Smike

Bleeding Earth, Soaring Dragons: Heaven Awaits

Hathor Of The Salt

Name: Hathor Of The Salt

Age: 20

Element: Water

Profession: Traveling fortune teller and monk from the Sect of the Flowing Sea

Appearance:

Hathor

Background: Hathor was oprhaned at an early age and thus brought into the care of a sect of monks. The Sect of the Flowing Sea saw the ocean as the ultimate expression of birth and rebirth, the movement of its waves bringing nourishment to the people but also threatened death and destruction. To them that balance between life and death was emblematic of all existence and their order. All living things would pass eventually but the Sect believed that they should attempt to assist fellow man so as to make life better.

As soon as she reached adulthood and passed the trials Hathor set out to follow their way with no more than a staff to defend herself with and a bowl for donations, seeking those who required assistance.

Inventory:
-Alms Bowl
-Simple robes
-Set of oracle bones, dice and cards
-Wooden staff for walking and defense
Other: Hathor is a trained martial artist but has yet to test herself against anything more than drunken wastrels or local thugs. Whether she can stand up to greater threats has yet to be seen.

Bleeding Earth, Soaring Dragons: Heaven Awaits

Hathor Of The Salt

Name: Hathor Of The Salt

Age: 20

Element: Water

Profession: Traveling fortune teller and monk from the Sect of the Flowing Sea

Appearance:

Hathor

Background: Hathor was oprhaned at an early age and thus brought into the care of a sect of monks. The Sect of the Flowing Sea saw the ocean as the ultimate expression of birth and rebirth, the movement of its waves bringing nourishment to the people but also threatened death and destruction. To them that balance between life and death was emblematic of all existence and their order. All living things would pass eventually but the Sect believed that they should attempt to assist fellow man so as to make life better.

As soon as she reached adulthood and passed the trials Hathor set out to follow their way with no more than a staff to defend herself with and a bowl for donations, seeking those who required assistance.

Inventory:
-Alms Bowl
-Simple robes
-Set of oracle bones, dice and cards
-Wooden staff for walking and defense
Other: Hathor is a trained martial artist but has yet to test herself against anything more than drunken wastrels or local thugs. Whether she can stand up to greater threats has yet to be seen.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~

The boss man's remarks had been directed at the other Darcsen, the way he addressed the room no doubt just a smokescreen to put up the veneer of impartiality. The only person at risk of trouble for the moment was the psychopath gunner. But still, Victoria couldn't help but feel just a bit singled out. No looting, no depravity, no generally acting the part of some battlefield ghoul picking over the dead. Those were the things Victoria was best at! Telling her not to be a scumbag was like telling a member of the officer class to not be a total jackass, or an artilleryman to not be a complete coward. It simply went against the natural order of her being.

Or was she just upset because she knew he was right? Maybe it was both, or neither. Victoria was just grateful that someone else had decided to run their mouth and thus drew attention away from her. Hell, the pompous lecture even distracted her from Michael's dogshit puns so the situation really wasn't that bad. At least until Mehetabel decided to explode into a rant of her own.

She stayed silent while the damaged young woman gave her sob story, the torched village and the whole war is hell thing that Victoria actually bought into herself but found rather petulant when expressed this way. Still, her storming out in a huff when they were supposed to be on a mission in a little while was probably not a good sign and Victoria would rather be in the presence of another nutjob than some high horse NCO. At least she could understand the fucked up thoughts in Mehet's head.

"I'll talk to her now."

The runt could play therapist after the mission if he felt like it, Victoria would get out ahead of the problem. Snatching the abandoned pint that had just been served the Oceanic strolled right out the door, whistling sharply to grab the gunner's attention.

"Torturing the enemy is one thing but leaving behind a perfectly good drink? Now that's a crime."


The conversation had shifted from troubling to annoying in the space of a few sentences. Most of the team either voiced their affirmations or just kept their mouths shut, either answer being totally acceptable to Alex under the circumstances. But the private with no regard for life and an appetite for violence wasn't content with simply being a brute. She attempted to defend herself as if she was in the right, a voice of reason speaking against the crushing ignorance of the machine. A display fit for a religious martyr of some sort perhaps, not what was essentially a child throwing a temper tantrum.

And she was right. Alex didn't know her story nor did he care. Whatever some Imperials had done to her and her family he would not let her vent her rage onto another bunch as if they were all interchangeable. The sergeant gripped his cigar tighter and held out a hand in front of Valkur's face, his massive dog having stepped forward with a growl at the sign of aggression towards the master. There was no need for any of that, not immediately anyway. Alex doubted she would see reason but hopefully she would at least reign herself in.

The outburst had taken his attention off everything else to the point that he didn't even notice the newcomer or hear his name and rank until a few moments after.

Alexandre?!

It couldn't be. The man he had ridden with at the beginning of the war had been a Lieutenant, a member of a noble house. Moreover, he was dead! Cut down by machine guns with most the regiment, a proponent of the old ways slaughtered by the new. But then who was this imposter wearing his face? The match was too perfect for it to simply be some lookalike. Maybe a bastard sibling, one from a secretive tryst? But then why was the man staring back with the same shocked expression? There was only one option, one too world-shattering to be true.

Michael was not dumbstruck like they were and thus made his way over, introducing himself before either of them could pick their jaws off the floor. Shaken from his stupor Alex stubbed his cigar out on the table and cleared his throat for attention. "I'm sure that Private Blanc is doing just fine. In fact he and I have some business to discuss. Daunte, if you'd please make sure that Furst, Roe and Morvan are squared away? I don't want to wait any longer than is necessary after the others get back."

They could go and do jumping jacks in the latrine for all he cared, he just needed to get back in control. A quick order to buy himself a moment, to fix his carefully composed demeanor after a violent shock. Private Blanc if you'd take a seat."

@Conscripts @AdmrlStalfos19 @Nimbus

Bleeding Earth, Soaring Dragons: Heaven Awaits

Nearly finished with my character, just looking for a good pic of her

Bleeding Earth, Soaring Dragons: Heaven Awaits

Hm, might go for a mendicant of some kind

Heavensfall | A WW2 Mutant Alien Apocalypse Thingamajig

<Snipped quote by Smike>

I'd prefer for it not to lean too in favor for one archetype, but otherwise, not really.

@Kuro

makes sense!

Heavensfall | A WW2 Mutant Alien Apocalypse Thingamajig

Out of curiosity, do you have a preference in mind for the amount of civilians to military/ex-military?

DIVINE INTERVENTION

What a strange, strange turn of events they had walked into! Not the cultists of course, Ekaterine had long since stopped seeing Lucifer's foot soldiers as anything more than vermin to be snuffed out. They uninteresting in the same way that an infestation of cockroaches provoked digust instead of curiosity. The cultists and their animated armor set were simply blights that required a good scourging. It was a simple matter to spear them, to blast their filthy flesh from cursed bones while her comrades defenestrated some and hacked the others to bits. That was all good and righteous, the way things ought to have been.

But what made her uncomfortable was the appearance of the two strangers. One a fool and the other merely mysterious, the man wielding officer's pistols and the woman an MP5. Ekaterine spared them a glance even as she looked for her next target, narrowed eyes betraying a certain motherly disapproval. Outward appearances marked the Russian as guilty of Samson's pride while the woman with her painted lips and sensual tone was perhaps a Delilah of sorts in terms of impropriety if not plans of sabotage.

But there was no time for a Biblical lecture. Someone had let slip the dogs of war and she could hear them coming, hateful creatures baying for the blood of those who would stand against evil. The good pastor called for help and it was her duty to answer it. Hundreds of pounds of blessed steel over faith-backed muscled slammed into the first dog before it could clamp its jaws around a limb. And while her shotgun tore an ugly gash through the beast it wasn't enough for a kill.

The others were on her before she could work the action, holy cannon torn from her grasp as they swarmed her. Three sets of teeth dug into the limbs unprotected by her chestplate, staining their teeth with her blood. Whatever foul liquid served as her saliva burned badly, like hellfire injected directly into her muscles, but the pain was drowned by hate. When Ekaterine shouted it was not a cry for help but a warning of what was to come.

With the shotgun tossed to the side she fell back on her APS, dumping twenty rounds of 9x18mm ammo in under a second. The injured dog was simply shredded, leaving the madwoman free to pummel the skull of another with knuckles and pistol butt. Ekaterine shrieked and screamed all the while, deaf to all but the sound of a skull plate snapping under her fists as she fought to keep from being mauled.

"Bleed and die! Bleed and die! Bleed and DIE!"

Heavensfall | A WW2 Mutant Alien Apocalypse Thingamajig

Seems dope as shit, consider this a tentative tag

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~

They were all deciding to showboat then, comparing weapons and making promises of death and destruction. Woe be to any Imperial who they came across for the enemy would surely be boiled to death by all the hot air their little kill team was spewing. The psycho gunner was particularly obnoxious, her big gun apparently compensating for a lack of brains. Perhaps this mission was actually designed to weed out some of the dead weights, cull a few morons from the herd?

Victoria dumped the soap shavings she had collected into her flammable brew, the animal fat the perfect coagulant to make flames stick to whatever they touched. With a rag stuffed in to serve as a stopper her homemade firebomb was complete, ready to spread fear and pain through the trenches. The Stick Worshipper was making some stupid facial expression as if to impress upon everyone how badass he was for using a shovel as a weapon, a display that seemed adorably juvenile coming from someone so small. She didn't even bother to say anything, just flashed him an evil grin as she thudded the sharpened edge of her own shovel into the table.

"I like mine sharp, lets 'em bleed a little." Relying on sheer concussive force when you could make a perfectly functional axe was fairly stupid in her not-so humble opinion. It demonstrated a lack of resourcefulness that Victoria didn't respect. Why have one weapon when you have two? The blunt end for smacking skulls, the edges for everything else.



Alex kept smoking, taking his time enjoying of the few pleasures he was able to enjoy during the war. As long as the family kept sending him cigars he could keep on fighting for as long the Federation required him to. The methods and motivations of the top brass would forever be a mystery to him but it wasn't a sergeant's place to question orders unless they would put his troops in undue danger. Everyone here was competent enough to handle a little trench raid, there was no need to worry.

Well, no more need than usual. The odds were pretty good that some of them wouldn't be making it back alive but that was war. After watching his entire regiment melt into nothingness under the withering fire of entrenched machine guns Alex wasn't going to stress himself out over losing a man or two.

What did bother him was the attitude of the other Darscen. She had been there during Isaac's card game and he was vaguely aware of her name, Mehetabel if he remembered correctly. Her insubordination was bad enough on its own but the real issue was her bloodlust. "You will be doing no such thing Private."

His cigar was now pinched tightly between two fingers as he focused on the gunner, a coldness creeping into his voice that fit the nature of command. "You will treat every captured enemy with dignity and do no harm to them unless they attempt to escape. Do anything else and I will personally drag you off for court-martial. That goes for everyone else as well."

His gaze shifted from the object of ire to the sapper to the Occie and then finally to the second sniper, holding on each for just a moment before continuing on.

"It's a damn shame that I even have to say this. If I catching you looting, abusing captives or doing anything else that can be considered depraved punishment will swift.

With the lecture over Alex went back to smoking, smoothing down nonexistent creases in his uniform. He hated playing the hardass but sometimes it had to be done.

"Eh, it makes sense. You have a carbine and understand how to move in trenches and I suppose they needed to assign someone as lead officer so that's why I'm here." He deflected the engineer's pointed concern because to do anything else would be a dereliction of duty. Listen to the Captain's orders, understand the limitations of them and work around them as best as possible, that was his job.