Peik

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

@Peik, Wylendriel is at Dawnstar.

@Gcold

Oh, my fault. I've been following an old roster, it seems.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Right, so far we got Hank, Fox, Roze and Dervs declaring their orientation.

When @Spoopy Scary and @POOHEAD189 also declare, I can make the rolls and then you guys can write the results as you wish.

Attacking is not necessary (looking at you, Wylendriel) and in fact saves you from getting attacked, but that also means that the Armiger who would have been fighting you will get a free swing at whoever's closest instead.

Roze will be shooting from a medium-ish distance at Armiger #5. As her main goal is to incapacitate, she's not going to be taking much care to focus on non-lethal shots, so I guess I'll let you (and the dice, haha) decide whether her arrows kill or not.

@MiddleEarthRoze

I'll just say that a 8 and a 10 will be an instant kill and a 7 and a 9 will be a combat-ending injury that leaves them alive.

And for the record Sadri will be making a lethal attack against Armiger 2.

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

Balen Oril

Name: Balen Oril

Age: 50

Gender: Male

Race: Dunmer

Appearance: Balen is a Dunmer of tall stature, almost as tall as an Altmer, and similarly wiry and long-limbed, though still, instead of having a graceful, lean and well-proportioned body akin to them, he possesses the sinewy, starved-looking physique and rugged complexion of his kin. He is, like most other Dunmer, ashen skinned, and red eyed, both his sclera and pupil blood red. Another defining trait of Balen is that his eyes are incredibly large, a trait further accentuated by his rather high hairline and large brow. Thanks to this, his weak chin and gaunt face, his upper head looks much larger than normal. He sports a rather large, so-called 'Akaviri style' mustache that people have likened to a pair of scimitars hanging down from the edges of his upper lip.

Balen prefers simple and practical clothing. His common attire consists of a grayish-blue waterproof broadcloth robe probably one size too large (or two) over a pale burgundy tunic tucked well into his baggy grey pants, which are also tucked into his knee-high leather boots. In hotter climates, he ditches most of the clothing entirely and wears only the robe, breeches that end at the knee joint and leather moccasins. He covers his head with a wide brimmed hat, and often tucks his ears within it when in the cold.

Personality: Balen is a rather still person. He’s not dull or dense – he simply believes that he does not have much to share with most of the people around him, so he keeps quiet and does not try to be a sore thumb. Still, he’s not the sort of person who’s oozing with calmness like a monk, but rather, he’s just contemplative. This passive demeanor does not mean that he tries to get along with everyone, however. As opposed to trying to be on good terms with everyone and thus being an ass-kisser, Balen simply prefers keeping quiet and picking his words, and the people he speaks to. He is a man of simple pleasures and rarely complains, making him a useful companion, though he can be hard to get used to. He wonders the secrets of creation and reality, and enjoys speaking about such matters, preferring the company of mages despite not having much skill or interest on the practical applications of magic. It’s easy to confuse him for a man of peace. This is wrong – he’s simply a considerate and practical person. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, though he’d much rather prefer that they’d stay clean.

History: Born in Blacklight on a foggy Middas of the First Seed, to an upper middle class family affiliated with House Hlaalu, Balen grew up through a rather uneventful childhood as the youngest child. For most of his childhood, he was educated by his grandparents and his father’s grandfather, who was an immensely elderly scholar who claimed to have been saved by the Nerevarine from Kagoutis in Vvardenfell hundreds of years ago. Perhaps thanks to this man’s countless stories, or perhaps thanks to natural disposition, Balen earned a penchant for reading, reading up on the past, of the times before the Red Year. It was during these times, while he was reading the Sermons of Vivec, when he first questioned his faith in Ancestor Worship and Daedra Worship.

Following his father’s death, Balen, the youngest child, was given the duty of taking care of his father’s remains, while his elder brothers tried to get the family profession running again. Seeing this as an opportunity, Balen decided to uphold his father’s last wish and take his remains to Necrom, and joined a trading caravan to go there. During this journey, Balen befriended a Bosmer bookseller, Godron, who told Balen that he’d be happy to work with him in Valenwood. After interring his father’s remains in Necrom and buying a bunch of trinkets claimed to be of Akaviri make, he and Godron began traveling to Southpoint by sea, changing ships and occasionally trading at port. In Southpoint, Balen’s fine writing skills, Godron’s original profession, and the money they made selling the so-called Akaviri artifacts, opened an interesting business venture – Godron would buy rare books, Balen would write down the content of books they’d find, Godron would sell the original copy to the highest bidder and then stock his shop with copies of the real book, written by Balen.

This time of his life was important to Balen, since it was when he really developed his skill of calligraphy. More importantly, during this time, he managed to get his hands on books he wouldn’t be able to hear of, let alone find, otherwise. Making spare copies of books that he found interesting, Balen eventually built up his own collection. Eventually, after some years spent as such, he parted ways with Godron amicably, and got on a ship to Alinor, to learn the secrets of the Aldmer. However, he could not get along with the Thalmor officials, and did not stay on the isles for long.

Balen got on a ship to Stros M’Kai to learn more about the Sload and perhaps Yokuda, but the ship was attacked by pirates before it could make it to port. It was during this time when Balen first took his first two lives, cutting down a pair of pirates trying to carry his chest out of his room. Following the attack, the ship’s captain decided to dock at Rihad instead, finding its original course too dangerous for the damaged ship to handle. Not wishing to risk another voyage to Stros M’Kai, Balen spent a good amount of time in Rihad, contemplating and meditating on the rather large amount of knowledge he had gathered in form of books so far, going over them in his mind and trying to carve his own world view out of his knowledge. During this time, Balen began pearl hunting as a hobby, but soon turned it into profit. He earned his fondness for Skooma in Rihad as well, finding its relaxing properties almost a necessity in sleepless nights spent theorizing and contemplating.

Balen left Rihad in a hurry after participating in a ritual to summon Hermaeus Mora that went awry. He had joined the ritual, as a guest, in hopes of learning more about the Dreamsleeve from the Daedric Prince itself. However, the ritual sigils seemed rather hastily prepared, and Balen, not wishing to risk the wrath of a Daedric Prince, made up an excuse to leave before the ritual could be completed, spending the night in a Chapel of Stendarr. He’d later learn that the participants had been literally merged with the walls of the Shrine. Heading south, Balen moved to Chorrol and settled there. He set up a small shop in an inn room with his finances, while spending his spare time with the members of the College of Whispers. Finding the members of the College rather more open-minded compared to his impressions of the Synod scholars, Balen took to spending his time in their lodge, although his almost entirely theoretical scholarship did not attract the same kind of attention that full-blooded displays of magic did. Nonetheless, the lodge offered him a position as a teacher of Metaphysics, and he accepted, finding the challenge much more welcome compared to the banality of trading in books. This went on for a while, and Balen even began feeling attached to the city, until one day when Godron showed up on his doorstep.

After a long talk about what he’d been doing with his life since Balen left, Godron made Balen an offer. Godron told Balen that he was no longer a book seller, but a trader of artifacts, and that he wished to work with his old friend and make use of his expertise. Of course, the risks were much higher, as Godron had to fund his own expeditions and often partake in them himself, but it was also much more profitable. Plus, Balen would be able to see first-hand sources, and stop having to rely on inaccurate accounts. Balen was convinced, and joined Godron on a trip to a Dwemer Ruin in the Velothi Mountains. Spending most of his time translating and drawing schematics of what they faced, Balen drew the ire of Godron’s henchmen, but soon proved his worth by toppling over a Steam Centurion by just disabling its gyroscope.

Unfortunately, the rest of the expedition was not as auspicious. About half of the crew, including Godron, was lost to a malfunctioning (or possibly trapped) elevator. Heavily demoralized and grieving over the loss of his old friend and business associate, Balen returned from the expedition alongside the survivors, bringing back what they could carry, alongside the captured Centurion, selling them all to Synod collectors in Cheydinhal.

The endeavor had cost him a friend, but it had also opened a new world of possibilities to Balen. He did not like to admit it, but he was quite thrilled to be able to enter and sense the world of adventure which he had only read about in the past. He was able breath the same air alongside those who had written the books that had inspired him, for all he knew he could write his own and leave his mark in history. Begrudgingly, he wanted more of it. Spending the cash he had earned from his first experience for more suitable equipment, Balen started looking for independent work, hoping to immerse himself in the unknown once more, and hopefully have a better experience.

Skills:
Major:

-Athletics: Balen's constitution would awe even the most well-trained Legionnaire, rivaling horses in speed, mules in carrying weight, and marathon runners in constistency and distance. Despite Balen's scholarly personality, his physique is quite predisposed towards physicality in contrast, and he has capitalized on this, keeping himself well conditioned through early morning jogs. He is also an excellent diver and swimmer, being able to hold his breath underwater for incredible amounts of time.
-Alchemy: Even though Balen rarely dabbles in it and claims it to be Thaumaturgy rather than Alchemy, he has read enough treatises on Alchemy to learn some fancy tricks such as making flesh-glue to mend wounds, or making salt-air to breathe where there's no air, and boiling seemingly random plants to make glowing water and burning oil, or liquids which carry tamed lightning. He has an extensive knowledge of flora and fauna, and effects they have on the body.

Minor:

-Acrobatics: With arms not unlike those of an Imga, long legs and large hands, Balen has a natural advantage when it comes to scaling obstacles, and his naturally keen muscle coordination also helps immensely. However, he lacks any sort of training or knowledge on the matter except common sense, and mostly acts on instinct, lacking any extensive free running skills.
-Blade: Balen has read plenty of illustrated dueling guides from Hammerfell to help him utilize swordfighting techniques, but thanks to having nearly no practice in actual usage, he finds it hard to put what he knows to action. He also finds it awkward to use two-handed swords, preferring shortswords and broadswords instead, thanks to their ease of use.
-Hand to Hand: Had Balen done muscle training and weapon practice instead of running and swimming, he likely would have become an unstoppably strong brute. As he is, he still can swing a mean hook and his hardened, leathery flesh dishes out a lot of punch and kick when necessary, but aside from his conditioning and natural strength, he has no training on the matter.

Equipment: Balen prefers mobility over all, and thus, carries all his belongings, necessities and books in a rucksack, and prefers to keep them in the bag unless necessary. Alongside a small pot, a pestle and a piece of flint, he carries two leather canteens containing water and three wooden vials. He never travels without a map, hardtack, herbs and smoked fish, which he considers a delicacy.

For battle, he owns a steel 'dagger' of Ashlander make, which is a sword in all but name, having a blade too wide and too long to be a dagger. On the grip of the blade, the Daedric letters Meht, Ayem, Roht, Neht and Ekem are inscribed, though Balen has not been able to deduce what the letters mean and assumes that it’s some sort of tribal superstition. As for armor, Balen wears a sleeveless shirt of mail, a skullcap under his hat, and a steel gorget.

Birthsign: The Lord

Miscellaneous: Balen handles Skooma and other drugs like they are nothing and is impossibly hard to get drunk. His constitution is also somewhat resistant to poison and illness. These traits are often attributed to his birthsign.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Rolls for Bleakrock

For everyone in the Bleakrock mission, I'm going to go with a 10-sided dice system like the rest of the GMs when there's dice rolling involved. I'm stealing Dervish's system mostly, quoted below, but with a few modifications:

1-2 is a failure, your character will be injured and brought down, where a second roll of the dice will determine if the enemy will continue to focus on this character to finish the job or take on another target (less than 5, continue the attack, 5 and up, move on unless there’s no other characters to fight). Depending on the circumstances, GMs will decide if the situation will be fatal. Close characters may elect to intervene, where if a player says they wish to intercept, will have to do another combat roll to see if they both make it to the character in time and receive injury in the process

3-6 is a success, but with minor injury. Your character receives a minor wound that will have to be treated and will hinder their ability to fight somewhat, but it won’t take them out of the fight. Each subsequent roll with an injury will have a -1 penalty on the roll, and each injury added increases the penalty.

7-10 is a success where the best possible outcome for that engagement occurs.

@Dervish

However, as I said, I'm modifying the system a bit, so you have three options to proceed with and the rolls will be made accordingly.

1 - Lethal Attack: Your attack's meant to kill, pure and simple. A full success (7-10) is an instant kill. A regular success (3-6) means that your foe's wounded, and will need either another full success or another regular success similarly to die, but it also means they can hit you back. The effectiveness of the foe's strike will be also decided by a dice roll 1d2, 2 being a success, to see whether they miss or not (they don't get the instant-kill privilege you do, just a valid strike which will wound if successful). A failure (1-2) means your hit misses and they roll 1d2.

2 - Nonlethal Attack: Your attack's meant to stun, which will obviously help you from making a mess, and a captured foe means a hostage and information, and also means Dumhuvud will hate you slightly less for doing a good job. A full success (7-10) is an instant KO. A regular success (3-6) means your attack hurts enough to stun them from hitting you, but they're still going to be up unless you land a full success or decide to go lethal. A failure (1-2) means they get to strike at you, for which they'll roll 1d2, 2 being a successful hit.

3 - Kick: This Spartan maneuver's meant to kick your opponent off the bridge, which means the fight's much shorter. It also gives you one bonus success in your roll for momentum. A full success (7-10) kicks them off the hill completely and they fall, upon which a 1d3 roll will be made to see if they are killed by the impact (1), get stunned (2) or survive and help their two friends below against Sadri and Narzul (3). A regular success (3-6) means that you both fall down the hill, upon which they still make the 1d3 roll, and you get a minor injury. A failure (1-2) means an epic fail that you miss and lose your balance, and fall down the hill yourself, while your foe is undamaged.

Those who are below (Narzul, Sadri, whoever falls alongside their opponent/falls on their own in a failure) do not have the kick option.

Three failures in a row will cause major injury, and any wound received after a major injury can be fatal. Fleeing, falling down or asking for help is always an option, but given Dumhuvud, there will probably be consequences.

Name your opponent. One is dead, so there are nine Armigers. Armigers 1 and 2 are below and facing Sadri and Narzul respectively. Those above can pick Armigers 3 to 9.

Make your choice and post them here, and then the rollening shall commerce.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Way to Fall

A collab by @Peik and @Hank

---

Night, Sun's Height 29
Bleakrock Isle

---

"…And we’ll roll the o-old chariot along, we’ll roll the o-old chariot along, and we’ll all hang on behind."

Sadri bobbed his head back and forth to the rhythm of the shanty he muttered to himself, as he and Narzul walked on, a good twenty meters forward from the rest of the group, just in the perfect distance for the others to notice and take cover safely if anything bad were to happen to the duo. He couldn’t help but admire Dumhuvud for his brilliance in consigning him and Narzul to the front. Not only did it make sense, since Sadri was practically half-undead and Narzul was covered head to toe in plate, but it also was a perfect way of getting rid of two folks he didn’t like, should things go south. Plus, despite his conversation with Niernen, Sadri wasn’t sure if he was able to trust Narzul. Maybe he just found that ebony blade far too intimidating.

In short, it wasn’t a fun situation. Thus, he went on with the shanties, trying to find some solace in their rhythm.

"Oh, a night in the jail wouldn’t do us any harm…"

---

The group’s march through the aptly named island (it truly was a bleak place, with naught but tree lines, rugged rocks and tall grass all around) was quite steady and silent. At the front, Narzul and Sadri had not fallen victim to any unwanted attention or unexpected arrow fire, and the main group, led by the charming Cat-Kicker, followed their guidance cautiously, as their position did not exempt them from Dumhuvud’s suspicion.

They had just passed by the Crossroads leading through to Hozzin’s Folly to the right, and the Wayshrine to the left, sneaking through on the edge of the road as to avoid possible detection. They had already stumbled upon one patrol of ten armigers with matte armor on the path. Thankfully, the Armigers had been walking in a different direction entirely, and busy with hauling carpentry pieces - a relief for Sadri, who certainly did not want to come to blows in hostile territory of all places, a sentiment that he hoped was shared by the rest of the party. The best outcome in this case would be a quick retreat, which would still be a failure of the mission.

He looked back and saw Dumhuvud and the group laying prone amidst the rocks and the tall grass, hard to make out despite knowing that they were there. He breathed out in relief, and patted Narzul as to move further. "You think there are any stragglers behind them?" Sadri muttered silently as he gathered himself from the ground and prepared to move. There was a bridge just up ahead, and beyond it, the Wayshrine. The group could gather up again there.

"Possible," Narzul replied in a flat grumble, barely more than a whisper. It was the first thing he'd said in more than a day. "They're not real soldiers. I wouldn't be surprised if they lack cohesive unit discipline." That went for the mercenaries too, of course, and the Redoran sighed silently into his helmet. To him, it would be nothing short of a miracle if Dumhuvud managed to keep the rest of the party behind them in line. He followed Sadri up onto his feet and cast a glance behind him, spotting Niernen amongst those who emerged from the tall grass. The two siblings looked each other in the eye for a second. The look on Niernen's face was enough for Narzul to avert his gaze quickly. Just focus on the objective, he thought to himself admonishingly. She'd never forgive him if he got himself killed out here.

Despite his heavy and unwieldy suit of armor, Narzul moved with speed and grace that bespoke of his skill and experience. His ironclad feet barely made a sound on the soft soil and the upper half of his body was stiff as a board so as to prevent his armor from rattling and clanging against itself. His head pivoted left and right as if attached to a swivel, scanning the horizon, the grass, the shadows of the large rocks, and back again. His hand was on the pommel of his sheathed war-blade.

Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt. "Did you hear that?" he hissed.

Upon the cautionary remark, Sadri gave Narzul a flat look, half judging his words, half actually trying to hear something. After looking blank at his face for a moment, and noticing nothing, Sadri turned the earless side of his face in Narzul’s general direction, put his hand behind the ragged scar where his ear had once been and raised one of his brows, as if attempting to hear his words better over a distance. There was some actual attempt in the effort, but mostly, it was his way of showing to Narzul that he didn’t hear anything, and poking at the fact that maybe he wasn’t the best man to ask the question. Nonetheless, the situation wasn’t one for snide remarks, and nor was the person, so he just nodded his head back as to show his disagreement.

His able ear weighing every single sound he heard, as to not be proven wrong by the Redoran as he moved on behind the thankfully tall and unkempt bushes, Sadri found to his and likely everyone else’s relief (not to mention his ego’s) that there was no other Armiger on the last fifty meters to the bridge. Beyond the old wooden bridge, which was marked by an empty signpost that seemed to be recently erected, he could make out the silhouette of the Wayshrine, and another signpost facing the other way around on the opposite end of the bridge. He wasn’t sure what to make of it except to tread even more carefully. Were the Armigers renaming landmarks as to cement their presence?

After some moments spent in a bush next to the bridge to confirm nobody was around, Sadri cautiously moved out along with Narzul. Walking to the edge of the bridge, he looked back into the tree line, waiting for Dumhuvud, but all he got was a dismissing gesture as to move on forward. It seemed that their leader did not want to cross the bridge without a force on the other side. Sadri nodded for Narzul.

"Let’s go, then."

Narzul narrowed his eyes in annoyance when Sadri sarcastically cupped his hand to his absent ear, though he had to admit he should have seen that one coming. The Redoran shrugged imperceptibly inside his armor as no further noises came his way -- and he was glad of it too. He followed Sadri after Duhumvud clearly shooed them ahead, well aware they could be walking into a trap, and once again cursed his current situation. Less than a month ago he was sitting in on meetings of the highest national importance and here he was now, conspiring against his own country in a foolhardy attempt to save his sister.

The pair of Dunmer began crossing the bridge. Narzul did so somewhat hastily, eager to get to the other side as fast as possible. Bridges were notorious hotspots for ambushes after all. He got about halfway when the same sound he heard earlier reoccurred, now -- rather alarmingly -- from beneath his boots.

Creaking wood.

"Aha," Narzul said sardonically and picked up speed.

Sadri had not expected Narzul to pick up the pace and even actually go beyond him, thinking that the Redoran would not want to make himself the primary target to anything laying in ambush in front of them when the half-dead low blooded expat was already occupying that position, but it seemed that he had perhaps judged him a tad too unfairly. There the lad was, boldly moving forward, no doubt given confidence by the armor covering all his body as much as his well-drilled training.

Then the Redoran started running, and Sadri realized why all too late.

A moaning, well audible croak led to Sadri deducing that perhaps this bridge wasn’t the safest for crossing, and when the planks started to visibly show that they could not support their weight, Sadri actually looked back to see if he could return back to terra firma, but then one of the abutments lodged into the rocks split open with a loud crack, and the bridge suddenly toppled to the left, the floor sliding from underneath Sadri’s feet.

Latching onto a railing on his right with unexpectedly fast speed, Sadri thought of looking up at Narzul to see whether or not he’d made it to the other side, but his eyes were too well-fixed on trying to locate the crumbling support to act his care. He thought of using the railings like a monkey bar to support his feet in an attempt to get off the death trap, but before he could put the idea to test, the middle support crumbled further.

"Oh fuck."

Before he could gather his thoughts and actually do something, the bridge decided to hold its demise further no more. He felt his stomach hop as the bridge floor swiveled even further towards the ground in an imbalance, and following this, the rest of the supports cracked, causing a couple of large rocks to dislocate themselves to set them free, which led to the bridge sliding off into uncertainty with the two Dunmer still on it.

Sadri felt his stomach hop as if he were on a swing, and realizing the impending impact, closed his eyes in denial.

Even though the freefall was about twenty five feet at most, to his closed eyes it felt like an epic, mythical representation of an unending abyss, with the wild cacophony of smashing rocks and crying carpentry providing a musical tension to the scene, until the moment when it all reached a climax, and Sadri himself hit the ground with a rather disappointingly mundane plop amidst the majestic chorus of boom and krak and thwuks.

---

Sadri opened his eyes about fifteen seconds after his landing, after realizing that it wasn’t death that kept his eyes close but just his reflexes. Looking around, he found his clothes not bloody but dusty and muddy, and the pain that jolted his body was not unbearable but in fact rather mild. He’d fallen on his right thigh, and thankfully, the padding of his robe and the soft density of the soil had kept any bones from breaking, although the chainmail had smashed into his clothes on impact, and hurt like Oblivion.

Surprised at the fact that he was relatively unhurt, he let out a silent praise to whichever deity that had a part to play in it, and slowly, he led his battered body back up on its feet. While the pain and the force of impact kept him from acting with agility, he nonetheless managed to walk around in an attempt to try and find the Redoran.

As for Narzul, his sprint to reach the other side of the small chasm, while admirable, yielded no fruits. The wooden planks gave way beneath him as the support posts on that side also collapsed and the whole bridge came tumbling down just before the Redoran had reached his goal. A final leap of faith ended up with him smacking into the cliff side, the gauntleted fingers of his free hand scrambling for support mere inches below the edge, carving gouges into the soft rock as he inevitably slid down. Weakened by the wooden support posts being torn out of their places, the edge of the cliff disintegrated into a tumble of loose rocks before Narzul's muscles gave out and he entered the same freefall his ash-kin experienced a ways behind him. Thinking fast, Narzul angled his shield towards the ground.

The loud and painful crunk that Narzul made when he hit rock bottom was certainly more intense than Sadri's comparatively soft landing. Narzul's decision to land on his shield was a wise one, as otherwise he might have landed on one of the rocks that came down with him which could have dented his cuirass in ways that would have been wildly unhealthy for the constitution of his torso. Even so, the fall wasn't kind to the ramshackle suit of armor and Narzul, rattled like a fish inside a tin can, groaned in fierce pain. Dust obscured his vision from within the helmet and he rolled on his back, gasping to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him. He was alive, that much was clear, but what was the damage?

After nothing continued to happen for some time, Narzul sat up straight, yanked his helmet off his head and quickly patted himself down. There were some dents in his armor now, mostly in his greaves, but nothing severe. More annoying was a dent in his helmet, which had scraped his brow and blood slowly trickled down and into his face. He ignored it for now. One of his boots had somehow come loose in the descent and Narzul spotted it a few yards away from him, lying in the middle of the chasm -- and there was Sadri, wandering around like a lost soul in the Cairn.

"Beleth!" Narzul hissed and waved his hand above his hand. After grabbing his fellow Dunmer's attention, he pointed at his iron boot. "Hand me that," he added.

To his surprise, the Redoran had been quite deep in the wreckage, and not far away like Sadri had been looking. He turned and blinked in surprise to see the blueblood out of his helmet and sitting on the ground like a duck. For a moment, Sadri could have been quite happy to see him alive, but the Redoran’s attitude quickly reminded him of whom he actually was. Sadri looked straight at Narzul for a moment, to show him that he wasn’t taking it all too fast, then actually went and picked up the boot to deny the Dunmer a reason to be properly irritated, and thus, irritate him even further.

"You forgot the magic word," Sadri told Narzul as he walked closer to the sitting Redoran, with a faint, battered, yet still smug smile on his face. He handed over the iron boot, and then moved further up to see the Dunmer’s wound. "I’d have checked to see if the shoe fits, but you aren’t exactly Cendrillon," Sadri quipped as he pulled his sleeve back and dusted his hands off.

"Lay your head back, would you?" Sadri said, in a more serious tone.

Narzul scoffed at Sadri's little quip, but accepted the offered boot without further comment. Before he had a chance to pull it on the other Dunmer leaned in to inspect the injury on Narzul's brow, which he promptly raised slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected Sadri to care, or to know anything about battlefield first aid. Narzul obliged, staring down his nose at Sadri.

"How does it look?" he asked languidly.

Sadri’s grin widened upon seeing Narzul’s derisive expression, but he didn’t carry the banter any further. "Well, I mean, it shouldn’t be nothing some magic fingers can’t fix, but it looks like –" Sadri stopped with an abrupt, silent but nonetheless concerning gasp, his movements paused. "Shit."

Immediately on alert, Narzul tried to turn his head to see what Sadri was looking at but the tight fit of his cuirass and his position on the ground prevented him. He swiftly pulled the iron boot onto his foot, rolled over so he was facing the direction of Sadri's cause for concern, stood up and unsheathed his sword. His helmet -- an integral part of his disguise -- was still on the ground. Narzul's blood ran cold.

Sadri internally cursed at Narzul for making a sudden movement, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop him. He put on the most non-confrontational expression he could as he raised his head further at the edge of the collapsed bridge and gazed at their surprised and newly arrived onlookers.

Ten Armigers, clad in loosely fitted armor and wielding pickaxes, hammers, shovels and long strands of rope, looked down at the two unfortunate Dunmer as they scratched their chins on what to do. Sadri’s eyes gauged them and the rocks and pieces of wood next to him, hoping that he could outmaneuver them and get to cover before any possible projectiles could reach their position.

The tense situation lasted for a few moments before one of the more presentable of the bunch stepped forward. The spokesperson, a rather young and sharp looking Dunmer with his hair worn in braids, rested his open palm next to his mouth and began shouting aggressively in what Sadri assumed to be Dunmeris before another wearing glasses whispered something in his ear. The braided one stopped and glared at him for a moment before nodding in agreement and turning back to the duo below.

"We’ll set up a rope, get up here!" He shouted, before turning to the more tribal looking one next to him and saying some things that Sadri couldn’t make out. Sadri smiled sheepishly.

---

"Shor’s bones, those idiots!"

Dumhuvud was furious. Not only had Sadri and Narzul collapsed their only way forward, but they had also gone and attracted the worst kind of attraction possible, and the Armiger patrol that had passed by them earlier had now arrived again to the commotion. Thankfully, they seemed more prepared for maintenance rather than actual battle, and more concerned with fixing the wreckage instead of looking for intruders. His angry frown turned into a bloodthirsty grin as an idea turned up in his head, while he watched the unsuspecting Armigers try and do something about the bridge – slowly he turned back to the group and began speaking in a hushed, confident tone.

"On my mark, we rush them. Try to keep some alive for information," he informed as he turned his head back and waited for a proper moment to charge. For some reason, they were busy trying to prepare a rope for to pull something, or more likely, someone from down below. Were the two still alive? Had the Armigers mistaken them for allies? Or worse, were they really allies?

"Go!"

With his own command, the Cat-Kicker jumped out of his crouch into a sprint, his weapon held at the ready, and smashed into the rear of the group. True to his name, he transferred the momentum of his short distance sprint into a kick, which landed itself true on the back of an Armiger. The Armiger who took the impact screamed in fear as he flew into the one with the rope, and together the two fell down along with the two they had been trying to pull up moments ago.

Before the element of surprise could properly subside, Dumhuvud sprung his arm back far and swung his axe overhead, inevitably crashing into the head of the closest Armiger and lopping half the Dunmer’s head off in a bloody and hard swing. The remaining Armigers pulled back and readied themselves, with one swinging his pickaxe against the Nord's head and smashing its tip into the side of his opponent's helmet, as the rest of the party followed suit into the bout, right behind a disoriented Dumhuvud.

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

This better not die goddamn

@BingTheWing

We're here, don't you worry.

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

The Uzbek Mafia

The Uzbek Mafia - AKA The Gardeners

Being an umbrella term, the Uzbek Mafia means a lot of different things in different parts of India and the world; but in Sopahn, it is the name for the conglomerate of semi-legal operations centered around Muhammad Babur, the Uzbekistani businessman. For this context, the name is actually a misnomer, considering that few people in the Uzbek Mafia are actually Uzbeks, and that it's not much of an ethnic gang, but the name has stuck, and for Muhammad Babur's outfit the generalization is somewhat of a blessing, considering how it makes crimes harder to pin down and hides the outfit underneath the stream of generic ethnic crime.

Structure, Outlook and Resources

While its main source of income is being a blackmarket source for prescription drugs, hormones and augmentations, the core of the organization is mostly hidden behind an unrelated front of a somewhat famous restaurant, the Bagh-e Babur (the Garden of Babur). Handy enforcers of the outfit are often also its employees. Muhammad Babur himself is not only just the owner of the restaurant, but also its manager. Occasionally, he also acts as a cook when he's bored and not busy with work, but given how illegal operations are, this is somewhat of a rare occurence.

What defines and separates the Uzbek Mafia from other criminal organizations is its heavy reliance on blackmail and its secrecy. The organization's head seems to have a good understanding of politics and tries to couple profiting from crime with being a 'preferable alternative' to constant gang violence - as a result, the Mafia has close ties with many government officials and has plenty of insiders and cooperators in law enforcement. In return, the Uzbek Mafia makes its operations covert and discreet whenever possible, and tries to stay as a monopoly, absorbing and dismantling gangs as to prevent obvious crimes that could attract negative public attention, and feeds the police with information whenever it is mutually beneficial.

This is not to say that the Uzbek Mafia does not have its troubles, however. Its early expansive and aggressive policy has actually caused other, smarter mafia outfits to ally themselves with political and/or ideological fronts as to get empathy from parts of the populace and thus turn themselves into less acceptable targets. Also, it is composed of mostly foreign, if not Muslim enforcers, and thus has earned the ire of Hindu extremists, while its strictly business-oriented approach and lack of funding for Muslim organizations has caused it to attract their negative attention as well. Things have since been calmer and even more covert, but the sentiment is there regardless.

Associations and Partnerships

Aside from the restaurant, Muhammad Babur is also the owner of a high-end floralist chain named the Charbagh (the Four-Gardens), where genetically modified mutant flowers and designer fruits are common sales items. It is thought amongst some criminal circles that this floralist chain is no more than a front to get close with the pharmaceutical and possibly the genetics industry, although no criminal activity has been able to be traced to this company, and thus is considered by most to be not much more than an extra source of legal income.

The Parks and Recreation Department of the City of Sopahn works closely with the Charbagh, as well as the and part of the Charbagh's income goes to make colorful parks and vibrant gardens for the poorer districts of the city such as Dhaar. It is unknown if these gardens have any other purpose, with some conspiracy theorists claiming that the flowers in the gardens are actually latent chemical weapons. More political and reasonable opponents cite the company's tendency to thematize its products and gardens after Mughal aesthetics and figures, and 'internalization of foreign oppression' is a common crticism by Hindu and Sikh extremists.

The company has since made it an objective to gain the favor of these ethnic groups to better its image, and has answered these criticisms by claiming that they seek to embrace 'all of the history of the Indian Nation to create a firmly rooted understanding of culture'. To this aim, the company has named its latest park in Bholi after Akbar, and is working on a 'Guru Nanak Complex' on Langar Island.

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

The Uzbek Mafia

The Uzbek Mafia - AKA The Gardeners

Being an umbrella term, the Uzbek Mafia means a lot of different things in different parts of India and the world; but in Sopahn, it is the name for the conglomerate of semi-legal operations centered around Muhammad Babur, the Uzbekistani businessman. For this context, the name is actually a misnomer, considering that few people in the Uzbek Mafia are actually Uzbeks, and that it's not much of an ethnic gang, but the name has stuck, and for Muhammad Babur's outfit the generalization is somewhat of a blessing, considering how it makes crimes harder to pin down and hides the outfit underneath the stream of generic ethnic crime.

Structure, Outlook and Resources

While its main source of income is being a blackmarket source for prescription drugs, hormones and augmentations, the core of the organization is mostly hidden behind an unrelated front of a somewhat famous restaurant, the Bagh-e Babur (the Garden of Babur). Handy enforcers of the outfit are often also its employees. Muhammad Babur himself is not only just the owner of the restaurant, but also its manager. Occasionally, he also acts as a cook when he's bored and not busy with work, but given how illegal operations are, this is somewhat of a rare occurence.

What defines and separates the Uzbek Mafia from other criminal organizations is its heavy reliance on blackmail and its secrecy. The organization's head seems to have a good understanding of politics and tries to couple profiting from crime with being a 'preferable alternative' to constant gang violence - as a result, the Mafia has close ties with many government officials and has plenty of insiders and cooperators in law enforcement. In return, the Uzbek Mafia makes its operations covert and discreet whenever possible, and tries to stay as a monopoly, absorbing and dismantling gangs as to prevent obvious crimes that could attract negative public attention, and feeds the police with information whenever it is mutually beneficial.

This is not to say that the Uzbek Mafia does not have its troubles, however. Its early expansive and aggressive policy has actually caused other, smarter mafia outfits to ally themselves with political and/or ideological fronts as to get empathy from parts of the populace and thus turn themselves into less acceptable targets. Also, it is composed of mostly foreign, if not Muslim enforcers, and thus has earned the ire of Hindu extremists, while its strictly business-oriented approach and lack of funding for Muslim organizations has caused it to attract their negative attention as well. Things have since been calmer and even more covert, but the sentiment is there regardless.

Associations and Partnerships

Aside from the restaurant, Muhammad Babur is also the owner of a high-end floralist chain named the Charbagh (the Four-Gardens), where genetically modified mutant flowers and designer fruits are common sales items. It is thought amongst some criminal circles that this floralist chain is no more than a front to get close with the pharmaceutical and possibly the genetics industry, although no criminal activity has been able to be traced to this company, and thus is considered by most to be not much more than an extra source of legal income.

The Parks and Recreation Department of the City of Sopahn works closely with the Charbagh, as well as the and part of the Charbagh's income goes to make colorful parks and vibrant gardens for the poorer districts of the city such as Dhaar. It is unknown if these gardens have any other purpose, with some conspiracy theorists claiming that the flowers in the gardens are actually latent chemical weapons. More political and reasonable opponents cite the company's tendency to thematize its products and gardens after Mughal aesthetics and figures, and 'internalization of foreign oppression' is a common crticism by Hindu and Sikh extremists.

The company has since made it an objective to gain the favor of these ethnic groups to better its image, and has answered these criticisms by claiming that they seek to embrace 'all of the history of the Indian Nation to create a firmly rooted understanding of culture'. To this aim, the company has named its latest park in Bholi after Akbar, and is working on a 'Guru Nanak Complex' on Langar Island.

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

Peter Hannegy

5'11'' 170 lbs.	Peter Hannegy Age: 32 Gender: Male Citizenship(s): United Kingdom, Taiwan (Work Visa-Expired), China (Work Visa), India (Work Visa) Date and place of birth: 07 April 2028, London, United Kingdom Official occupation: Procurement Specialist for Anderson-Ford Pharmaceutical

Profile

Residence: Lions Residences, Apartment D-3, Room 373, Bholi

Affiliation: Anderson-Ford Pharmaceutical, the Uzbek Mafia

Appearance: Peter looks dreadfully average. His oval head is home to an awfully bland looking face, with a thin nose that flares wide and thick by the nostrils, an inconspicuous, round jaw with a slightly protruding chin, large, sunken eyes with dark circles underneath and a small mouth. His hair color is a shade of brown, although his bushy eyebrows seem to be lighter. His only facial trait worthy of attention is the color of his eyes – a fairly light blue. His skin, while not smooth and perfect, is still fairly light – something that attracts attention in India.

His hair is often disheveled despite its regular length, thanks to his tendency of waking up late, his ‘overheating’ at work (which ends up with him holding his head underneath the sink in the bathroom), and his tendency to not use any sort of hair styling products, having had a rather embarrassing incident during his teenage years, which has since shaped his opinion against all of them. While he’d almost always been clean shaven, shaving every morning because of his rather fast beard growth, lately he’s been unable to keep up because of rather unfortunate events and occasionally sports a stubble.

He is fairly regularly built – he has broad shoulders, but he lacks any important muscle growth, and has a naturally thin figure. He does not work out or have any sporting tendencies, but he’s used the contacts he’s earned from his position as Procurement Specialist to keep some of the ‘wonder drugs’ that he supplies through Anderson-Ford to himself. This, combined with his naturally healthy lifestyle, has left him with a figure which, while lacking in muscle strength, can at the very least pull its own weight around with ease, and run for fairly long distances.

Peter has a fairly conventional, if not old-fashioned, sense of fashion; despite its fashion being in the decline, he still wears conventional suits to work, although the patterns of his suits and shirts seem to be somewhat protest – his ‘power ties’ are often laughably out of place, and he seems to forget to iron his clothes.

Background: Peter’s life has often been that of a dilettante; he’s never been fit for, nor has he found the opportunity to, work hard – yet, he has not been able to find a way to get out of this lifestyle and live a leisurely life either. Ever since his childhood he’s lived on a threshold, and as with most people living there, he hasn’t been able to fully appreciate either part. Thus, he has spent most of his life in a dreadful purgatory.

While born in London, he and his family moved to Sussex not long after – nonetheless, Peter proudly describes himself as a Londoner in small talk, despite having spent most of his life elsewhere.

His parents were fairly rich (his mother was a self-help author, and his father was a shareholder in a company supplying electrical appliances), although they weren’t rich enough to let him live the life of a spoiled brat. However, being sent to the better off schools of the country because of this wealth caused him to live with a gap between his friends. Most of them were folks who were getting groomed to become the heirs of family holdings and sitting on piles of wealth, while Peter himself was likely going to get no more than enough money to buy himself a house and a car. Too poor to peacefully exist amongst this elite portion of society, and too rich to not be immediately held in contempt by the lower class, Peter spent most of his childhood and adolescence trying to ‘fit in’.

This is not to say that he wasn’t getting along, however; Peter’s personality had the perfect mix of cheeky impudence and shy naiveté, which led to rather active, if not shallow, teenage years (something that he often brags about to his close friends is the fact that he once got laid with the current President of the LaVoye Conglomerate, and a celebrity in her own right, Clarissa Townshend-LaVoye). Nonetheless, his desire to fit in still got curbed by sheer economical gaps between him and his classmates – he simply did not have enough cash to spend as vacuously as they did. This led to him being brasher in terms of appearance and personality, in an attempt to compensate for the economical difference.

Then one day, his hair gel got set aflame when he stood under a lamp for far too long in the middle of a lesson.

It wasn’t anything crucial; it wasn’t even dangerous or wounding (one of his friends had immediately poured a water bottle down his head, saving him, and ruining his hairdo further), and being the smooth talker he is, Peter managed to make fun of it before anyone else could beat him to it and turn him into a butt monkey. While the incident actually boosted his popularity, deep down it broke something in his heart. Perhaps he realized that trying to fit in so was not doing him all that good. He grew more and more insecure, and slowly faded out of his youthful brashness as time went on (something that may have saved his life, given some of his friends would later die in an elevator accident in a nightclub that he'd also once frequented).

However, Peter wasn’t all that bright (he never has been, admittedly), and without his social drive, he immediately drooped down to mediocrity, getting admitted to a program that he practically had no interest in. After graduating with a degree in Business Management and coming face to face with adult life, Peter realized something – he was rather dissatisfied in life, but had no passions to follow, nor, it seemed, any talent to actually cultivate. He went on a tour of Europe to forget this existential dread of realizing, but having no way to overcome, one’s own mediocrity, and found that he didn’t have much of an interest in art or technology either. If anything, his time in Europe further reinforced the idea that he was a failure, an infertile, drone-like mind in a constantly advancing and changing age.

Thus, Peter did what every person faced with oneself did, and found a lifeless, droll job, one that would keep him busy and tired enough to make sure he wouldn’t have to face himself when he went to bed. Earning a position in NuPharma as Manager of Logistics, partially thanks to his father’s influence, Peter moved to Brighton, although after rumors of involvement in an embezzlement scandal, the company sent him to Taiwan for his ‘excellent behavior’, citing that ‘his outgoing, tenacious personality was sure to help the company expand abroad’.

Peter did not take to his exile kindly. After a year in Taiwan, he quit his position in NuPharma, and after spending about three months doing nothing but fooling around in VR (his contract prevented him from joining any rival company for the duration), he took up a lesser position at Anderson-Ford Pharmaceutical. This new company relocated him to China, where he spent the most desolate six months of his life, moving from one industrial nightmare to another to follow up on his duties, inspecting shipments and trying to make sure that every shipment held true to the ledgers.

China was horrible; a country that had lost its culture and flavor to advancement – to Peter, felt more like an overextended, bloated dystopian movie set than an actual nation with a past. He thought of quitting the job, but, believing it wouldn’t look excellent on his resume and doom him to similar places such as China, he decided against it, and opted to extend his skill set instead, to have a chance of saving himself from this line of work in the future.

He’d already gotten some VR experience in Taiwan, however carnal and unproductive it may have been; after hearing of how some airline companies let people with no formal piloting training take their exams, provided they showed competence in certain VR programs, Peter decided to make this his focus, and immediately upgraded his headset to standard, throwing himself into the world of virtual cockpits.

Soaring through the digital, clear skies was a much more enjoyable experience compared to the unending grey smog of Chinese cities for Peter, and it gave him something to look forward to when returning home from port, after a long day of double-checking container cargo. Not to mention that it turned out he wasn’t half bad at the whole flying business; he’d managed to go through about 25 combat missions without getting shot down in a military simulator, and also could handle VTOL flights in more commercial and utility oriented games.

He was reassigned to Sopahn after six months in China, as part of Common Development Asia’s gradual expansion program. Sopahn, said the employee orientation consultant, was an Eastern gem in the making. As with everything that his superiors lauded and sugarcoated, Peter expected a huge letdown, and found it a pleasant surprise when his expectations were proven wrong. Sopahn wasn’t half bad, compared to his time in China. Plus, Common Development Asia’s overwhelming presence in the city meant that he was a privileged individual anywhere.

Well, almost anywhere.

After a car accident in Dhaar, the bad part of town, Peter found himself responsible for the death of two gangsters. It wasn’t the fact that they were gangsters that made this a problem, for they were the survivors of a small gang with no power (which, Peter would later learn, was practically destroyed that day after their leader got a Molotov to the face). It was just that one of them was the son of a local, politically controversial figure, which got Peter knee-deep in shit when the press jumped on the incident like sharks, claiming how Peter’s callous behavior was not unlike that of the British invaders of long past. Allusions to colonialism, foreign oppression, and similar buzzwords flew everywhere.

Miraculously, he was not fired from Anderson-Ford, but he had to pay a good amount of money to the public prosecutor to drop the case. Things thus once again got in the clear, although Peter made a mental note as to never go through Dhaar again and try to use public transport more. It wouldn’t take much longer anyway, he thought to himself – with some more VR experience, he’d be qualified for a couple of airliner exams, and he could just leave this shithole and get away. He’d heard that Air Taxis were becoming a thing in Munich.

Then one day, he got mail. In it were photos of him handing a snazzy watch and a card to the public prosecutor. Either he was to do as they complied, the mail warned, or these photos would reach plenty of news sites and activist groups. There was no doubt that Anderson-Ford wouldn’t be as forgiving this time, and neither would the law.

What they asked for in return was not much, the letter said – some changes in the shipment ledgers when necessary, and some occasional extra trips to different parts of town. Plus, there was compensation in the business for him. It was a no-risk kind of deal, or so said the letter.

Peter himself thought that he just couldn’t catch a break.

And thus, he found himself shackled to this ‘side business’ of letting Uzbeks nibble away at his ledgers and shipments, and occasionally letting them pay him for compensation. Peter himself suspects with good reason that this is just another way to give him more of a stake to comply, and to get more dirt on him if he ever fucks up. Nonetheless, it seems, he has to play along to get along. God knows what else.

Outlook and Motivations: Peter has a pretty pessimistic outlook on life and practically no motivation to continue further. What could have been a suicidal figure has been repressed by antidepressant usage, a shallow social life that he tries his best to immerse himself in, and personal lack of acceptance. To a more literary and scholarly onlooker, Peter would come across as petty and shallow, even meaningless – to close friends, he comes across as quite similar, but that only means he’s amongst fellow company. His circle of friends is borne of a practically Darwinist necessity; they need each other as to not bear their own company.

He is marked by a lack of passion and lack of interest. His only personal skill being his keen edge when it comes to observation, Peter often comes face to face with the fact that he’s practically living for money, and has gradually accepted his condition as a slave to wages. His money is often spent on hedonistic purposes and adrenaline rushes to make it easier for him to forget about the situation that he’s in.

Capabilities

Language(s): English, Hindi (fluent), Mandarin Chinese (moderate)

Skills:

Pilot: Peter’s got plenty of experience in virtual cockpits, be it flying 120 year old propeller planes in combat, or flying VTOL Air Taxis and helicopters through aerial traffic and skyscrapers in city life simulators. He actually likes it too; one of the few things he’s enthusiastic about, and he’s not half bad at it.

Pitcher: Peter’s broad shoulders and some sort of innate skill have allowed him to become a fairly skilled person at throwing things. He can pitch objects over long distances with considerable accuracy, and pitch them hard. He is simply an unfair fight at darts.

People Person: Peter, with years of white collar life and shallow friendship experience under his belt, finds a way to have ultimately meaningless but still substantial conversations with practically everybody. He’s no orator, but still, he manages to find just the right topics to talk about with everyone, and is smooth enough to keep people listening.

Flaws:

Balls in a Vice: If the Uzbek mafia wished so, Peter would probably get defaced in a corruption scandal, get lynched by Indians, and then get fired, in that order. He doesn’t have much choice but to help them in their businesses when they ask him to, and he constantly has to change his ledgers.

Hey, it’s That Guy: Indians HATE him! Find out how he earned the ire of an entire ethnicity with one simple trick – become a scapegoat for the media! Peter has somewhat of a bad reputation amongst Indians, for good reason, and the poorer classes don’t treat him all too well. God forbid if he’s recognized in a crowd.

Job on the Line: If Peter’s not trying to please the Uzbek Mafia, he’s trying to please Anderson-Ford. He’s got a lot of bad publicity in the job after that car accident business, and he rightfully feels that the company isn’t all that enthusiastic about keeping him around. Without the job, he’s got nothing.

Connections:

• Pudoo Vijay Pratap, Public Prosecutor, Corrupt Government Official
• Aubrey Millwood, Logistics Manager of Anderson-Ford Pharmaceutical
• Mirza Muhammad Babur, Owner of the ‘Bagh-e Babur’ Restaurant, prominent figure in the Uzbek Mafia

Accomplishments:

• Diploma in Business Management, University of Sussex
• NuPharma Manager of Logistics, 2053-2058
• Winner of the NuPharma Managers’ Board Annual Dart Competition, 2058

Crimes:

• Manslaughter x2 (case dropped)
• Bribery x1 (not prosecuted)

Inventory

Cash, saving and debts:

• R3500 in Cash
• R60.000 in Savings at Khariboli Bank International
• R80.000 Overseas

Tools and weapons:

• Pepper Spray
• HandOut Multipurpose Monopod

Electronic devices:

• Haze Gaming VR Headset (at home)
• MicroSoft Folding Holographic Pad
• Samsung SmarTime Electronic Watch
• Samsung SmartEar Headpiece-Translator
• Huawei Holographic Smart Phone

Apparels:

• Classic suit with ‘power ties’ for work
• Casual/relaxed apparel for free time

Credentials and ID cards: Passport (at home), Anderson-Ford ID Card, Driver’s License, VR Flight License

Jewelry and valuables: None

Consumables: Packs of ReBreeze! Non Melting Ice Cream, Strawberry, Kiwi and Mango Flavors (kept in poly cooler)

Load bearing equipment: Wallet, Poly Cooler (kept in the automobile)

Illicit goods: None

Vehicle: Hyundai Coils Hybrid Automobile, Four-Door

Pet and animals: None

Other: Notebook, pen

Rotten Spokes of the Unlawful Wheel

Bahadur Farrukhsiyar Shiri

5'8'' 140 lbs.	Bahadur Farrukhsiyar Shiri Age: 37 Gender: Male Citizenship(s): Indian Date and place of birth: 28 February 2023, Ghazipur, India Official occupation: Food Delivery Driver

Profile

Residence: Greater India Apartments, Dhaar

Affiliation: The Uzbek Mafia

Appearance: Bahadur looks like a figure out of some cyberpunk parody setting, with just how awfully contrasting his appearance is. His face, settled upon an oblong head, is gaunt and sunken, like a date left under the sun for far too long. His nose bends inwards in a curve with a protruding tip that’s canted slightly to the right; his eyes are large, intimidating and expressive, and he often uses eyeliner to further enhance them. His skin is that of a sickly olive color, and his eye color is also similarly a very dark green. His hair color is black, although parts of it have begun to lose color, sending grey streaks throughout.

Having to adhere to the common rules of the poor society, Bahadur’s hair is long (shoulder length) and completely unkempt, although this is also partially to hide the fact that he is balding heavily. He has a short, thick beard that curls inwards, yet to begin graying as heavily as his hair, and he twirls his mustaches to give himself a more intimidating look. When in ‘business’, Bahadur gathers his hair in a ponytail and tucks the ‘tail’ under the back of his jacket to keep his hair from distracting him or give any opening to would-be foes.

Despite his military service, Bahadur definitely is not a physically intimidating figure – he’s not tall, at about 5 foot 8, sickly thin and narrow shouldered. While his muscles are familiar with excruciating labor and exercise, malnourishment, bad living conditions and an overall unhealthy lifestyle have kept them from developing.

Being a criminal from the slums, Bahadur’s clothing manages to be gaudy and extravagant, yet cheap and makeshift at the same time. If he isn’t wearing baggy, loose tracksuits underneath a leather vest, you can often find him in ill-fitting, discount suits from sweatshops, whose owners are happy to let go of their almost hundred year old surplus. Zoot suits, coats, bell bottom pants, Cuban heels and disco shirts colorful enough to induce epileptic fits make up the backbone of Bahadur’s ‘fashion’.

Background: Like most people hailing from India, Bahadur was also doomed to poverty at birth. Born to parents of Pakistani descent, his father Hafez was a barber, while his mother Gulnoor worked in a textile factory. Bahadur was the second child of the family, which meant that, while he wasn’t as busy as his brother Massoud, he still had to do work to take care of his three younger siblings. Living a double life of school at day and work at night until high school (upon finishing high school he would end his education and begin working full time), Bahadur worked alongside his mother, although the factory was closed when he was 18, at which point he found work as a street food vendor, selling samosas and biryani prepared by her mother.

After the youngest child of the family died of dysentery, Bahadur’s mother Gulnoor had a stroke which left her paralyzed from the waist down. His mother no longer able to produce food for him to sell, Bahadur went back into the textile business, although after an argument with one of his bosses that ended in a fight, he drifted unemployed for some weeks. One day, during a family meeting, he overheard one of his uncles brag about how his son had joined the military and was making lots of money as an officer. His pride hurt by the comment, Bahadur himself joined the military soon after for the monetary benefits.

Feeling a degree of impotence because of his small stature in the Army, Bahadur applied to become part of the Ghatak Commandos to prove his worth and get further economical benefits (rumors about how those in the Ghatak were given muscle enhancing drugs may have also played a part). He succeeded – just barely, and in the Ghatak the contrast between him and his fellow soldiers more apparent. This would not last long, however; the brutal and constant training regime quickly bonded everyone closely, despite the uncountable amount of differences between each and every one of them.

Bahadur would serve in the military for almost fifteen years, and get deployed in a Pakistani border skirmish in 2048 and the Assamite Insurgency of 2050-2053, never seeing live combat. Despite the rather monotonous and tiring life, the feeling of providing well for his family helped, there was the prestige of being in the military, and life in the barracks certainly gave him much more orderly life standards. However, he was also estranged from his family, and left far away from his life as a civilian. He would learn of his sisters’ marriages and his father’s death through phone calls, and his brother Massoud getting promoted and moving to Delhi with his younger brother from a letter.

After getting discharged because of a fractured arm at the age of 34 (yet another source of frustration and resentment), Bahadur left for Delhi to find Massoud. Now an assistant manager in a technology store, Massoud was doing quite well for himself. Caring for their mother and funding their younger brother Ahmad’s engineering degree, Massoud received his brother somewhat distantly – while he himself was glad to have him around and appreciative of what Bahadur had done for them, he had to house his wife’s family, his mother and his brother in the same house, and his wife’s mother Humaira certainly did not want Bahadur around her other children. He offered to find housing and maybe a job, but Bahadur refused.

Bahadur did not hold his brother in contempt for his situation in Delhi, and moved back to Ghazipur where he had spent most his life, but found it much different – their house had been long sold and a mall had been built where their neighborhood had once been. Finding his past demolished and his memories long buried under concrete was much more depressing for Bahadur than being unable to live with his family. After meeting an amicable lad named Jahan, who claimed to be an old neighbor of his, Bahadur quickly found in him a business partner, and reentered the biryani business with a food cart attached to a three wheeler.

Jahan was a smart boy, if not somewhat naïve. Despite Bahadur not remembering him at all and thinking of him as nothing but a lonely young figure in a bad position that needed someone to do business with, and saw Bahadur as no more than a suitable candidate, he appreciated having someone around. Jahan was good with numbers, good with people too; thanks to him striking a few deals, the two could buy rice for biryani cheap, and Bahadur used what he remembered of his mother’s recipe to entice customers.

After six months, however, Jahan approached Bahadur with a proposition. He claimed that one of his uncles had set up an actual shop in Sopahn, and that he had contacted Jahan, saying that they could work with him. If Bahadur were to agree, then the two wouldn’t have to work in the streets anymore. Not wishing to keep Jahan in the gutter with his unwillingness to move on, Bahadur accepted, and the two left Ghazipur for Sopahn in pursuit of the Indian Dream.

Sopahn was really no better. Bahadur and Jahan found themselves working in a shitty food joint, with Jahan’s uncle using his family ties and the fact that ‘he brought them here’ as an excuse to emotionally blackmail them whenever they would try to complain about anything. Bahadur was annoyed, but they really had begun making more money, so he kept quiet and waited for better days. But their improving condition didn’t last long; Jahan was electrocuted to death trying to fix the joint’s air conditioner, and Bahadur, blaming the uncle, broke a chair on the man’s back before leaving.

Unable to pay for their old apartment, Bahadur moved to an even shittier housing project in Dhaar called the Greater India Apartments, a place which was, like most things made for the poor, replete with nationalist themes. Bahadur began looking for sweatshops to work in again, but with just how quickly Sopahn developed, it was impossible to find any that could compete against automated factories. Believing that he was doomed to wither here in Sopahn, Bahadur quietly resigned to his fate in the housing project, living off cheap food and waiting for his money to run out.

In one day not unlike the others, Bahadur found one of his neighbors getting beat up by some shady looking types, and in a moment of shining conscience, he asked them to stop, at which point the three thugs turned on him. What would have been a merciless beatdown for Bahadur was cut short when he smashed a bottle on one thug’s head and stabbed another with the broken bottle. Caught unaware, they ran away, screaming bloody murder, demanding revenge. Bahadur wasn’t exactly sure what to think of, but the fellow he saved from a beating quickly beckoned him to come.

He would learn that the fellow getting beat up, named Patel, was not exactly innocent, that he was one of the ‘Wheelers’ – practically an underfed slum gang based in the Greater India Apartments, named such because of the symbol of the housing project, and that the fellows that he’d had chased off were affiliated with a rival gang called the Aprons. Apparently, Patel had been peddling illicit goods and drugs in Apron territory, and that they’d caught him red-handed. Going to the police was out of the option for Bahadur, since that would mean that he’d have to leave again, and he practically had nowhere else to go. He decided to stay his ground.

The entirety of the Aprons came barging in pick-ups a few days later, about a dozen of them with cleavers in hand, looking for Bahadur and Patel. Wheeler presence that day was practically nonexistent aside from a panicking Patel hiding in his balcony. Bahadur deduced that the gang had written him and Patel off as acceptable losses – which was obviously not acceptable for him. Preparing a Molotov cocktail and grabbing a bread knife, Bahadur ambushed three of them when they finally broke into the adjacent room, and after stabbing two and throwing the other down the window, he threw the Molotov cocktail downstairs at the most well-off looking target, setting him aflame.

Having killed the Aprons’ leader and having dispersed their assault, Bahadur immediately grabbed Patel, and after finding a car key on one of the bodies, shoved him into the sole remaining car, saying that either Patel would find a way to get him out of this mess, or that he would beat the shit out of him and throw him off in front of the police station. Patel decided to help, or at least throw Bahadur into the territory of bigger fish and get away, and led him to an Uzbek mafia leader who ran a tandoori store, a man named Babur.

Babur was unwilling to listen to them at first, but after receiving news of the commotion in the Greater India Apartments and learning that it was Bahadur that caused it all, he decided to offer them a meal and hear their story. Impressed with his competence, Babur decided to help Bahadur by letting him lay low in a safe house for a while, although, he warned that, in exchange for Babur’s protection, he would have to ‘handle some business himself’. Bahadur accepted.

The two years that followed were good for Bahadur. He found a job as a food delivery driver, moved back into where he used to live in the Greater India Apartments (with the Wheelers either gone or too afraid to show their faces), and also made earned somewhat of a reputation for himself in the criminal underworld of Sopahn, being at the centre of rumors tied to the Shootout in San’s Disco alongside other things. He’s not sure if the Indian Dream was meant to be this, but nonetheless, violence has done nothing but bring him closer to heaven.

Outlook and Motivations: Bahadur could be called a confused individual – for him, life has progressed in such ways that he has been unable to form a mindset or any sort of ideological outlook, believing that he was too busy working to ever have a chance to think about things or form any sort of opinion. This has led to a very spontaneous, although in the end obedient personality, often acting in the heat of the moment unless asked not to. Having lived in rags for most of his life, Bahadur appreciates the comfort that power has brought to him, and lacking any understanding of human rights, cannot see the ‘illegal’ in illegal activity. He is a decent man, but this does not mean that he obeys the law – his only moral compass is an understanding of ‘decency’. For Bahadur, shooting a man is not something indecent, nor would he hold a grudge against someone who’d shoot him – but in comparison, insulting someone’s family, lecherousness, or a lack of charity are not decent things. Other things he just sees as part of the cycle of life, which is brutal due to its very nature.

Having spent his entire life to provide something for either himself or family, Bahadur is motivated only by comfort or luxury. His political opinions form only when politics seep into his life. If the building that he lives in was to be demolished, he would immediately side with the opposition, no matter what the reasons could be for it. He does not care for the world, the future, or other cultures. If anything, he’s somewhat xenophobic and afraid of the constant change that all these foreigners seem to bring.

Capabilities

Language(s): Urdu, Hindi

Skills:

Cook: Bahadur has memorized his mother’s recipe and knows how to cook a mean biryani, and he’s also pretty good at making lamb korma. Thanks to his sensitive mouth and good taste, he can easily add flavor to his limited knowledge in cuisine.

Quick: Bahadur is known for the speed at which he handles things. He thinks fast, acts fast, and is also very quick on his feet. He prides himself on this, and is not unwilling to get unconventional, dirty and 'out of the box' to solve problems even faster and make up for his small stature when necessary.

Commando: Bahadur has served with the Ghatak Force for fifteen years, having gone through tons of grueling training and constant drill. He has basic wilderness survival skills and knows how to operate and maintain certain firearms, has a good conceptual grasp of close combat, climbing and stealth, and is also a quite good shot and a quick draw.

Flaws:

Not Left Handed: Bahadur, having almost crippled his left arm, cannot extend it wholly for long amounts of time, and doing anything quick means it’s going to hurt like hell. Holding onto things with his left arm or throwing punches are bound to leave him sore in the morning.

Scrawny: Bahadur does not bend easy under pressure, and he recuperates quickly, but he’s easy to uproot. With his unfit stature, bad arm and short height, he can get thrown around quick, and cannot lift heavy objects off the ground easily.

Small World: Bahadur has a small world and has no opinion of what’s going on outside it, and in fact actually avoids it. Any sign of important change unnerves him – the sight of skyscrapers, tilt-rotors and the upper classes can be downright terrifying, and he has an innate dislike for Westerners and the higher classes.

Connections:

• Mirza Muhammad Babur, Owner of the ‘Bagh-e Babur’ Restaurant, prominent figure in the Uzbek Mafia

Accomplishments:

• Service in Indian Army, 2043-2057, Honorable Discharge as Naik (Corporal)

Crimes:

• Murder x12 (suspect for two)
• Breaking and Entering x2 (not prosecuted)
• Bodily Injury x3 (not prosecuted)

Inventory

Cash, saving and debts:

• R2000 in Cash, hidden in apartment

Tools and weapons:

• Ishapore .410 Enfield Shotgun Conversion (not on person)
• Hi-Power Centennial 9x19mm Pistol, unlicensed (gift from the Uzbeks)
• Bear Spray
• Switchblade
• Windproof Lighter

Electronic devices:

• Portable Signal Jammer
• LG Cellphone

Apparels:

• Leather Vest
• Tracksuits and Polos at home and on business
• Cheap suits when on ‘business’

Credentials and ID cards: Citizenship ID, Delivery Service Card, Firearms License

Jewelry and valuables: Mechanical Watch

Consumables: Miswak Chew Stick

Load bearing equipment: None

Illicit goods: None

Vehicle: Auto Rickshaw

Pet and animals: Caged Budgie (At Home)

Other: A Phonebook