to go away, then he asked, “How do you expect to treat me, ’properly,’ Oruin?” His eyes shot over to the tools on the ground, then back at his eyes. “Do your tools mend bones and restore blood as well as rest?” he continued, wiping some more blood from his nose. The bounty hunter saw Raine watching from his peripheral vision after his question and thought to himself for a moment with slightly softened eyes.
I added Idea 4, thus, bump.
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