POOHEAD189

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

Davian had a sour look. He had not had a proper sword duel in months, and he yearned to feel the clatter of steel on steel. The pressure on his arm when he drove a point home. It sounded brutal when one said it outloud, but such was the way in his homeland. They dueled as easily and readily as breathing, but only when the opportunity truly called for it, at least to their eyes. Still, he was not against a match with fists. Davian was taller, likely stronger, and without a doubt more experienced than Gil, unless the unassuming rat of a man was secretly a warder or a hunched aielman.

Davian stripped off his tunic, and though his torso was not bare, the thin white linen starkly contrasted his sunkissed skin and black tousled hair. He rolled his sleeves up, revealing a burn on his left forearm, and the end of a small scar against his right elbow. Gil, seeing Davian was not intimidated, was a bit perturbed, but he stepped into the center of the deck anyway from the raucous laughter and comments from the other crewmen.

"Just hold your tongue and I'll let you walk away." Davian remarked, taking a practiced stance, fists held close to his body as he bent his legs.

"Don't insult me, stowaway!" Gil snarled, and it was as good a bell as any. Davian leaped forward, but feinted, using his long legs to dance back before he even bothered to swing. Gil swiped, but hit only air. Davian pivoted and leaped back into range before an eye could blink, and his fist connected with Gil's cheek. The man grunted and was stunned, but he didn't stumble. It was too quick and with little power. Davian's next fist did not have handicap, hitting Gil in the stomach like a sledgehammer. Gil doubled over, but sailors were nothing if not stubborn. He used the swinging of his upper torso to launch himself forward, trying to grapple with Davian. The thief-taker was caught, and the two went down in a cacophony of limbs and curses. Davian had to admit the seadog gave him a few good bruises, but within moments, the man from Ebou Dar had his arm around his neck. Davian squeezed, and it was only Zoya shouting his name that got him to let up, and it was then he realized the men had already been attempting to loosen the clamp that was his arm.

Gil was almost blue in the face, and he gasped for air like a man in the desert supping water. The Captain looked relieved, keeping Davian at bay with his hands on the thief-taker shoulders. Gil was helped to his feet, the scraggly sailor baring his teeth in frustration. He glared daggers at Davian, shoving his crewmates off of him. A few notable men did not aid him, watching with satisfied expressions as if they had been waiting for someone to make a fool of him.

"This isn't over!" Gil said, pointing at Davian with a fat finger. Above, the clouds roared with thunder, and distant flashes shimmered in the clouds. The men grumbled, eyeing him. Davian knew they, despite being his crew, they wanted him to accept the decision of the fight. A few started at Davian, as if to blame him for not losing like a decent landlubber. Gil stood apart from the rest, having pushed his fellows away to keep his dignity. He groaned, but at their looks, he acquiesced. "I'll hold my tongue, but the sooner you and that witch are off this boat, th-"

There was a clap, as if the creator himself had struck a cosmic anvil with a hammer the size of the world. Davian's sight went white, and then immediately dark. His ears rang, and for a moment he felt as if he was outside of the very wheel itself. But gradually, the world came back to him, and as the formeless floor and shapes of men began to grow more solid in his vision, he saw what had happened.

Gil was no more than a smoking ruin on the deck, having been struck by lightning.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir actually agreed with Eleanor, at least when it came to real battle. He had never been in an engagement beyond a skirmish, but Kasimir had survived around half a dozen situations where he had to fight to live, twice by beastmen and once by orcs. He was not above using guile and wiles to win, but he was surprised Eleanor would have the same opinion. Or surprised that she would show it, more like, he thought to himself. Still, when it came to a melee, a part of him did maintain that winning should be done fairly, because the entire point of it was the show. If you did not win the crowd, winning the fight did little. You wanted to show you were good while also acting in a manner befitting a knight, or people would not endorse you.

Then again, if there was prize money, he couldn't fault Kreiger if he got paid a pretty penny.

It was her next question that surprised him the most. At first he thought he misunderstood her, but when he saw she looked at him expectantly, he took a moment to think. How much did he want to say to her? And why did she care, really? He supposed he did save her life an hour before. Or maybe she simply knew he wanted nothing from her. Still, she looked thoughtful, and he found himself answering as if it were someone else talking. "No... Well, I suppose I should be. I get to eat when so many people don't, I get to attend tourneys and plays. Hells, many men would fight duels for the right to accompany a woman like you," He admitted, shrugging so as not to have her read too much into that. He was surprised he said it, himself. But it was true, as much as she annoyed him, she was beautiful and clearly intelligent. He looked at the tourney grounds, the squires aiding Ulf out of the arena. "But I don't think so."

She was clearly surprised at the evident compliment, but appeared thoughtful of the entirety of his answer. The woman asked. "Why iz zat, Kissymir?"

"I guess I feel trapped. I suppose I feel like I'm always the last on everyone's list, or the first to be blamed. Just one poor comment from being tossed into the street, and it's not even based on my own merit, at the end of the day. Just on other's opinions of me." He glanced at her. If she was a noblewoman, this was likely foreign to her. And if she wasn't, he still didn't know if she cared. "I suppose that sounds silly."

After she responded, he would ask her the same question.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

Markus sat at the cockpit out of habit, and made himself busy by jerryrigging the controls to open the hatch for them when they arrived. Jocasta poked her head in, and then plopped down on the seat beside him as he worked. There really was no need for a cockpit, but it was there in case of emergencies if passengers were aboard. Once Markus asked her about her plan for the God's Eye, she retorted in her usual tongue-in-cheek manner, and he gave a small grin to himself.

"If we did that, then he wouldn't know it was us who took his ship." He told her, bending down to realign a few wires. She watched him with her arms crossed on the small, albeit thick railing between their chairs.

"I heard you were wanted in a few star systems. Do you really want to be chased more, or do you just want to be popular wherever you go?" She asked.

"Like I said," He grunted, pulling himself out from under the dash, running his hand through his thick head of dark hair. "You don't have to help if you don't want to." Markus fell back into the chair and got comfortable for the remainder of the journey.

"I could never leave my darling fiancé in his time of need!" Jocasta said in a high-pitched, whimsical manner, dramatically laying her head on his shoulder, her thick hair tickling his nose. He glanced at her and smirked at her shakespearean manner.

"I'll trust your plan, babe." He told her to play along, reaching up to flip a switch on the top panel. Markus sighed, thinking about through the last few days in his temporary partnership with Jocasta. It was true she was crazy, but to his surprise, it wasn't in a dangerous way. He wouldn't say he was bad with people, but no one was going to hand him a public relations medal anytime soon, yet he felt like Jocasta had a magic key that opened up any door, either through guile or her hacking skills. That, coupled with the fact she could at least hold her own in a fight, despite himself he was considering offering her a partnership. Usually he worked alone, but despite himself she was growing on him quickly. "But to your question, infamy can be a good thing in our line of work."

"It's good to be a target for bounty hunters?" She asked wryly.

"That's an added risk, but a reputation gets you jobs." He remarked.

"Jobs where people screw you over?" She chimed in with a dazzling smile.

He chuckled. "That's my point. If we pull this off, some potentate will think twice before double crossing us. And the others will know we keep our word and get jobs done."

The lovely woman lifted her head and placed her hands together, bowing to him with her eyes closed. "Thank you Sifu, you are as wise as you are handsome."

"Flattery won't get you extra credit." He replied wryly, checking the ETA on the screen. Still fifteen minutes to go before visibility.

"And what would? I can do a handstand too. Shall I belly dance? Once we get your sword I can juggle it?" She asked each question with a different cadence, clearly having fun teasing him.

"We'll discuss it over drinks-"

"That you're paying for." She pointed out amusedly.

"Yeah, yeah."

The ship began to rumble as it slowed its ascent, and a red light pinged above them. In the distance, the God's Eye floated much as it had two days when Markus had arrived with the mutants. This time, he wouldn't leave without a prize.

At The Edge of The World

"You've made yourself comfortable here, haven't you?" A voice spoke with a clipped andredian accent, much like hers. Emmaline turned from her letter, and saw a man she did not recognize. He was perhaps a few years her senior, with a wide brimmed hat and a green tunic that hugged his torso. His blue eyes were grim, and he wore a smile that could cut glass. "And you're a lady of the aristocracy now, I hear?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't order any wine, but it seems you already partook enough." Emmaline replied back, doing her best not to appear intimidated.

"They told me you were clever, though they didn't inform me of your considerable assets beyond that count." He said, and stepped into the room, sliding his hands into his pockets as he glanced around. "I'm not here to do you or your boytoy any harm. I'm just here to remind you where your loyalties lie. You still owe quite the debt, and there a handful of people in this city who would be very glad if you were of the mind to pay it back."

He pulled out a carefully folded cloth and tossed it on the bed. "No need to worry now, just know some will be watching. We'll be in touch, shortly."

He left without another word, and when Emmaline picked up the cloth and unfolded it, she found the black marked symbol of the Occult Bastion upon it.

---

I felt like he was chasing a ghost. As fast as I ran, the hooded figure was just barely at the corner of my vision, ducking into alleys and sliding up causeways. Small tendrils of the great river pierced the city in rivulets, and at one point when I had leaped to the wall and pushed off of it, soaring over a screaming woman carrying a basket of fruits, I watched in similar awe as the figure leaped across one of the canals. I decided to change tactics, remembering the layout of the city from his youth. It looked like the hooded figure was fleeing toward the south eastern section of the city, and so instead of following, I made a quick decision and turned right, running down the street that hugged the canal, nearly colliding into a coach led by two horses of immaculate breeding.

"Who in Jarsom's arse?" A poshed voice cried from behind a tinted window.

"Sorry!" Was all I managed to say to whom I presumed was a lord of the enclave, and sprinted left up the bridge and over it, then skidded right again to run perpendicular up a pathway walk. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to see the architecture and style of the city again. It brought back a lot of memories. The sumptuous decoration and soaring spaces of the inner city and the well-paved inlaid stone streets were the envy of many cities along the coastline. Black swampstone and imported materials from across the exotic south made a stately and eye-catching assortment of buildings. It was lucky for him that he ended up running into a veranda that was not currently occupied.

As I made it to a crossroad between apartments, I caught the cloaked figure flying past my eyes. I growled determinedly and leaped, and with a strong arm, I managed to grab hold of the cloak and yank it back. The figure stumbled, but rose up like a cobra, spinning. Somehow it had a sword in its hand, the blade a blur that nearly cut my head in two. I ducked, but there was too much momentum to do so without concern. So I threw my head and torso back and caught the floor with my hands, lifting my feet to strike the figure center mass. I felt my boots connect with something solid, and the figure crashed through the wooden shutters of a maisonette, hitting the floor with a roll as the sword clattered atop the tiles. I was on it like a pouncing tiger, grabbing the prone form by its collar and lifting its hood.

"What the fu..." I breathed. The grotesque state of the man, or what was once a man, gave him pause. Half of his face was cracked like cooled magma or charred wood, its eye an empty socket that glowed red. It hissed, and grabbed at my forearm. Immediately, I felt something inhuman and painful from the touch, and I pulled away, hurriedly.

"You will not stop us." The thing croaked, its tongue lashing against its lips. "We have foreseen your doom."

"I don't even know you!" I remarked, exasperated. Still, when the thing went for its sword again, I went for my axe. Luckily, I was the quicker, and before two beats of a heart, its head rolled across the floor and then burst into ashes, as if something had built up pressure and caused it to rupture.

"Evergod save me," I muttered, and wiped my hands on my trousers. I took the strange looking sword the thing had reached for, grabbed what gold was off the man, and wound up both in a torn part of the cultist's cloak. Then, prudently, I ran away from the scene as quickly and quietly as possible to keep any odd questions finding their way to me. And on the way back, though, I found himself in the marketplace.

There was faint music wafting across the air, and a general murmur of haggling and laughter. It seemed I had eluded the authorities, and felt a sense of calm wash over me, feeling casual and upbeat here. I saw a man selling vintage bottles of alcohol from across the world, men and women of varying ethnicities and accents whispering to one another as they surveyed his stock. I was never much of a drinker, but I did see something I couldn't believe, and what's more, I recognized. Maybe I could...

Ten minutes later, I marched up the stairs of the inn and stepped to the door of my new room with Emmaline, and knocked with three solid rapts. When Emmaline opened, I had prepped myself for a scene, casually leaning one hand against the doorframe, a rose in my mouth. In my other hand, I held a bottle of stout glass of dark liqud, and on the front it said "Bolgar's Best Brew." A dwarven stout. I wriggled my eyebrows. "Bought you something, babe." I announced, then shrugged. "I got some good news and some strange news." I stepped in, kicking the door closed behind me. "The good news is, as I hinted, this bottle is yours. Only the best for my big booty girlfriend. Strange news, well..."

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The chamberlain had informed Kasimir that today they would be attending a mêlée, followed by lunch in the form of a feast, and then a theatrical production in the great atrium. All grand opportunities for Eleanor to be presented to an eligible bachelor, and all prime ways to get herself killed. Much to Kasimir's chagrin, that meant he would have to experience all of them. Perhaps the mêlée was not so bad, and it depended on which play was being performed. He had gained a taste for the arts in Altdorf, but just a taste. He still was not a diehard melodrama fan like some southern nobles or high-class merchants.

He lead her east through the palace, passed depictions of ancient battles and paintings of more recent excursions into the drakwald. Wolf pelts and well polished weapons were hung on display, and long drape curtains were embroidered with fatalistic, gothic motifs. Most southerners would have found it barbaric, but despite Kasimir's education, he felt a sense of nostalgia moving through these halls again. Unfortunately, it was not the only blast from the past he was going to view on their way to the ballroom.

The corridor hit a four way cross section, and before the bastard and his cargo could pass through to the eastern wing of the palace, a man Kasimir instantly recognized stepped out of the left hallway.

Lucien Schroder, Vicount of the Middle Mountains and Marchwarden of the Grand Gates, raised his brow and smiled wickedly. No one else would have noticed the scowl on his face that had so quickly vanished. He was the richest man in the realm, bar the Graff, though he had very little lands to his name. The Middle Mountains, though rich in minerals, were an infestation of goblins and other foul creatures. As a favor to his father, Boris Todbringer had gifted him the honorific of Marchwarden of the Grant Gates, as the family spent most of their time in the capital, and the title had passed to Lucien. Kasimir and he had never liked each other, even as small children.

"Ah Kasimir, have you been avoiding me?" He asked, his voice smooth and subtle. He was not unhandsome, with brown hair swept back and a broad face, though he wouldn't be called strapping or raffishly striking like the Graf's bastard. If Kasimir was a sturdy longsword; lean, dangerous, with some rust from previous battles, then Lucien was a ceremonial basilard; polished, cultured, but unsullied. His long blue tunic was embroidered beautifully with white thread, yet he carried himself as if it was a simple dayly coat. "Rumor has it you're Lady De Aberville's newest suitor."

Kasimir tried to keep his face neutral. "Hardly, my lord. I am responsible for her safety, and as such I am tasked with attending to her and accompanying her to what events she is wont to go. Beyond that I care little." He shrugged, glancing at Eleanor who watched with sharp eyes. "Court her if you wish."

For his part, Lucien inclined his head at Eleanor. "Every nobleman in middleheim would be delighted to hear it. And as her ward, you would do well to introduce me."

Kasimir did so without enthusiasm, letting Eleanor know just how wealthy he was. Perhaps Lucien could solve his problem here and now and the both of them would go elsewhere, but something kept the Vicount from asking her, currently, though he did appear to look at her as though she were a piece of meat. When Kasimir was finished, Lucien turned his blue eyes on him, a smile returning to his face. That meant something treacherous was on the way.

"I imagine, lady Eleanor, it must be a chore to have to deal with him." He said, his eyes never leaving Kasimir. Next he spoke directly to the bastard. "I had always thought you would make a fine upjumped bodyguard. It seems that is all you can amount to."

Kasimir would not take the bait. Instead, he bade Eleanor forward, attempting to step past the unpleasant Vicount. "My father, in his wisdom, evidently agrees with you. If you'll excuse us, my lord."

"Your father? The Graf you mean." Lucien corrected him from behind his back. The Vicount turned, and it was clear he was trying to provoke him, though it was also evident he believed every word he spoke. "Being his bastard does not exonerate you from tradition. And some of us are still unconvinced... you certainly do not look like him."

The bastard halted at that. "Nor do you, yet you strut around as if you're next in line to inherit. I would cease your incessant scheming my lord. That too, has not gone unnoticed." Kasimir replied without looking back. He did not even address him as 'my lord.' It was a cold statement. Lord Lucien's eyes flared, and he stepped forward, his hand under his surcoat as if grasping a blade. Suddenly, Eleanor stepped between them, her hand out as if to allow him to kiss it.

"Eet iz a puh-leazsher to meet you, mon Seigneur," She said. He blinked, unsure of what to do for a quick moment, before bowing before her and taking her hand in his to give a gentle kiss.

"The pleasure is mine, la dame." He replied sweetly. "I have been to Brettonia, though not to Couronne. I look forward to speaking to you-" His eyes flicked to Kasimir, who awaited Eleanor. "-alone."

The pair of them left him there to continue with his business, and shortly arrived to the ballroom, where the feast was being prepared. The doors to the kitchen were wide open, and after a a brief discussion with one of the maids, they brought out a sizeable glass plate with grooves beyond its center, carved in small intricate designs of flowers and woodland shapes. Upon it was numerous, fairly large balls of chocolate coated with shells made of sugar and corn syrup, the result being a sweet treat with a a crunch. Eleanor took the plate greedily and popped one into her mouth, and an elated 'mmmm oui, iz délicieux!' escaped her lips.

After she had devoured four, Kasimir design to try one. He reached for one of the balls, but she smacked his hand. "Non, ze ees mes bonbons!" She remarked, haughtily. Kasimir gave her a look, but shrugged and turned, eyeing the door in case anyone entered the large, now mostly empty room to threatened Eleanor's life. A few moment's later, he heard her voice say "Erm, Kissymir? I 'ave a ques-chun, iv you would answere?"

"I wouldn't worry. Your split ends are hardly noticable." He remarked dryly. He heard her give an intake of breathe, but whether to laugh or pout, he wasn't certain. The next moment, he heard a strange 'hhhrrrk', and a moment of silence. Kasimir turned at the curious noise, and he found Eleanor standing there with her eyes wide, a slim hand reaching for her neck. Her lips opened, but no sound came out. She dropped the plate, the glass shattering on the floor and reached for her throat with both hands, panic in her face.

Kasimir's face went from tired to alert, and he moved without thought. Sweeping around behind her, he place his strong hands just above the belly button and below the ribcage, and gave her three solid thrusts. On the third, a wet, sweet ball flew out of her mouth and hit the floor, rolled across the tiles. She coughed, gasping for lungfuls of air, but within moments the color came back to her cheeks. Kasimir let waist go, but held her forearm and hand to keep her steady.

"Are you alright, Eleanor?" He asked breathily.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

He wiped the sweat from his brow, brushing aside the fringe of his hair with a quick toss of his head. The room was like a puzzle, with and no doubt when he was done placing everything in their correct spots, la dame headache would no doubt want him to switch it around once again. It would be his pleasure to tell her no, but he did admit he had a certain responsibility to her happiness and well being now. A part of him wondered if he should abscond from the capital again, take what money he could find and make a living for himself back in Altdorf, or maybe go to Kislev. He would rather that than be the glorified babysitter to this one.

"Kissymir, Ai need zees! Kissimyr, Ai am in need of zom more seer-vants!" He mocked in a faux brettonian accent, shoving another one of the many hundreds of pounds of furniture to where they would best be suited. Usually he was not so juvenile, but Eleanor of Coucernne had a way of rankling his nerve.

She called to him again, and he grunted in response. He went to go do as she wished, but once he had returned, the situation had changed drastically. He found Eleanor stumbling out of the room, and a man with a severed arm and death in his eyes falling to his knees, a dagger clattering to the floor. Guards rushed to the scene from his call, and they swept passed Eleanor into the room, swords raised and eyes darting across the room.

Eleanor sat on the floor, stunned for a moment, before she began to cry.

"Are you hurt?" Kasimir demanded.

"Non Non but mon mak up eez ruined," she wailed.

Kasimir sighed, and sheathed his sword. For a moment he lamented this task his father had given him, yet again, but looking at her there with tears in her eyes, he felt his disdain turn to a modicum of sympathy. He suspected she was a liar and a charlatan, and at best she was an overdressed popinjay. But someone had tried to kill her twice, and as someone who had experienced the same, he felt a rapport despite himself. Kasimir knelt before her.

"We'll fix your make up before we go out, madame." He told her, trying to make his tone tender and reassuring. "And once it's fixed, we can get some sweets before we have to meet people."

"Bonbons? Oui?" She asked, sniffling. She peeked at him between her fingers.

"Oui," He responded, and pushed himself up, offering her a hand. "I brought someone to help you with your hair, and you two may the room I just set for you." He said the latter louder so the serving maid could hear, and she nodded at once, eyeing the room within nervously and glad to be using the other door, as the guards upended chairs and checked the windows. There's only one exit, and Kasimir was going to watch it personally. Whilst Eleanor and the maid walked into the room Kasimir had prepared, the swordsman stepped into the room the two watchmen were searching.

"Anything?" He asked them.

"No, my lord. And that is strange." The taller one said, stroking his read beard. Kasimir raised an eyebrow, and the man turned to the bastard. Even though Kasimir's station was unsure, he was still the graf's son. They showed him some hints of respect, every now and then. He cleared his throat and said. "The man's without a forearm, but we can't find it anywhere. And no blood on the window. It's as if the limb just disappeared."

Cogs in the Wheel: WoT RP

The days passed without much conflict, thankfully. At least at the start of their journey. Davian had made himself useful, hauling lines with the men and carrying what needed carrying, refusing only menial work like sweeping or mopping the deck. He had spent his youth doing such things, and he refused to do so again. The weather had stayed behind them mercifully, the looming clouds chasing them, but the winds were on their side. The men began to insist it was due to Zoya and her powers of the sea, but Davian had other things on his mind.

The Horn of Valere.

Even in Ebou Dar, the legend was a popular one. As a child he had imagined himself becoming one of the fabled hunters of the horn, finding the sacred object and putting it to his lips to save the westlands from a terrible fate. He entertained the idea of using it against the dreadlords of the trolloc wars, having risen again to swallow the world in darkness. Fancies of a child with a sword, ones he had not thought of for over a decade and a half. Now he was told by an Aes Sedai, a light cursed thieving Aes Sedai, that she was going after it, and that she needed his help.

That night she confided in him, he could not sleep. He had gone up to the decks to walk the ship back and forth, before he drowsed off there for an hour or two before stalking again restlessly. He was not sure if he should be angry with her or impressed, and the conundrum was driving him up the wall. The woman had convinced him she was innocent, he had saved her life, then found out she had tricked him and now required his help! Light blast her! He had a comfortable living in Tear! But now, it was bigger than him. This had to do with the world itself.

The journey grew a bit more exciting on day three, when Davian had been looking out over the waves. Land was not in sight, though the Captain had said they were close to shore by some measure. He had seen dolphins playing across the waves the past hour, and was hoping to spy them again, before he heard whispers on the wind.

"That bloody witch means no good for us. You think she's keeping the storm off? She is the storm! It's following her, just like the Defenders were coming after her and her man. She's no good I tell you." The voice said. Davian glanced to his left, one of the sailors speaking behind a few of the crates to a crowd of three who listened intently.

"But Gil, Captain says she's good for the waves, and the fellow Davian has been helping us out." One of the listeners replied.

"Fool on the Captain, then! Mark my words, these clouds won't leave us until we get rid of the witch!"

Davian had been on edge for days, and this was just the fix he needed. He pushed off the railing and strode past the crates, rounding on the small group of conspirators with a deadly grace. One man saw him first and yelped, and the others blanched at his appearance, save for the accuser. He was a wiry man with a wandering eye, with a short beard that looked like cut wheat. "I have killed men for less. Luckily for you, I will give you a fighting chance, sir."

"What?" He asked, confused. Davian reached forward, grabbing his collar, and yanked him out onto the middle of the deck. The man stumbled, but caught himself and pushed Davian off of him, his defenses now up. All eyes were now on them, the men in the sails above, the men swabbing the deck, and all those besides. Zoya nor the Captain were there yet, but a man left to likely inform the both of them. Gil reared up, eyeing Davian dangerously. "You put your hands on me again..."

"Go ahead and tell everyone what you were saying," Davian challenged him, raising his voice to be heard. His back was now to the aft, and he would not see Zoya present, though she arrived quickly. "Tell them all that you think our Athan’miere is a witch, and a curse on the ship! That I am a villain and a rogue, yes?" Davian watched as Gil began to look around, suddenly nervous. Davian snarled, and unsheathed his sidesword, the blade gleaming in the afternoon sun. "I intend to duel you."

"Duel? We don't due-"

"In Ebou Dar, a man duels another man if they cut in line or do not offer proper respect. Your insults are worse, and the mark of a coward. Fight me or swear silence to your tongue, or next time I will cut it out."

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"When is it ever?" Markus asked under his breath.

They approached under the cover of the brush, creeping forward until they could hear the engines of the transports breathing as their engines were starting up or idling from some maintenance check. Huge, spacious hangers with open gateways stood unguarded and inviting, but both of them knew it wouldn't be quite that easy.

"You know, a lot of places let you walk in as long as you act like you're supposed to be there," Jocasta remarked.

"I'm aware, but right now I look like a mercenary who just survived a starship crash." He reminded her, gesturing at his armor and weapons. She wrinkled her nose but shrugged as if to say he made a good point. Looking back at the strip, the closest hanger was around forty meters away, and two men leaned against the huge plasteel walls, taking a smoke break it looked like. They were grey fatigues and hats that shielded them from the sun. Around their necks were large goggles.

"Here," She said, shoving her gun into Markus' lap. "I'll go take care of those two. Just be ready to come back me up if need be, ok?"

"What are you going to do?"

"I got into Adan Gallanis's secret meeting as a singer, didn't I? Just trust me." She said.

Despite their banter and this being her first job, Markus respected her skills. He nodded and sat back, but pulled out his Daiedron-C87 and leveled the weapon just in case. "Just watch your ass."

"I'll watch my front, you watch my ass." She said with a wink, and then sauntered out of the treeline with the surety of a performer on their twelfth set. He had to admit, looking now, it was a nice ass.

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

Neil awoke to a loud, incessant alarm blaring in his ear. He gave a start, his eyes popping open. He felt a weight onto of him, and he realized it was Jocasta's slumbering form, her frizzles hair splayed everywhere, tickling his nose. His back and tailbone ached, and he realized that the two of them, drunk and horny, had fallen asleep atop the billiards table. Another alarm blared, and he was suddenly aware it was Cygi. She wore a loud pantsuit outfit with lights on every stitching and a huge sign, not unlike the one Jocasta held the night before, with large flashing lights that said 'WARNING.'

"Intruders! Gunmen! Get your lazy ass up, money bags!" She cried, her mouth having turned into a loudspeaker for the occasion.

"Jo!" Neil implored, and he realized his hands were still firmly on her butt. He started slapping it. "Jo! Jo! Jo! Get up!"

She snorted, lifting her head with one eye closed. It was then Neil understood just how good of a bounty hunter she truly was. It took her less than a second to come to terms with the situation, see Cygi pointing to the exit, and she swung her legs to pivot her body, grabbing the gun Neil had taken off her pants six hours before. She twisted, spinning to lay atop him at an odd angle, crushing his stomach with her elbow as three men with assault rifles entered the room, one after the other, firearms held at the ready. She killed the first two with well aimed shots to the neck, the gun itself firing ionized rounds that glowed white as they left the barrel. The third man saw his companions die and he rolled under the third shot, swinging his gun to the billiards table and firing.

At this point, both Neil and Jocasta pitched off the table at opposite ends, the bullets ripping into the wood and fabric, nearly sawing the table in two. Jocasta hit the ground and rolled, switching the gun to burst fire and returning fire to suppress him as she gathered herself.

Neil groaned, having landed on a number of the rock hard balls. His body felt like shit, but everyone who knew him remembered he was good at three things. Tenacity, survival, and causing trouble. He utilized all three by taking a red ball while plasteel and wood fragments were tossed in the air from the ensuing firefight, and with a quick look at the man's flank, suddenly raised himself up and threw it with all his strength. As usual, Neil had an air for accuracy. The ball impacted on the man's full-face visor, cracking it and sending him falling on his ass. The scoundrel had scrambled to his feet, and before the mercenary knew it, Neil leaped off the couch and hit the man full-tackle, knocking him to the ground for a second time. They struggled briefly, but Neil had surprise and the strength of urgency, and he found himself with his arm wrapped around the paramilitary soldier's neck. The gun had long since clattered to the ground, pushed away by scrabbling feet.

"Who sent you!?" Neil asked him, and when there was no answer he shook the man. "Who sent you!?"

"Harkssssssssshhhhhkkcsk" was the reply.

"Oh, right." Neil responded, letting go of his neck. He heard the man gasp, falling forward on his hands, catching his breath. However, it didn't end the way Neil expected. Behind him, in the doorway, a man cocked his gun and pressed it against Neil's back. Neil's face went from excitement to boredom. "Oh, cool."

"Drop the weapon!" A tall man in full body armor demanded of Jocasta.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir would generally count himself as lucky for his education outside of Middenheim. It gave him a knack for accents, even Brettonian ones. However, at this moment he regretted the experience, as he would be able to blissfully ignore Eleanor's haughty expectations. The woman was either the most highborn woman in the Old World, expecting the drakwald to be traversable by red carpet, or she was blatantly trying to annoy him. Either was as likely as the other.

"Of course, allow me to escort you to a bedroom I know is unoccupied." He said, inclining his head as if he were dealing with a valued foreign dignitary. She arguably was at that, though he would not put her as 'valued' as she might think.

He led her away from the throne room, through the corridors and back rooms where he was reasonably certain no further assassins would be lurking in wait. He had nearly died tonight from the guards, just as she had from the men who had killed her poor patron. Kasimir lamented the death, he had always liked Oderick, or at least had never had a large problem with him. Skilled Templars of the White Wolf were hard to come by, and despite his taste in company, he was a stalwart and stout man.

Minutes later, Kasimir approached a large door in the center of a grand hall. He stepped aside and allowed her to enter. "Here we are, and I shall fetch the servants while you make yourself comfortable." Eleanor held his head up high, and Kasimir imagined that if she wasn't a fraud, she was used to looking down her nose at everyone in her life. She opened the door, and then blinked. Her lips opened to speak, but Kasimir pushed her into the quilt closet and closed the door, sitting down in front of it and crossing his arms. Inevitably he felt her pummeling the door, but he was easily half again her weight and stayed put.

"Easy princess, it's not all sunshine and roses for me, either." He remarked dryly, closing his eyes. "At least you have a soft place to sleep. I'll have to nap against the door."

He heard curses in several languages, but eventually the tantrum ceased. Kasimir would have given her his own room, but demanding even larger quarters had irked him, and even servants needed sleep. After an hour passed, he found himself to his feet and went to the great hall where he spoke to the master of servants, Algrik, to find a suitable place for a lady to sleep. He informed Kasimir that the red wing could have one available the next morning, as well as a connected room for Kasimir in his stewardship. Satisfied, Kasimir made it back to the closet. He looked in to see the lady Eleanor sleeping on a pile of quilts she had utilized for a place to sleep, and then he sat back down and slept until daybreak. He dreamed of things he could hardly remember, but one sequence remained in his head. He was running across a wooded area where men and women, all lost souls, trudged as if they were going to market. Somehow he knew they were going into the maw of a great daemon, and next in line was Eleanor, only she did not wear the dress of a lady. She looked more like a sorceress of the imperial college, and somehow he knew she was to be the tastiest morsel of all for the daemon.

A maid that had passed by the spot had woken him up just before she had stepped into the gaping mouth of the riunous being. He awoke with a start, and the maid gently informed him the Lady Elanor's quarters were waiting and ready. His tailbone hurt, but he thanked her and stood up. The bastard stretched his neck and opened the door to find a wild haired Eleanor staring daggers at him.

"Not to your liking, mon cheri?" He asked her with a grin. "Me neither, the stone does not suit me, I find. Luckily there's a room available now, and a change of clothes and a bath awaiting you."