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Tricksters and Theives: A Warhammer RP

Emmaline glanced around, relieved that the thrust of the conversation was moving away from murder and rape. She knew that Neil could handle himself, and she could probably manage something with magic but they were literally caught with their pants down. She held up her hands and shrugged in a very distracting manner to focus the eye on her.

"It's a long story," she began, then cast a remorseful look at the chocolate, "one best told over wine and chocolate I suppose. A cheer went up from the bandits and their group cohesion broke appart as they rushed to tear off chunks of the sweet confection. Johann looked annoyed at this but he stopped actively pointing his blunderbuss even if he didn't put it down.

Emmaline started from the beginning, editing the story as she went. She doubted whether these men would be reassured by their other encounters with the ruinous powers, or the skaven for that matter, and she certainly knew better than to mention their association with the Order of the Fiery heart. Emmaline became acutely aware that she had saved her Justicar outfit for a special occasion and that if these bandits rifled her pack she was in real trouble.

"Things were getting rather chaotic so we just took our chances and looted what we could," Emmaline explained making a gesture to the casket of warpstone.

"I don't know if its magical, but every time we open it we seem to be struck by bad luck," she went on, eager to encourage the thieves not to look too closely.

"I'm from Altdorf and I know some people close to the college," she continued, aware of the irony of the statement. "We are betting they will pay us a pretty penny for it, even if it is just to dispose of it safely." Johann nodded along with her explanation.

"The problem with con women is you don't know if they are conning you," he opined, "but you lad seems to have the bones of a thief."

"I'm not conning you," Emmaline said with deadly earnest, then her expression slowly turned from innocent outrage to sly wickedness, "... or am I..." Johann laughed at this and finally set his weapon down.

"Fine, I suppose there is no harm in at least camping together," he grudgingly admitted.

"I wouldn't mind doing more than camping!" one of the band called with a wolf whistle.

"Sorry boys, already been more of a free show than I intended," Emmaline replied, not quite managing to repress a blush.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"You’ll admire it once it’s in," Jocasta mocked. "That’s what he said." Further witticisms were stifled as Markus grabbed her by the elbow and propelled her down the boarding tube. The hatches behind them hissed, and deck plates rang with booted feet as security rushed to cut off their escape.

"Eew! Eeew!" Jocasta protested as they reached the boarding hatch, and they were forced to tramp through the tacky blood of the thoroughly dead honor guard. Markus slapped the hatch control, but it responded with a uniform red light and a squawk of denial. The honor guard had locked the ship out before their messy demise. Plasma bolts began to snap down the boarding tube, and Markus turned and began to return fire, dropping a pair of overeager troopers with impressive headshots that sprayed brain matter and burning hair over their companions.
"Get the door open before they return the favor with grenades!" Markus called. Jocasta put her hand to the panel. It was a biometric lockout designed to prevent exactly what the two mercenaries were currently attempting. Her implants linked her, and she entered the system, flashes of plasma and sharper discharges of slug throwers fading from her mind.

"Any minute now!" Markus shouted as a grenade bounced down the boarding tube. He kicked it like a soccer player, sending it back down the tube to burst with a flash of orange-white fire. Pieces of shrapnel pinged and keened down the tube, and for the second time in a day, the fire suppression system cut in, showering sticky foam from overhead.

The air stank of cordite, ozone, burnt blood, and fire suppression chemicals as Jocasta furiously tried to find a way past the lock. She irritably tried to wipe water from her eyes as Markus continued to fire down the tube, the falling droplets flashing miniature contrails along the plasma bolts' paths. Water. She pulled up the shuttle’s emergency landing protocols. These were hard-coded into the operating system and were relatively undefended, as their purpose was to preserve the lives of the crew in the event of a crash. She activated the water landing subroutine.

The locked hatchway exploded outwards. The hatch combing careened down the boarding tube, propelled by the four explosive charges meant to blow it clear in the event of a crash. Sparks flew in a fireworks display that would have done a Federation Day parade proud. The edges struck and rebounded, scoring bright orange lines in the hot metal as the hatch rocketed down the tube like a pea in a whistle. It crashed into the antechamber that the security troopers were flooding into like a bandsaw, cutting men in half and sending weapons and limbs flying in all directions.

"Solid," Markus remarked laconically. Jocasta wondered if he would be quite so sanguine had he known she had no idea how violently that plan would come to fruition and that if he had been popped out to fire at that instant, he would be splattered across half the space station. She decided not to mention it.

"Time to go," she said, noting with alarm that streams of gas were already escaping the boarding tube, freezing in long icicles where they managed to clog the holes the hatch had opened. As she watched, the gaps grew larger as the boarding tube began to tear itself apart, each seam taking double the strain as the previous one failed. Litter, dust, and droplets of blood began to fly to the breach points, in some cases held in ghastly stasis between two or three.

"Agreed!" she half-yelped and leaped through the hatch and into the interior of the ship, a second or two ahead of Markus. There was a sudden mechanical siren sound, and then the inner airlock door slammed shut as the sensors registered a vacuum outside, another feature of the oh-so-useful emergency system.

"Well," she breathed as she felt the docking tube crack and the ship begin to float free, still attached to a half-dozen meters of metal gangway.

"That went well."

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Junebug moved through the pleasantly alcohol-hazed evening. She had spent the day visiting hangouts and haunts of her youth, most of which were now frequented by a much younger crowd. The few acquaintances and friends they met engaged in the same formulaic, empty small talk—chronicling their lives: who married whom, did you hear what so-and-so is doing, etc. Such conversations invariably petered out because Junebug wasn’t adept at concealing her lack of interest. When asked what she had been up to, she could only respond that she was a starship captain now, which was impressive in a way, but follow-up questions tended to lead to awkward silences.

For Sayeeda, this was not unexpected. After her first five years with the Armored, she had been given six months' leave to come home and had felt the same jarring disconnection from everything. After years of artillery strikes, night attacks, street fighting, and every other permutation of killing for profit, it was impossible to muster interest in who had married whom or where so-and-so was working now. It was easier with Neil by her side; he was not only much more charismatic but also gave a familiar shape to her life, at least by their standards. "She has a boyfriend" was much easier to digest than "she used fuel-air explosives to burn a rebel company to death in a tunnel complex."

The beach, at least, had been pleasant, and they had soaked up some radiation while drinking and swimming in the cool, clear waters. Taya had attracted more than her share of admirers, two of whom she had gone off with to find more nocturnal entertainment. Sayeeda was thinking of the same thing as she half-stumbled into the doorway of a bar with Neil in tow.

"ID, please," a gym-muscled bouncer asked, not quite rude but not exactly friendly either. Junebug laughed and pulled out an ID card—an old skimmer license with her picture from a decade before.

"This is out of date," the bouncer stated flatly. Junebug chuckled and began to square up with the man when a sudden voice chimed in her ear.

"Aunty Sayeeda?" Junebug missed a step, surprised beyond words to hear a voice in her mastoid implant.

"Madge?" Sayeeda responded, startled half-sober.

"Ma'am, if you don’t have ID..." the bouncer started, but Junebug held up a finger in a 'wait one' gesture that made the man flush with anger.

"Madge, how did you..."

"There are men here with guns. They are yelling and they grabbed..."

"Don’t stick your finger up at me, bitch, or I’ll..." The bouncer’s eyes bulged as Neil suddenly stood behind him, bending his arm back at an unnatural angle that made the blood drain from the bouncer's ruddy face.

"Maybe shut your fucking mouth for a minute," Neil suggested mildly, twisting the limb even further to emphasize his point.

"Men with guns? Madge, find somewhere to hide, and I'll be right..."

"I’m already under your bed, I’m using your helmet," the girl said, frightened and proud of herself at the same time. And just how in the seven hells had the girl learned to use a commo helmet?

"Good girl, stay there. I’m on my..." The bouncer swung his free hand at Neil. The pilot danced back and drove a beaked fist into the man's kidney. The bouncer roared and tried to spin to kick at Neil, but Junebug drove her foot into his leg just below his right knee. There was a crack of tendons audible even over his scream of pain as he went down, howling and grasping his leg.

"...way," Sayeeda concluded, the alcohol all but burned from her system by the sudden surge of adrenaline. Other patrons were backing away, and another bouncer was on his way forward. A sudden low-key babble of sound filled her ears, and she realized that Madge must have switched the mic in her old helmet to omni-directional. Clever. Very clever. Sayeeda could hear voices raised in anger as well as heavy boots striking the floor.

Neil didn’t bother asking if there was trouble; he just reached down and plucked the bouncer's keys from his pocket and thumbed the fob. A hoverbike a dozen meters away lifted from the pavement, its turbine clicking then spinning up to a low rumbling idle. He leaped onto the bike, and Junebug followed, throwing her arms around his waist as he accelerated away.

"Where to?" he demanded.

"Home, and see if you can find some way to call the police," Sayeeda called, trying to sift through the information she could gather from the broadcast noise.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

"Isn’t there something you can do?" Davian demanded as the boat rode the waves towards the shore. The Thiefcatcher strained at the oars, trying to keep the craft pointed into the increasingly violent swell. Zoya gripped the tiller bar, using her slight weight to steer against it. The water shoaled rapidly, and white caps frothed around the boat's prow.

"I could perhaps calm the storm, but I can’t hold back the sea," Zoya responded. It was a boast, and even with her angreal, it would have taken days. The One Power couldn't solve every problem, no matter how much one wished.

"Just try to keep the bow facing the shore," Zoya instructed, her control wavering as each swell lifted the tiller from the surf. They rode the waves, rising and plunging as white caps gave way. Without her shield of air, they would have been awash already.

"What do you think I’ve been trying to—" Davian began, cut off by a sudden crash as a submerged rock smashed into the hull, splintering the bow timbers. Sea water surged through in white foam. Zoya was thrown from her seat, crashing into Davian and knocking him into the flooding prow. Before they could disentangle, the next wave lifted the wrecked boat's rear and flipped it over the rock. Zoya screamed as the gunwale struck her, driving her into the surf. The storm's roar was suddenly muted as she was thrust beneath the surface. She gasped for air as the wave carried the boat clear, seeing no sign of Davian through the rain and surf. She called his name once, her voice lost to the wind, then struck out for shore with powerful strokes.

Thank the Light there was a beach, Zoya thought, hauling herself dripping onto dry land. Breathing hard, she turned to the storm, feeling the shift in perspective now that she was safe. Movement to her right startled her, and she turned, embracing the Source, only to find Davian staggering towards her, soaked but alive.

"You’re hurt," he said as rain lashed his handsome face. Zoya stared at him, then followed his gaze to the blood running down her arm, diluted and pink. She pushed back her sleeve to reveal a pressure cut near her shoulder, already swelling with an impressive bruise.

"No matter," she replied, dismissing the injury for now. These Southern Kingdoms were warm, relatively, but the sea and wind had chilled them to the bone.

"We need to find shelter," she suggested, gesturing up the beach where lantana whipped wildly in the wind. They staggered up the beach together to sparse brush.

"Here!" Davian called, pointing to an ancient, half-decayed boat upturned in the sand. It had likely been a skiff long ago, its masts gone, overturned either by survivors or a monstrous tide. Zoya wove a ward that sent rats and spiders scattering, then crawled under the hull's curve. Relief from wind and rain was immediate. Zoya sighed, removing a puzzle box from her waist pouch. None of her treasures had been lost; thank the Light for that. The thought of her ter’angreal at the ocean's bottom sent a shiver down her spine, even more than her own death.

"You're not cold?" Davian asked, hunching into his sodden garments. Zoya looked up, surprised. Ignoring heat and cold was an old Aes Sedai trick, part of their meditation on the Source. Consciously, she felt the chill and numbness. Reaching out with the Power, she wove fine filaments of fire over an exposed rock, which radiated heat.

"You are handy—" Davian started, jumping back as Zoya's eyes rolled back until only whites showed. The puzzle box jerked from her hands, hovering before Davian. Its facets twisted, greasy, before clicking open like a flower. Light poured in a solid column, then split into a three-dimensional map from coast to inland. Davian peered, following the strange vision to a northern grasslands chasm. Abruptly, the image vanished, the puzzle box closing into a solid cube. Zoya, held still throughout, sighed and slumped unconscious, the warmth fading from the stones.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Emmaline’s head pounded like a drum as consciousness sluggishly returned. The rattle of coach wheels across uneven roads added an additional layer of unpleasantness to her awakening. Her mouth tasted bitter with the aftereffects of the ether Lucien had used to knock her out, and she wanted to spit. Something blocked her mouth, and she began to struggle and curse. A moment later, the black shroud over her vision was pulled free, and painful lances of sunlight stabbed into her eyes.

“Mrrrmmph,” she groaned into the gag between her teeth. All in all, it felt like all the hangovers she had ever had rolled into one. With the deliberate care of a clockmaker, she opened one eyelid, slitting it immediately against the daylight. It took her a moment to make her protesting eyes comply, but she gradually comprehended that she was in a plush coach moving through thick forest. This was true forest, like the Drakwald, rather than the pleasure parks of the rich, its undergrowth thick and wild-looking. She shivered, uncomfortably aware that beastmen and worse things lurked in such dark places.

“We can take the gag out if you promise to behave,” a gruff voice suggested. Emmaline opened her other eye and focused on a muscular man in a leather jerkin and flared halberdier trousers tucked into scuffed riding boots. His head was shaved, though not recently judging by the fuzz of stubble on his scalp, and though he had no obvious weapons, he had the look of a veteran. Emmaline nodded, immediately regretting it as a wave of nausea swept over her. The thug reached over and untied the twisted linen gag from between her teeth.
“Water…” she croaked, momentarily forgetting to maintain her Brettonian accent. Fortunately, the sound that came from her parched throat was too unintelligible to decipher.

“One of the benefits of traveling in style, mademoiselle, is we don’t have to bother with water,” the thug said, his hatchet-hard features splitting into a grin that showed a glittering gold tooth on the right side. He opened a sideboard and pulled out a bottle of wine, removing the cork with a twist of his wrist and a hollow thunk sound. Emmaline tried to reach for it but found her hands bound behind her back. The thug lifted the bottle to her lips and poured a mouthful in. She drank greedily, rinsing the bitter taste from her mouth and wetting her parched throat.

“Will you be civil if I untie you?” the thug asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Oui,” Emmaline replied, twisting her torso to expose her hands. The man dutifully untied her, and she felt the prickling sensation of blood rushing back. Outside, the carriage rattled over a small bridge and began to climb a series of shallow switchbacks along a ridge. Ahead of the coach rode a quartet of pistoliers, trotting along as outriders. Turning around seemed an impossible effort, but she thought she could detect the hoofbeats of more horsemen to the rear.

“What is your name?” Emmaline asked her companion as she took the wine bottle from his hands and drank deeply.

“Jan Colditz,” the man introduced himself, pulling another bottle of wine from the sideboard and uncorking it with his teeth.
“And before you ask, we are taking you to one of Lord Schroder’s estates until he can arrange for your marriage,” Colditz explained. Emmaline was about to ask what kind of estate could exist in the middle of a forest when the coach crested a rise, and the view opened up over a narrow valley. The green valley had been extensively terraced with orchards and gardens trained along the sides of the hills. A large manor house occupied a flat area that ran for several hundred feet before the valley dropped to a broad stream at the bottom. Emmaline thought she could detect a smudge of smoke on the southern horizon, possibly Uterngard if anything Shroder had said could be believed. Scores of miles of trackless wilderness in all directions, she thought, the perfect place to keep a prisoner.

“It’s probably to one of his vassals so deep in debt that he will sign over your lands the second the ink is dry on the marriage contract,” Colditz said, a trifle apologetically. Emmaline concealed a hysterical giggle, wondering how long she would survive after that. That assumed Schroder didn’t learn she was about as Bretonian as a dwarf. The coach slowed at the top of the ridge, passing through a fortified gatehouse of stone and half-timber that covered the road through the forest. Armed men waved the coach through, sunlight glinting off handgun barrels.

“Welcome to Niederung,” Colditz intoned, lifting his wine bottle in salute before draining the contents in a single long pull.

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

"They aren't turning," Davian declared as the distance opened up between the ship and the rowboat. It slid up and down over the long rolling storm waves, tiny and insignificant against the majesty of the sea. Zoya gripped the gunnels on both sides, holding herself steady as they plunged down the face of one of the mighty waves. Ironically, she found this less unpleasant than the ship, having grown up on the shadow coast, hauling crab pots for her various uncles and relations until she had run away from home and began the long road that ultimately took her to Tar Valon.

"They can't, they'd be in irons if they tried, and they can't tack across the face of the wind, not with this swell," She explained, bracing herself as the nose of the boat plowed into the trough and began rising up the other side.

"Sure, whatever you say," Davian replied, pulling hard to keep the boat from turning side on and being swamped. Zoya closed her eyes and embraced Saidar, weaving a shell of air around them. The rain which had been pouring in began to patter on the shield, an extremely eerie effect as water struck nothing the naked eye could see. When they next crested the wave the ship had vanished behind a curtain of rain. Probably they were happy to be rid of their last minute guests.

"You can stop rowing," Zoya said, "We will be driven inland by the waves, and we wont capsize while the shield is in place." Davian reluctantly let go of the oars.

"So why did you?" Zoya asked in the oddly peaceful silence that followed.

"Why did I what?" Davian demanded.

"Why did you help me in the Stone?"

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Jocasta considered her options. Fast as she was, accurate as she was it was unlikely she could take the man out before he squeezed the trigger. Even if she managed it there was every possibility he would squeeze the trigger in his death throes and kill Neil just as dead as if he deliberately pulled the trigger. Cygi was nowhere to be seen, obeying her instructions not to reveal herself to hostiles unless it could bring Jo an advantage and a swarm of giant killer bees or whatever zany form Cygi chose as a distraction wasn't going to turn the tide.

"Fine, fine..." Jocasta said, clicking the safety on and tossing the weapon into a waste bin with a metallic thunk.

"You owe me a new pool table," Jocasta accused the interloper crossly. The stranger chuckled and jammed the muzzle of his gun harder into Neil's back.

"Consider it compensation for the two men you killed," he sneered.

"They were like... half a pool table's worth at best," Jocasta replied.

"Yes, I was warned of your wit Miss Ap'Glynn," the unknown gunman replied, showing no signs of being amused.

"Hey my mother was Miss Ap'Glynn you can call me.... actually I suppose its fine," she conceded.

"I appreciate a good claim jump, I really do but perhaps we can come to some kind of a deal which will restore my pool table to its former glory? We could start with your name?" she suggested.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

No one liked being examined by priests and Witch Hunters. Least of all actual witches. It came as a considerable relief to be pronounced free of taint, a fact no wizard was ever entirely confident of, but a lingering feel gripped her of what Kasimir might say. A word from him to his father might see her imprisoned, even executed. This northerners were touchy about their honor afterall and it would ill behoove the count to tolerate having his entire court hoodwinked for a season. Eleanor showed no sign of her misgivings over the wine and roasted pheasant they were served for dinner but plead exhaustion and retired early to her chambers. She did not however to to sleep.

"Thank you fair meeténg mé mon laird," Eleanor whispered. Lucien Schroder nodded conspiratorially. The pair of them were in the Rose Garden, one of the cloisters of the palace which had been given over to the cultivation of the snow white roses for which Middenheim was famous. It was well after midnight and it hadn't been easy to evade the guards who were on high alert after the disastrous theatrical show hours before.

"Of course mon Cheerie, though when I received your note, I rather hoped it was my charm which had inspired this midnight assignation," he chuckled. Eleanor simpered prettily. She was dressed in a dark traveling dress and coat, a small satchel over her shoulder that contained the jewelry, gold, and promissory notes she had amassed in six months in the Court of the White Wolf. It was quite a score, even by Altdorf standards where the cost of living life was high. Well, the cost of living the way Emmaline planned to was high.

"Ai did not know whaire elsé to turn," she replied to the hooded and cloaked lord, wringing her hands for theatrically effect.

"What can I do for you my dear," Lucien returned in a smooth soothing voice, the same tone you might use for a dog or a panicy animal.

"Ai need to gét oot of lé citay men 'ave tried to keehl me many times een ze past fu dais et ai fair if ai do not gét oot of haire now ai shall névair see mon belovéd Brettonia again," she fraudulently confessed. Lucien paused for a long moment, either considering her words or trying to puzzle out her outrageous accent.

"Ah," the nobleman said at last. "Don't you have the Counts bast...ah that is natural son to look after you?" Eleanor laughed with bitterness that she didn't need to simulate. Kasimir might very well 'look after her' if or when he told anyone what he knew, which probably wouldn't be long because he was spiteful and thick to boot.

"Look aftair me? Ze count méans to marry me to ze brute zo 'is sprog can claim a rich estate ét be far from la public eye hairé at curt, regardléz of mon feelengs abut zit!" she protested. Lucien nodded his eyes clearing as his hatred for Kasimir clouded his judgement just as Emmaline had known it would.

"And no one knows we are meeting?" he asked, still a trifle nervous. Eleanor shook her head.

"I can get you out of here, I have estates around Utenguard and no one will question my coach leaving they city even this late but we must go now," Lucien urged. Emmaline repressed a frown, a con woman's instinct warning her when something was going a little too well.

"Ai must gathair mon thengs," she temporized and turned to leave the garden. Light exploded across her vision and she was suddenly laying in the grass her vision swimming. Two men were standing over her, with rougher boots than Lucien's fine riding shoes.

"I do have a coach madmosielle, and it will take you out of the city, but that quaint little county of yours wont be going to the bastard Kasimir," he promised. A bag was thrust over her head and something sweet, cloying and wet was shoved up against her face. Everything went black.

She was unconscious when the coach clattered out of the city, unchallenged, just as Lucien had said.

Shields of the Empire

Phaedra stared down at the reddish purple fruit pondering how you were supposed to eat it. Eudoxia has found it in the saddlebag of one of he dead Khareeds and passed it along. Phaedra suspected this was less out of generosity and more because the other woman was as uncertain as how to eat it as Phaedra was and didn't want to look the fool. Looking around to make sure she wasn't observed Phadera took an experimental bite of the fruit only to find the rind tough and bitter. She spat it out and put two fingers into the bite, pulling the thing appart with a gentle crack. The interior seemed to be white pulp around dark red nodules. She pulled a few free and put them in her mouth finding them to be sweet and tart.

The afternoon was wearing on and there was a worrying cloud of dust on the western horizon. The Khareeds they had fought were a detachment of that larger force, probably a rearguard that had realized that the Imperials had doubled back during the previous night. Phaedra was constitutionally unable to take infantry very seriously, but even the mightiest mare could be taken down by a sufficient number of ants, and that host had plenty and more Khareeds beside. Worse still if they waited to morning they would be fresh, not like the force they had just bested that had been eating dust all day.

The cataphracts were busily looting the enemy dead and gathering up their own dead. Here and there brief squabbles were erupting over the privileges of plunder. The cataphracts were taking the natural position that all the enemy dead that had fallen before the infantry line were their by right, wheras Brasidas' men were of the opinion that this was a team effort and thus everyone had equal right to the loot. For the most part her Tetrarchs were breaking up the squabbles. The thrill of victory was keeping the arguments good natured and in several places trades were taking place, jewelry for coins, food for wine skins.

"First," Phoebe called as she trotted up, followed by the former princess royal - now Miravette apprentice - Tachmeena. The girl had been dressed in the armor of the dead member of Phoebe's Tetrad she had replaced, and had a sprig of local brush tied around her neck in place of Miravette wood. Her lustrous hair had been gathered back into a severe pony tail and her face was sweat and dust stained in the aftermath of the battle. Phaedra hoped Phoebe had kept her back during the battle, but judging by her half empty quiver she had at least contributed something.

"Good spoils, but we are short on wood for pyres," her Lieutenant reported. Phaedra nodded, the spirits of the dead would be delayed if their bodies were not burned, a constant problem in this tree poor wilderness.

"We can tear down buildings in the town," Phoebe suggested, inclining her head to the half destroyed village. Phaedra shook her head though not exactly in contradiction. Her eyes were still on the dust cloud. They could be here by nightfall if they rode hard, though she doubted they would risk a night fight after an exhausting march.

"We aren't going to have time..." she trailed off as Brasidas and Tychon climbed the small rise towards them.

"I'll talk to our esteemed commander first but lay the dead out in the houses, then get everyone busy collecting arrows, ours, theirs, whatever you can get." Phoebe nodded and turned to begin shouting orders. Phaedra clashed her fist to her chest in semi ironic salute at the approaching men. She scooped out another few mouthfuls of the fruit and chewed as they approached.

"A fine day's work," she commented, sweeping out a gauntleted hand to encompass the bloody field, already infested with buzzards and circling crows.