POOHEAD189

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The following hour was a whirl of activity. Men rushed the stage, actors snarling as if they were wolves set upon by hounds, and Kasimir stood between Eleanor, or Emmaline, and the crowd with his sword at the ready. Ulric knew he had a lot of questions, not to mention a mountain of pent-up frustration at the woman, but her gambit had worked, and he at least knew she wasn't a Chaos Worshiper, which was more than he could say about an uncomfortable amount of people after the debacle. Had he been alone, he might have been more traumatized by the eldritch and untold things he had witnessed within that pocket realm, but he was too busy to think and too alert to be distracted.

The Knights of the White Wolf soon quarantined the entire theater, and even what small handful of Sigmarite priests there were had been called forward to help cleanse the place of any taint. Boris Todbringer had been at the back of the crowd, but had been escorted out by his most trusted guard, though not without complaint. You'd hardly find a more staunch foe of the dark gods than him. After his bastard and the Countess of Aberville had been escorted out, they had been sent to their rooms until asked for questioning, only to be stopped halfway back by the Witch Hunter, the questioning evidently starting at that moment.

Emmaline had grabbed Kasimir's hand as they were escorted to a small, guard chamber, and mouthed she would do the talking once they were there. He gave a subtle wink and turned back, whatever guard watching would likely think it was a correspondence of fondness rather than pragmatism. Once they reached the room, Emmaline had taken out a small fan, and whipped it back and forth to fan herself as she recounted a basterdized tale of what had occurred in her faux brettonian. Now that he knew she was a fake, he could hear some subtle mistakes here or there in her speech, but overall he was impressed how flawless she was in speaking it. By her account, they had not been transported to a daemon realm, but had instead been attacked by cultists who had hidden themselves in large clay pots of trees, set for stage design. Apparently one of them had been a dabbler of foul magics, and had performed some ritual that had let the paintings along the backdrop come to life. When questioned how the count and her protector had come through the imaginary yet animated work of art, she explained she simply did not know, and that it must have been some ruinous trick the sorcerer had played. A priest of Ulric and a Sigmarite priest both then stood before them, incanting to find if there was any taint upon the two of them. Kasimir saw Emmaline's eyes filled with fear, and he knew that part she did not need to act.

"They have no corruption upon them, though their humours are troubled." The Sigmarite said, lifting his hand from Kasimir's brow and opening his eyes.

"It's been quite a day, your holiness." Kasimir responded diplomatically. "Before this, we had been attacked twice. Hopefully, the White Wolves will see to it that this vile activity is expunged."

It grated him to give the credit to someone else, but he supposed if he was going to tell his father the whole truth of it at some point. Then he glanced at Emmaline, who seemed relieved. He wondered then if he was going to tell the Graf about her deception? He was not sure. By all rights he should, but perhaps tomorrow.

"I will speak with you both, further. But that suffices for now." The Witch Hunter said, looking down and them past his nose. Kasimir felt those eyes could see through anything, and though Emmaline had lied throughout all of it, he still hoped it was true. Maybe he could catch or kill any cultist or daemon that was left and leave Kasimir and Emmaline alone. When both the charlatan Countess and the bastard nodded their acquiescence, they were allowed to return to their connected rooms.

Kasimir opened the door for Emmaline, bowing to her as if he were a gentleman courtier vying for her favor. She walked passed him, and he closed the door to let the men discuss this entire situation further. A servant hurried by, and Kasimir halted him with a finger. "We require dinner, good sir. The lady is famished."

"Et du vin, er...drink!" Emmaline chimed in with a sweet smile.

"Y-Yes my lady, my lord." The sweating servant replied, bowing before hustling away to first complete whatever task he was trying to get done on this hectic night.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

The thought of being in this place for any real length of time was enough to get Kasimir to wish for nothing less than to be gone from there forever. But if the Graf and innocents were in danger, he knew it was paramount they left immediately. He nearly gagged, and would cut the bees apart if he hadn't the most urgent desire to stay as far from them as possible.

"How do you propose we do that?" He asked her, though he was not being snippy. It was an earnest question coming from someone who was tired out of his mind. The flowers elicited eerie cries that sounded like women in the throes of passion, and it unnerved Kasimir to no end. Emmaline searched around frantically, but just at that moment, the eerie looking Hart bounded out of the treeline, its head tilted and its human eyes staring at them intently.

"That thing..." Emmaline breathed, pointing at it. "There's something..."

It stepped closer, its knife-like feet puncturing the ground with wet smacks, until it halted and lifted its head to give off a cry of pain and pleasure, its throat providing a chopping to the long bray. Its body began to contort, legs bending and back snapping. Its head suddenly jerked backward like an ape had broken it with a powerful tug, and within moments its flesh coalesced into something Kasimir had only ever heard of in stories.

A Daemonette.

Its body was tall and slim, and red so dark it almost looked indigo in color. In one hand it held a whip, and in the other there was nothing, for it had a claw that seemed sharp enough to snap bronze in two. On its left, it had the chiseled pec of a human male, and on its right was a large, rounded breast with a chain attached to it. Its large legs framed twin genitalia that even now roiled as if they had lives of their own.

"The lord of pleasures welcomes you to this small pocket of his reality," It said, its voice a sibilant whisper despite its volume carrying to both of their ears. Emmaline would recognize it as the voice in her head.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"You good?" Markus asked, kneeling down to hold his hand out. Jocasta grabbed it, and he pulled her to her feet.

"As ever," She said, whipping her hair out of her face. The movement lurched her body just enough to send her stumbling again, but she had enough frame of mind to catch herself on a crate. It sent a small shiver up the wall, and something familiar precariously perched above them fell. Markus caught his sword with one hand, the steel and stainless aluminum of the hilt making a satisfying 'chk' sound. Jocasta squared her feet, and gestured as if it was all planned. "Deliberate, Watson."

"Never doubted you," Markus remarked, shouldering the strap of the weapon, keeping the sword in easy reach to unsheathe. In the corner, the clerk cowered. Markus wanted to leave him alone, but he was in a room full of guns, and the merc didn't want to get shot in the back. He licked his lips, then spat the chemical taste out of his mouth, the water cascading only now slowing in its torrent. "Come out! We're not here for you, but I can't trust you over there...Now!"

The man in a white uniform, now matted from the water, shakily got to his feet with his hands raised, stepping out from behind a few care package crates that had been refurbished for storage. The man looked scared to death, and Markus had to admit he nearly cried aloud when Jocasta shot the man without warning. Only when he saw the dart in his neck did he realize it was a nonlethal dart, likely with some kind of tranquilizer.

"I guess that was needed." Markus remarked with a shrug as Jo hurried over to the other side of the room. Markus looked questioningly at her, before he yelled 'come on!' and pulled out a guardsman's flak uniform. The merc grinned, he hadn't dreamed they could get out without having to shoot their way out, but if they pulled this off...

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

Kasimir yanked the sword out of her hands. "My 'prestigious talent' has already saved your lying rump more than once." He reminded her, and though one might construe the words implied he had now decided to withhold his aid, he knew he wouldn't do that. She got on his last nerves, but that did not mean he wanted her dead. Plus, they would need to work together regardless. Before she could speak further, Kasimir grabbed her hand and lead her into the bushes. Kasimir crashed through the thickers like an imperial steamtank, the small cuts on his cheeks and arms ignored for prudence's sake. He took another step, and felt a hot stab of pain. Kasimir cursed, leaping out of the bushes to the left, and as Eleanor followed, they realized they were no longer in a woodland. Instead, Kasimir felt as if they were in the steaming jungles of Lustria, or the mysterious Southlands. The trees looked real enough, and the air was thick with moisture, but there were various statues of beasts larger and small, as well as some stills of dangerous natives.

"Shallya's tits!" Eleanor squealed as what had originally looked to be the statue of a hunting cat suddenly burst to life, turning and leaping at Kasimir in one fluid motion. The swordsman moved quickly, his still-flaming sword impaling the heavy beast even as it tackled him. The sword burst out of its back, and it gave a death growl, but not before its claws had raked against his arms and chest, ruining his jerkin and drawing beads of blood that began to trickle.

Eleanor hurried over to the closest statue, something that looked like a small rodent. She felt it, breathed a 'yes!' and began to perform an incantation. Kasimir felt the hairs on his arm and neck stand up, and within moments her hands glowed. The statues melted as if they were made of butter and had been under the scrutiny of the sun for hours.

"And you're a sorceress!?" Kasimir asked, bewildered.

"Not a very good one," She admitted with a guilty smile. "Though for some reason my powers are stronger here. I was planning on learning from the court mage after a drink or two with him, but I guess that ship has sailed now."

Without warning, the vines came alive, striking at Kasimir like serpents. To his credit, he cut through four of them with swift cuts from his sword before a dozen more wrapped around his limbs. The man struggled, but instead of asking for her, he glared at the woman. "Is there anyone in Middenheim you haven't tried to seduce!?" He cried, accusatory.

"Yes!" She said, fists balling up. "You!"

Before he could retort, he was dragged away to one of the trees. Luckily for him, he had kept a grip on his sword and, spinning it betwixt his fingers, cut two of the vines grasping his sword hand. His arm fell free, and he sliced through the rest within two seconds, dropping to the jungle floor. He wiped the sweat from his brow, and pointed at the blonde. "When we get out of here, I'm yelling at you some more!"

"Looking forward to it!" She snapped back.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"Right-o, Watson, what in blazes shall we do now?" Jocasta asked, mostly to pass the time. The two mercs had a rough idea of where they were going, having procured schematics from a terminal minutes before. Jocasta led the way, Markus watching their flank, checking over his shoulder every few moments. Luckily, there were cameras only at certain intervals, the administration deeming the utility areas less worrisome than the public sectors.

"My sword," Markus reminded her.

"Capital idea!" She said. "Glad I thought of it!"

Jocasta and Markus passed by a four way split in the winding maze, before Jocasta skirted to a stop, and gave a low 'beep beep beep' as she backed up. Markus raised an eyebrow and stepped out of her way, before she turned down a pristine hallway. There were various doors, but one stood out. It was made of reinforced steel, able to withstand small-yield explosions and armor piercing rounds from small-arms fire. Next to it was another terminal, only this one far more advanced. Jocasta cracked her knuckles, bit her tongue, and began typing away. The screen went from a basic query of identification to multiple windows within moments.

"So, what are you doing now?" Markus asked her, crossing his arms and peering in.

"Why are you so interested in every little hack I'm doing?" She asked, amused.

"Because it's slick as hell." He admitted, reaching up to stroke the stubble on his chin.

"Yeah, it is pretty sexy. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two sometime," She teased, the windows on the display dropping back to the original screen, where the query was now a different one, asking them to merely scan their IDs. "Not that you'd need help in that department." She winked.

Markus smirked. "For the record, neither do you." He admitted as the reinforced door slid open. Before the two could say more, six pairs of eyes fell on them from within the armory, and there was no mistaking it was the armory. Guns, ammunition, armor, portable devices ranging from personal shields to infantry beacons were stacked or hanging along the walls. And checking the inventory was a clerk, a datapad in his hand and a confused look on his face. Beside him, as well as across the room, past a pile of crates, were two faceless, helmed guards, much like the ones Jo and Markus had seen when they had been escorted to their cells.

"Hey, who are you?" The closest guard asked, hefting his plasma rifle. "You don't have authorization in here!"

Jocasta whispered under her breath. "This is less sexy..."

Dragon Age: Grey Dawn

Rannon

---

It had grown into a larger turnout than he had expected.

The diplomats and entourages of Thedas had all come from their palaces of ivory and keeps of stone, and he had expected to see an influx of newcomers both great and small. The courtyard was nearly filled to its edges with wardens, and he was entirely certain that they would continue to trickle in as the day progressed.

Rannon had been in the Anderfells since he had become a Grey Warden, those handful of years ago. It had been grueling, and unforgiving. The training was without a doubt beyond anything he had expected, and even fighting darkspawn in the heart of the Kokari Wilds was nothing compared to the regimen of Wardens in the Anderfells. Yet it was worth it, and it had kept him alive during every skirmish. Now, he dreamed of killing darkspawn, of spilling their blood and filling the oceans with it. He had been concerned about that, initially, but after speaking with a superior, he had learned the taint effected each warden in unique ways. This was his way of psyching himself up for more, and he never tired of it.

Rannon had not gotten too much sleep the night before, staying up late and playing cards with a few of his fellow wardens deep into the night. It had not been smart, but at least it was not before a large battle, and to his credit, Rannon had not touched a drop of alcohol. Plus, he had a very trustworthy wake-up call.

Rannon's constant companion sat at his feet, panting from the light heat of the sun. Gideon woke up at the crack of dawn every day and demanded Rannon do the same, ready to spring into training or play, whichever was on his master's schedule. The two of them looked much like one another. Both were large, muscled, and dangerous, yet neither of them were dangerous to anyone who did not deserve it. Gideon's paws were the size of fists, both forepaws planted on the flagstones as he sniffed the air and watched the newcomers walk by. A few stopped and commented on Gideon, some wanting to pet him while others were wary. Rannon never shied from letting anyone who wanted to, to give him a good scratch. Gideon was a slut for it, even though he was sometimes uneasy around strangers from distant lands.

"Harump!" Gideon barked sharply, wiggling slightly before gazing up at Rannon. The Mabari was nothing if not headstrong, and he usually made his wishes very clear. A few passersby flinched at the loud bark, but once they realized Gideon hadn't moved, they were calmed. The big Fereldan man looked down at his friend, and shook his head.

"Just be patient, I'll run you soon." He promised his Mabari, arms crossed. Rannon just gazed out from the wall he leaned on, content to wait. "Right now, orders are to stay here. You know that."

Dragon Age: Grey Dawn

Rannon Bryce

The Iron Dog

| {Full Name} |

Rannon Bryce

| {Age} |

27

| {Species} |

Human, Ferelden

| {Gender} |

Male

| {Class/subclass} |

Warrior

---

| {Appearance} |

Rannon stands tall and solidly built, with earthy brown hair, long enough to be tied at the base of his neck. His eyes are reminiscent of shaped wrought iron. His face now only echoes his youthful appearance, battles and years having roughed him into the look of a mature, even veteran soldier. Two scars mar his face. One parallel to the bottom of his left eye, and another scraping across his right jawline. His legs are long and his his facial hair is only a coarse shadow thanks to his knife. He's clad in fine and tough leather over a chainmail hauberk, with sturdy traveling shoes and a worn belt.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Two Handed Sword: In many ways it mirrors its wielder. Sharp, powerful, but bloodstained and notched from use.
Long Knife: He wears in his right boot.
Necklace of beads: Green and woven meticulously by his late mother.

| {Skills} |

Non-combat abilities, such as picking locks, sneaking, or making potions, even making a decent meal. Rogues get a choice of four, mages and warriors get three to reflect the focuses they put in.

| {Talents} |

• Pommel Strike: Uses all parts of the sword as a weapon
• Indomitable: Almost unflinching when in battle
• Sunder Armor: Has powerful blows able to pierce armor
• Commanding presence: Charismatic when it comes to hardship and battle. Knows how to lift spirits of fellow soldiers or teammates with small gestures.
• Tactically minded: Can read a battlefield and respond accordingly
• Athletic: Able to duck, roll, and dodge well enough in his armor. Isn't helpless when unarmed (though of course, not as effective)

| {Home/Family} |

Rannon has a father, and two siblings back home in Ferelden.

| {Flaws and limits} |

Stubborn: When he gets an idea, he's single minded like a hound.
Drink: He has a hard time not diving into the bottle, especially when there's no battle to be had. He tries to eschew drinks in general, but if he gets a sip...
Trauma: Losing all your friends and mother to monsters will do that to you.

---

| {Personality} |

Rannon seems to be the epitome of the Ferelden ideal. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He has a deep seated national pride and sees the world as Ferelden does, taking others and judging them by their deeds rather than their blood. Years in the army and surviving pivotal battles have tempered his recklessness, but never fully. Learning the sword and how to work within ranks of his fellows showed him how to pick his movements and his battles, though he always seems to be ready for another scrap. That is to say, he will never fight for the sake of fighting and appreciates the quiet when he can salvage some. Only that he feels the world is forever dangerous, and won't be made soft or be fooled by the years of relative peace that have settled over the land. He's pragmatic and won't hesitate to use the landscape or offhanded strikes to defeat an opponent, though if he is openly challenged he will honor it and see it to the end. He often likes thinking of what ifs and battle scenarios as he travels the. The warrior tends to be very self critical of himself and his decisions, and he takes the actions he makes very seriously.

Rannon respects Dwarves, the tales of quarreling Nobles in Orzammar not registering to him from the above-ground fighters he has seen. Oddly enough, he does not blame mages for who they are or what they practice, though he is still very wary around them. Templars he's on the fence, for while they do a valuable service in protecting civilization from rampant magic, they're still oppressors. He has a special distrust for the Orlesians and the Tevinter Imperium. Quanari he is iffy on, but takes it in stride if they are his companions. Elves are a mystery to him, never knowing if they are trustworthy and simply wish independence like his fellow Fereldans, or if they truly are the cause of the Brecilian Forest's cursed nature. He has an intense respect for Ash warriors and canines, thinking himself far from good enough for his hound's attention. He's always dreamed of joining the Grey Wardens, but never sought them out.

| {Background} |

Rannon was born under the Arl of Southreach, in the village of Ironbrook. He was born only 8 days before the holiday Funalis. His father worked as a craftsman of leather, and his mother grew wild herbs for medicinal purposes just outside the village, though always in sight of the walls. He was the oldest of three, all boys. His brothers were Edmund (2 years younger) and Wilfrid (4 years younger), and he was often charged with keeping them safe and out of trouble, though he played the role of protector more often than his parents believed. He would get into fights and chases with other boys around his age over his brother's wild nature and sometimes even his own. He didn't mind though, and grew to see it as a competition he could always get better in. It was further driven home with his father, for he'd share tales of the Alamarri driving back to Tevinter Imperium to Rannon if he did a fine job helping with his father's shop that day. He was drawn in, and pride for his nation and his town bloomed within his heart. The fact that his village bordered the cursed wilds furthered that line of thinking.

When he came of age, he went off to serve as a Soldier for the Arl. His tendency to swing first and ask questions later was partially beaten out of him from his Knight trainer, Arlun. He even attempted to fight the Knight at one point, which led to a nasty welt on his forehead from his sword hilt. Among the soldiers, jests were sometimes made at Leonas Bryland for his half Orlesian ancestry, but it was just that, a jest. They never questioned their Arl or his loyalty, all knowing full well that he followed Prince Maric in the Fereldan Rebellion. Rannon acquired some companions of his own, a few of the fellow trainees, Aart, Gavin, Leopuld, and Rochen. Many times they would joke at each others expense and talk the night away until wearied limbs and bruised muscles dragged them into slumber. He was then allowed to go home when he reached 21, provided he would return for service if called. He traveled back to Ironbrook and worked for his father, making saddles and leather coats, even learning how to ride a horse a bit from a particular favor he gave for a free saddle.

He was called though, nearing his 23th birthday. A large incursion of Darkspawn, the largest since the Fifth blight, had come once again to the Kokari Wilds. Rannon went straight into Arl Bryland's ranks, joining with his friends and then being initiated into the King's ranks. The calm before the storm was almost too much for many soldiers among the shadowed trees of the wilds. Darkspawn being monsters from legend and their camp being at the cusp of those haunted woods was a new thing to many commoners. To Rannon it was no different than dealing with rumors of monsters from the Brecilian, and he marveled more at the Ash Warriors and their magnificent Mabaris that had come. Still, he could feel the his mettle rising with each day, until that fateful night at the Battle of the Hinterland Ford. The King's strategy seemed almost flawless, the way the horde advanced in such a mindless charge. But even watching the monsters themselves was almost too much for him, and he didn't think he could find the strength to swing his sword.

That is, until the battle commenced. His fear left him, finding when the blood began to shed, one was too busy to think of fear. He hacked and stabbed, carving through a small number of darkspawn and hoping the blood in his mouth was his own. Sweat and grime was rampant, and the shrieks were almost deafening. He did not know how long the battle lasted or how much he fought, but eventually he found himself one amid a mere few hundred scattered soldiers against the darkspawn ranks. He heard the horns, and knew the battle would turn with the reinforcements set in motion. But as they fought on, it dawned on him as it did on every soldier. No one was coming. He wiped the blood from the cut across his chin, and as his vision unblurred he saw a open-eyed Gavin being stabbed repeatedly, his friend's body already cold as three darkspawn made sport of his corpse. He steeled himself and ran forward, Leopuld and Rochen with him. He didn't know where Aart was, and he would never find out. Rochen fell with a split skull, trying to avenge Gavin. Leopuld and Rannon were the only one's left standing, until more monsters charged in. They backpedaled, their swords leading to fend off the cruel blades of their enemies and swiftly counter attack with fierce thrusts, working in practiced concert. They began to retreat in full, until Leopuld was struck in the hip with an arrow. He fell, and Rannon stopped, reaching down to help him up.

"You have to go!" Leopuld told him, and Rannon looked between him and the advancing terrors. His friend saw the look in Rannon's eye. Again Leopuld told him to run, but Rannon almost charged. He would have charged.
He should have charged...

He fled, using his long legs and making his way across the ford and into the Hinterlands proper, knowing the only way he could survive was if the darkspawn played with the corpses of his friends. And the fact that he lived to tell the tale was testament to that. Still he heard their shrieks, and tumbled out of the soft woodlands towards the lakes, making his way into parts he had never been. By morning he found himself in a small path made by passing beasts, stopping his march by stamping his boot in the ground and hitting a tree with his shoulder, stubbornly. It took him a moment to realize he was being watched, and he turned to regard a young Mabari warhound staring at him not seven paces away. He held his sword before him, until he realized just how stupid he was. If this Mabari saw fit to kill him, why should he stop it? He planted his blade into the ground and slunk down. Instead the beast approached and sat, mirroring him. It panted and looked at him, and Rannon asked what it was doing here. It popped up and jumped from side to side, the dog spry and full of youth. It then dawned on the soldier, and he shook his head as his heart quivered. How could he lose all of his friends in one night, and receive the companionship of this noble canine the next? What world did he live in?

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and since all laughter had been ripped out of him the night before, he fell to the ground and wept. Why would this dog think him good enough? He had run. Dirt and tears stained his face, and when he lifted his head he half expected the canine to be gone. But it sat there, expectantly.

Rannon grabbed a hold of his new friend's shoulder muscles and hauled himself up. They traveled northward together, the Mabari hunting for their food and Rannon following the streams for water. Rannon named him Gideon, fit for the warrior he knew his new friend to be. But still, he felt unworthy for such a comrade. He would have liked to think it was his family's sake that kept him going, to go and warn them. But it was his hatred of the darkspawn that drove him. Eventually he found his way into the heart of the Hinterlands, linking up with a contingent of soldiers coming to repel the advancing horde of monsters. Rannon linked up with them, and they took him without question with the Mabari at his side. Linking up with the King's own personal guard, the united forces flowed into woodlands just outside of the wilds and cut into the remaining darkspawn army like a knife through cake. Rannon got drunk on the bloodletting in that battle, but by chance a spray of arterial blood entered his mouth, and he collapsed before the combat was over, convulsing.

He woke up in camp, alive, and Gideon watching him expectantly. Somehow, he had consumed darkspawn blood and had lived. A week later, he made his way back to Ironbrook, and took his family further northwards in case of other darkspawn incursions. No one knew if a sixth blight was on the way, and the taxes in Ironbrook had increased exponentially to help feed the soldiers. Already, pandemonium had wracked Fereldan from inflation and attacks, and refugees poured forth through the roads, bandits running amok. Rannon and his father thought it smart to travel near the brink of the Brecilian, and for awhile it was a sound idea. Until the third night, when Rannon lost his mother. He had set his own watch, his hound watching the tail end of the small encampment when he heard it. It was an eerie, ominous moan that seeped into the camp. But it sounded like it was made by a lost woman, not a hungry beast, and that was itself unnerving. The wind began to shift, and the moan grew louder pitch by pitch, a very mortal chill running up Rannon's spine. His brothers had awoken, but his parents at the north western edge had not seemed to have heard anything. And then a terrible rip was heard, followed by the scream of their mother, until her voice was torn away as if she had never been. His father would later say she was simply pulled out of the tent by something he couldn't see, but Rannon and his Mabari ran into the woods where she was last heard, confused as to where to even look. Seconds passed, and her scream was heard again to the east, but faint, as if she had been taken a great distance away by something as swift as a hawk.

He made his way towards the noise, despite the dark canopy and underbrush that held a thousand potential horrors, despite him tripping over gnarled roots and jutting rocks. He wouldn't flee again. Not now!

All he found was a torn piece of cloth from her nightshirt, covered in warm blood not a mile away. Even Gideon had lost the scent, and it was the longest night of Rannon's life. Another month later, he defended his father and brothers against bandits on the road to Denerim, being hit in the shoulder by an arrow and receiving the slicing scar below his left eye from a knife. Their mother had taught Wilfrid, the youngest, how to treat battle wounds, and he did the best he could. However the shoulder still aches in the mornings to this day. The rest of the family, save Rannon, believed sailing to the free marches was the best thing to do. He joined his family for two years in Starkhaven, meeting new people and getting a feel for other cultures. Before long however, he found himself slowly getting more and more drunk, more and more frequently, with women he couldn't recall the names of. It wasn't a fit thing to be, and Gideon seemed to think so too, head butting him one morning hard enough for him to lose his dinner on the street. He realized he needed to shape up, and he'd been sober for 6 months, acting as a city guard, until he heard of a better offer at the docks...

He had been in the Anderfells for a couple of years, at this point, and both he and Gideon had seen skirmishes together under the banner of the Grey Wardens.

De Trop Disgrace: Warhammer Fantasy RP

She was a strange woman, but he could see what someone might find endearing about her. The lady had an odd quality about her that was intelligent yet manic, but Kasimir supposed someone might say that a man who found that attractive might have some problems of their own. He shoved the thought away, and nodded at her question. "Yes, the first bouts were ones where one man could challenge another beforehand. They're supposed to be more noteworthy, but really they're mere preliminaries compared to the real mélee."

Below them, courtiers and squires hustled back and forth, clearing the arena of fallen men and arms, moving the fenceposts and raising banners for the knights and champions that would be fighting in the coming battle royale. Grimly, Kasimir wondered if Oderick would have been one of the contenders, had he not died the night before. The time moved swiftly, and soon there were twelve men in heavy plate of varying designs, armed with swords and shields. One man held an axe in both hands, and another bore a great hammer. Kasimir was somewhat interested in the bout, but his eyes still wandered. The paranoia of assassins did that to the mind, and it was by Ulric's blessing then was the time he had chosen to do it.

As the trumpets sounded, and the men's cries rose up for battle, Kasimir spied a pair of eyes looking directly at him atop one of the wood towers overlooking the tourney. It took him the span of a second to realize it was a crossbowman, and he saw the main raise his weapon in his direction. Kasimir sucked in a breath, and then shoved himself into Eleanor, pushing the both of them off her chair to the floor as the quarrel struck the back of Kasimir's chair, quivering from the impact. Kasimir hadn't noticed it had been meant for him, until he looked up from his prone position and realized he had saved his own life instead. The crossbowmen must have been either a bad shot, or had wanted to eliminate him so that Eleanor would be an easier target.

"Let's go." He whispered to her, helping the shapely woman to her feet. He looked back at the tower, and saw the crossbowman had disappeared.

The two of them managed to squeeze their way past the other nobility, through the side corridor leading out of the stands. Unfortunately, they had to pass through a thick crowd of commoners congregating around the small areas outside of the stands where they might catch a glimpse of the bout. Kasimir walked ahead of her, eyes peeled.

"Kissymir!" She shouted, and he turned to see one of the teeming masses break off to his left, glimpsing the flash of steel. Kasimir pivoted and sidestepped, pushing Eleanor away as the claoked man, wielding a shortsword, cut and stabbed at him. Kasimir ducked and leaped back, and stepped behind a wooden support beam. The short sword, slicing at his head, cut into the wood. Kasimir grabbed the man's forearm as he tried to pry the weapon free, and punched him in the face as hard as he could. He went down in a heap, and those commoners that saw only watched in wonder, not bothering to help.

"Who are you!?" Kasimir ordered, stomping on the man's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. "Who in Ulric's name do you work for?"

As Kasimir grabbed the man's collar, he saw the fellow's face, finally. He had a long nose and a wizened visage, despite being younger than forty. His eyes wild, he smiled wickedly, and Kasimir saw one of his teeth missing. Within moments, foam and bile rose from the assassin's throat, and he began convulsing.

"Poiee-san" Eleanor gasped.

Kasimir stared a moment longer as the man turned into a corpse, and he dropped him to the floor.

Space Dogs: Hired Guns in a Crumbling Empire

"Good idea," he said, gazing around the small suite. It was more lavish than he would have thought, not to mention the collection of weapons that was practically bursting out of the duffel. "And you had the money for..." He let the statement drop. He guessed she really had gambled on this kind of life. Jo likely saved up for months to get this ready, or she just stole it all. Both were likely, in his opinion.

"This was supposed to be my debut." She admitted, somewhat embarrassed.

"Still is," Markus reminded her, standing up from the chair he had grabbed. He went over to the duffel and set it at the foot of the bed. "You mind if I have a look?"

"Be my guest." She said, perching at the side of the bed and idly swinging her feet as Markus zipped open the bag and pulled out a myriad of guns. As he did so, her smile widened as Markus's eyes grew wider. It was clear the usually unshakeable merc was getting bewildered at how many guns had been crammed into here, and how she had gotten them all. Even as Markus gave a 'fuck me' in awe, she began to talk conversationally. "Speaking of which, I have a question. When it was time to team up, you had a real rep. Why team up with me?"

He shook his head, trying to place the guns in a manner that gave them a suitable part of the bed so he could view them all properly. Despite still being surprised, his voice was cool. "You mean other than saving my life?"

"Yeah."

Markus eyed the gauss rifle, but instead picked up the M7C handgun, checking its firing mechanism and the clip, searching for a few rounds of ammo for it. He never usually had a pistol, but with his sword gone and only his carbine on hand, he needed something that he could conceal with a modicum of stopping power. The M7C hadn't been in production in decades, he was surprised she got a hold of one. "You're new to the game. I knew everyone wanting to team up with me would just as easily shoot me in the back if it got them a larger share."

"And you didn't think the person who infiltrated the meeting via disguise was that kind of girl?" She retorted as Markus balanced a few throwing knifes on his finger. He flipped one and whipped it through the air, noting the light whistling. Satisfied, he pocketed a few on his belt.

"Took a risk. Hasn't happened yet." He replied with a shrug, hefting a HRK riotgun. A six gauge with controlled plasma rounds, at least theoretically. He rummaged through the ammo, trying to see if he could find a few. It could blow a sizeable crater in a 2 inch place of titanium C. Eventually he found a few, but he would need to conceal the weapon in an over-the-shoulder case.

"And you've never done that before?"

"Not unless someone was already planning on doing it to me." Markus loaded the riotgun, pumping it for good measure. Jocasta had hopped off the bed at that point, fishing through the closet and shoving aside the dressed before she tossed a bundle to Markus. He caught it with his right hand, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Here, don't have much in your size, but there was an oversized workers outfit that I'd bet is your fit."

It was grey and white, and would at least serve to make anyone pointing a weapon at him think for a moment before firing. He shrugged again, dropping the shotgun and stripping his shirt off. He was lean but cut, with numerous scars from over a decade of hard living. Most notably there was a large scar on his abdomen, and a burn mark on his back that looked to be caused via some sort of plasma. Three oxidized dog tags 'clinked' against his chest when the top came off.

"Where's the bathroom? I'll change in there."

Dragon Age: Grey Dawn

Rannon Bryce

The Iron Dog

| {Full Name} |

Rannon Bryce

| {Age} |

27

| {Species} |

Human, Ferelden

| {Gender} |

Male

| {Class/subclass} |

Warrior

---

| {Appearance} |

Rannon stands tall and solidly built, with earthy brown hair, long enough to be tied at the base of his neck. His eyes are reminiscent of shaped wrought iron. His face now only echoes his youthful appearance, battles and years having roughed him into the look of a mature, even veteran soldier. Two scars mar his face. One parallel to the bottom of his left eye, and another scraping across his right jawline. His legs are long and his his facial hair is only a coarse shadow thanks to his knife. He's clad in fine and tough leather over a chainmail hauberk, with sturdy traveling shoes and a worn belt.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Two Handed Sword: In many ways it mirrors its wielder. Sharp, powerful, but bloodstained and notched from use.
Long Knife: He wears in his right boot.
Necklace of beads: Green and woven meticulously by his late mother.

| {Skills} |

Non-combat abilities, such as picking locks, sneaking, or making potions, even making a decent meal. Rogues get a choice of four, mages and warriors get three to reflect the focuses they put in.

| {Talents} |

• Pommel Strike: Uses all parts of the sword as a weapon
• Indomitable: Almost unflinching when in battle
• Sunder Armor: Has powerful blows able to pierce armor
• Commanding presence: Charismatic when it comes to hardship and battle. Knows how to lift spirits of fellow soldiers or teammates with small gestures.
• Tactically minded: Can read a battlefield and respond accordingly
• Athletic: Able to duck, roll, and dodge well enough in his armor. Isn't helpless when unarmed (though of course, not as effective)

| {Home/Family} |

Rannon has a father, and two siblings back home in Ferelden.

| {Flaws and limits} |

Stubborn: When he gets an idea, he's single minded like a hound.
Drink: He has a hard time not diving into the bottle, especially when there's no battle to be had. He tries to eschew drinks in general, but if he gets a sip...
Trauma: Losing all your friends and mother to monsters will do that to you.

---

| {Personality} |

Rannon seems to be the epitome of the Ferelden ideal. His fierce independence and rough nature can only be matched by his loyalty to those he deems worthy. He has a deep seated national pride and sees the world as Ferelden does, taking others and judging them by their deeds rather than their blood. Years in the army and surviving pivotal battles have tempered his recklessness, but never fully. Learning the sword and how to work within ranks of his fellows showed him how to pick his movements and his battles, though he always seems to be ready for another scrap. That is to say, he will never fight for the sake of fighting and appreciates the quiet when he can salvage some. Only that he feels the world is forever dangerous, and won't be made soft or be fooled by the years of relative peace that have settled over the land. He's pragmatic and won't hesitate to use the landscape or offhanded strikes to defeat an opponent, though if he is openly challenged he will honor it and see it to the end. He often likes thinking of what ifs and battle scenarios as he travels the. The warrior tends to be very self critical of himself and his decisions, and he takes the actions he makes very seriously.

Rannon respects Dwarves, the tales of quarreling Nobles in Orzammar not registering to him from the above-ground fighters he has seen. Oddly enough, he does not blame mages for who they are or what they practice, though he is still very wary around them. Templars he's on the fence, for while they do a valuable service in protecting civilization from rampant magic, they're still oppressors. He has a special distrust for the Orlesians and the Tevinter Imperium. Quanari he is iffy on, but takes it in stride if they are his companions. Elves are a mystery to him, never knowing if they are trustworthy and simply wish independence like his fellow Fereldans, or if they truly are the cause of the Brecilian Forest's cursed nature. He has an intense respect for Ash warriors and canines, thinking himself far from good enough for his hound's attention. He's always dreamed of joining the Grey Wardens, but never sought them out.

| {Background} |

Rannon was born under the Arl of Southreach, in the village of Ironbrook. He was born only 8 days before the holiday Funalis. His father worked as a craftsman of leather, and his mother grew wild herbs for medicinal purposes just outside the village, though always in sight of the walls. He was the oldest of three, all boys. His brothers were Edmund (2 years younger) and Wilfrid (4 years younger), and he was often charged with keeping them safe and out of trouble, though he played the role of protector more often than his parents believed. He would get into fights and chases with other boys around his age over his brother's wild nature and sometimes even his own. He didn't mind though, and grew to see it as a competition he could always get better in. It was further driven home with his father, for he'd share tales of the Alamarri driving back to Tevinter Imperium to Rannon if he did a fine job helping with his father's shop that day. He was drawn in, and pride for his nation and his town bloomed within his heart. The fact that his village bordered the cursed wilds furthered that line of thinking.

When he came of age, he went off to serve as a Soldier for the Arl. His tendency to swing first and ask questions later was partially beaten out of him from his Knight trainer, Arlun. He even attempted to fight the Knight at one point, which led to a nasty welt on his forehead from his sword hilt. Among the soldiers, jests were sometimes made at Leonas Bryland for his half Orlesian ancestry, but it was just that, a jest. They never questioned their Arl or his loyalty, all knowing full well that he followed Prince Maric in the Fereldan Rebellion. Rannon acquired some companions of his own, a few of the fellow trainees, Aart, Gavin, Leopuld, and Rochen. Many times they would joke at each others expense and talk the night away until wearied limbs and bruised muscles dragged them into slumber. He was then allowed to go home when he reached 21, provided he would return for service if called. He traveled back to Ironbrook and worked for his father, making saddles and leather coats, even learning how to ride a horse a bit from a particular favor he gave for a free saddle.

He was called though, nearing his 23th birthday. A large incursion of Darkspawn, the largest since the Fifth blight, had come once again to the Kokari Wilds. Rannon went straight into Arl Bryland's ranks, joining with his friends and then being initiated into the King's ranks. The calm before the storm was almost too much for many soldiers among the shadowed trees of the wilds. Darkspawn being monsters from legend and their camp being at the cusp of those haunted woods was a new thing to many commoners. To Rannon it was no different than dealing with rumors of monsters from the Brecilian, and he marveled more at the Ash Warriors and their magnificent Mabaris that had come. Still, he could feel the his mettle rising with each day, until that fateful night at the Battle of the Hinterland Ford. The King's strategy seemed almost flawless, the way the horde advanced in such a mindless charge. But even watching the monsters themselves was almost too much for him, and he didn't think he could find the strength to swing his sword.

That is, until the battle commenced. His fear left him, finding when the blood began to shed, one was too busy to think of fear. He hacked and stabbed, carving through a small number of darkspawn and hoping the blood in his mouth was his own. Sweat and grime was rampant, and the shrieks were almost deafening. He did not know how long the battle lasted or how much he fought, but eventually he found himself one amid a mere few hundred scattered soldiers against the darkspawn ranks. He heard the horns, and knew the battle would turn with the reinforcements set in motion. But as they fought on, it dawned on him as it did on every soldier. No one was coming. He wiped the blood from the cut across his chin, and as his vision unblurred he saw a open-eyed Gavin being stabbed repeatedly, his friend's body already cold as three darkspawn made sport of his corpse. He steeled himself and ran forward, Leopuld and Rochen with him. He didn't know where Aart was, and he would never find out. Rochen fell with a split skull, trying to avenge Gavin. Leopuld and Rannon were the only one's left standing, until more monsters charged in. They backpedaled, their swords leading to fend off the cruel blades of their enemies and swiftly counter attack with fierce thrusts, working in practiced concert. They began to retreat in full, until Leopuld was struck in the hip with an arrow. He fell, and Rannon stopped, reaching down to help him up.

"You have to go!" Leopuld told him, and Rannon looked between him and the advancing terrors. His friend saw the look in Rannon's eye. Again Leopuld told him to run, but Rannon almost charged. He would have charged.
He should have charged...

He fled, using his long legs and making his way across the ford and into the Hinterlands proper, knowing the only way he could survive was if the darkspawn played with the corpses of his friends. And the fact that he lived to tell the tale was testament to that. Still he heard their shrieks, and tumbled out of the soft woodlands towards the lakes, making his way into parts he had never been. By morning he found himself in a small path made by passing beasts, stopping his march by stamping his boot in the ground and hitting a tree with his shoulder, stubbornly. It took him a moment to realize he was being watched, and he turned to regard a young Mabari warhound staring at him not seven paces away. He held his sword before him, until he realized just how stupid he was. If this Mabari saw fit to kill him, why should he stop it? He planted his blade into the ground and slunk down. Instead the beast approached and sat, mirroring him. It panted and looked at him, and Rannon asked what it was doing here. It popped up and jumped from side to side, the dog spry and full of youth. It then dawned on the soldier, and he shook his head as his heart quivered. How could he lose all of his friends in one night, and receive the companionship of this noble canine the next? What world did he live in?

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and since all laughter had been ripped out of him the night before, he fell to the ground and wept. Why would this dog think him good enough? He had run. Dirt and tears stained his face, and when he lifted his head he half expected the canine to be gone. But it sat there, expectantly.

Rannon grabbed a hold of his new friend's shoulder muscles and hauled himself up. They traveled northward together, the Mabari hunting for their food and Rannon following the streams for water. Rannon named him Gideon, fit for the warrior he knew his new friend to be. But still, he felt unworthy for such a comrade. He would have liked to think it was his family's sake that kept him going, to go and warn them. But it was his hatred of the darkspawn that drove him. Eventually he found his way into the heart of the Hinterlands, linking up with a contingent of soldiers coming to repel the advancing horde of monsters. Rannon linked up with them, and they took him without question with the Mabari at his side. Linking up with the King's own personal guard, the united forces flowed into woodlands just outside of the wilds and cut into the remaining darkspawn army like a knife through cake. Rannon got drunk on the bloodletting in that battle, but by chance a spray of arterial blood entered his mouth, and he collapsed before the combat was over, convulsing.

He woke up in camp, alive, and Gideon watching him expectantly. Somehow, he had consumed darkspawn blood and had lived. A week later, he made his way back to Ironbrook, and took his family further northwards in case of other darkspawn incursions. No one knew if a sixth blight was on the way, and the taxes in Ironbrook had increased exponentially to help feed the soldiers. Already, pandemonium had wracked Fereldan from inflation and attacks, and refugees poured forth through the roads, bandits running amok. Rannon and his father thought it smart to travel near the brink of the Brecilian, and for awhile it was a sound idea. Until the third night, when Rannon lost his mother. He had set his own watch, his hound watching the tail end of the small encampment when he heard it. It was an eerie, ominous moan that seeped into the camp. But it sounded like it was made by a lost woman, not a hungry beast, and that was itself unnerving. The wind began to shift, and the moan grew louder pitch by pitch, a very mortal chill running up Rannon's spine. His brothers had awoken, but his parents at the north western edge had not seemed to have heard anything. And then a terrible rip was heard, followed by the scream of their mother, until her voice was torn away as if she had never been. His father would later say she was simply pulled out of the tent by something he couldn't see, but Rannon and his Mabari ran into the woods where she was last heard, confused as to where to even look. Seconds passed, and her scream was heard again to the east, but faint, as if she had been taken a great distance away by something as swift as a hawk.

He made his way towards the noise, despite the dark canopy and underbrush that held a thousand potential horrors, despite him tripping over gnarled roots and jutting rocks. He wouldn't flee again. Not now!

All he found was a torn piece of cloth from her nightshirt, covered in warm blood not a mile away. Even Gideon had lost the scent, and it was the longest night of Rannon's life. Another month later, he defended his father and brothers against bandits on the road to Denerim, being hit in the shoulder by an arrow and receiving the slicing scar below his left eye from a knife. Their mother had taught Wilfrid, the youngest, how to treat battle wounds, and he did the best he could. However the shoulder still aches in the mornings to this day. The rest of the family, save Rannon, believed sailing to the free marches was the best thing to do. He joined his family for two years in Starkhaven, meeting new people and getting a feel for other cultures. Before long however, he found himself slowly getting more and more drunk, more and more frequently, with women he couldn't recall the names of. It wasn't a fit thing to be, and Gideon seemed to think so too, head butting him one morning hard enough for him to lose his dinner on the street. He realized he needed to shape up, and he'd been sober for 6 months, acting as a city guard, until he heard of a better offer at the docks...

He had been in the Anderfells for a couple of years, at this point, and both he and Gideon had seen skirmishes together under the banner of the Grey Wardens.

Gonna clean it up a bit, but that should be done