Smike

Rise of Rasalhague

@SmikeRight, I'll post it here too, accepted haha

Just change that eye-popping blue color please

@6slyboy6

Yeah when I finishing I was like “this is fine” and then just looked at it again lmfao

The original in the OOC is still eye gouging but the sheet in the characters tab should now be legible

Rise of Rasalhague

Fuka

Name: "Samurai" Nakano Fuka

Nickname: As much as she'd like for people to use her stolen rightful title, Nakano's accepted the fact that she can't actually make them.

Appearance: Fuka does not look like a graduate of a military academy or an officer in the Dragon's Combined Soldiery, her veteran status belied by her youthful appearance and sunny disposition. Having grown up with wealth and taste she dresses up whenever the weather allows her to, donning colorful kimonos and hakama in all manner of social situations. It's worth noting that to Fuka, combat is a social situation.

Outside of her dress, there are two notable abnormalities to Fuka. Firstly, her height. She's very tall for a woman, particularly one from Kagoshima, standing at 6'1. Her great height is counterbalanced by her leanness, her figure carrying the toned muscles of a long-distance runner (understandable, considering the amount of sprinting she did during her Acadamy days). The second is her left arm. If one looked closely they'd be able to notice that it's merely coated in latex to mimic living skin, an advanced prosthesis to make up for the loss of the original during an artillery barrage.

Age: 23

Origin: A native of Kagoshima, and a noble to boot. Had she stuck around Fuka would have been in line to become the tozama daimyo of a portion of it, but she deserted instead.

Personality: Fuka is not motivated by politics or morality or any philosophy. All of those are boring stories made up by cowards to make themselves feel better about killing. Fuka fights because she's good at it and it's fun, and if people are willing to pay her to why would she turn them down? War is an adventure, a game with the highest possible stakes. She has no loyalty to anyone except her flight and the people paying it, a true mercenary.

These ever so slightly sociopathic tendencies are counterbalanced by her genuine cheerfulness. Her uninterest in house politics makes it easy for her to make friends from pretty much any corner of the Inner Sphere. She has an appreciation for the fine things in life: good clothes, good food, good music, and good times. She likes being on friendly terms with her comrades because the flight that can't work together is the first to get destroyed. A quick way to her heart is by joining her on the hunting trips she tries to schedule regularly, her love of big game trophies only accentuated by having someone to show them off to.

A holdover from Fuka's honor-bound upbringing is that she has little to no respect for captives, seeing them as both not good enough to win and not brave enough to take the honorable way out. They exist to do what she wants, whether that means her laundry or being sold for a few C-Bills.

History: The Nakanos are a line of minor nobility within the Draconis Combine, dedicated servants of House Kurita who have long served in various branches of the military and militia. Fuka was to be no different, allowed great luxury growing up at the expense of her future service. From an early age she was taught the importance of loyalty to the Coordinator and the tenets of bushido, told that she must present herself as an example to the lower classes.

A shame then, that she never paid much attention to those lessons. Fuka was always more interested in gratification than she was in service, so while she was looking forward to a military career it was entirely due to a childish fascination with war. Her relative's stories made getting shot at fun, and that was all Fuka cared about.

Even if she had wanted to join the Infantry or the Admiralty Fuka was trained in the use of BattleMechs, slipping into the cockpit of the family heirloom Archer with her father to watch him maneuver before eventually being given the controls herself. The moment she put on the Neurohelmet, she knew she didn't want to do anything else.

Military academy seemed a natural fit for a kid with a love of mechs, and indeed Fuka was enrolled at Sun Zhang, but she chafed under the strict control of enlisted life. She was noted as something of a strategic slacker, just managing to toe the line of decorum without ever impressing her instructors. The sole exception was in combat, where she proved to be a natural at shooting and brawling (although her brute force style left little room for the nuances of piloting or tactics).

But with the ongoing Fourth Succession War the Combine was not in a position to turn down recruits, even if they were perhaps uninspiring. Fuka was awarded her daishō and assigned to the Sun Zhang Cadres, sent off to prove herself in some of the nastiest conflict zones House Kurita could find.

To the surprise of her family, her comrades, and even herself Fuka managed to excel. The shift from the training hall to the real world gave her the push needed to demonstrate her skill, using her penchant for gunnery and melee to support her lance while letting her comrades cover for her shortcomings. In one particularly noteworthy incident, her flight caught a team of FedSun mechs out of position and essentially vaporized them. In a single salvo all but one of the Davionites were killed outright, save for the pilot of the Shadow Hawk that Fuka managed to cripple.

With a successful raid under her belt Fuka happily sent her captive off to get broken in, uninterested in owning a slave but pleased with the kudos she'd get for him at home. The feeling of accomplishment carried her through the rest of the war, right up until the final few days when a bombardment blew her left arm at the shoulder.

Fuka was largely unphased by the event (once the pain subsided, of course, she'd happily admit that she was screaming like a stuck pig until the medics got some serious sedatives into her), simply chalking it up to luck. Plenty of people left the war in much worse shape than she had, and it wasn't like she couldn't afford a replacement limb. Hell, any disappointment she might have felt was quickly forgotten when she was informed that she had graduated from the Cadre and made a junior lieutenant.

The end of the war and her "wounded veteran of a noble family" status afforded Fuka some time off, sent home to convalesce before the next inevitable engagement. Now once again constrained by societal pressures she had time to consider her position. The war had been fun, but the rigor and structure of military life annoyed her. She was proud of having been made an officer, but that was only because of the sense of personal achievement. She didn't want to spend her life polishing her boots and her superiors' asses, she just wanted adventure.

Her slave was now working on the Nakano estate, and his presence gave her an idea. While she had no actual problem with his mistreatment (after all, if he didn't want to be captured he would have sat on a grenade) but his want of freedom inspired her to seize her own. Fuka deserted her family and her liege and stole their property along the way, smuggling the Bastard out of the city in a crate of laundry. After that, Alvin was left to his own devices because Fuka had her own problems.

On the run and liable to be shot for treason if discovered she beelined for the newly independent Rasalhague, intending to use it as a stopping point before continuing on in search of a company looking to hire. Conveniently, there was a company looking to hire in Rasalhague!

Now her main goal is to get her hands on a proper heavy or even assault mech, so as to continue the carnage.

Skills:

Gunnery: 5
Piloting:1
Guts:5
Tactics:1

Abilities: We'll keep track of pilot's abilities here once they earn any. These are usually beneficial modifiers for specific situations, and will be "awarded" during the RP if it feels like a pilot earned it. Same soft statistic as Skills, used mostly for flavor to give a unique flare to every pilot.

Misc:

• Members of the Pillar of Gold are expected to practice art in all its forms as part of their advanced place in society, so Fuka is a fair hand at many types of artistic expression. However, she's best as a musician, playing a steel guitar and singing. She's also a trained martial artist, the practice of unarmed self-defense taught both at home and in school. Outside of her swordsmanship Fuka is a practitioner of Kūdō.
• Speaks both her native Japanese and English perfectly, can understand French and German but struggles somewhat in speaking.
• Is well armed even outside her mech, as befitting a samurai. Besides the traditional katana and matching wakizashi she wears due to having earned them in Sun Zhang, she also keeps a modified G-150 hunting rifle, chambered in 11 millimeter for big game. The final weapon is a simple Nambu autoloader. If asked Fuka will gleefully share that it's intended for herself if her mech is ever disabled.
• Smokes, really only because she thinks it looks cool.

Rise of Rasalhague

Fuka

Name: "Samurai" Nakano Fuka

Nickname: As much as she'd like for people to use her stolen rightful title, Nakano's accepted the fact that she can't actually make them.

Appearance: Fuka does not look like a graduate of a military academy or an officer in the Dragon's Combined Soldiery, her veteran status belied by her youthful appearance and sunny disposition. Having grown up with wealth and taste she dresses up whenever the weather allows her to, donning colorful kimonos and hakama in all manner of social situations. It's worth noting that to Fuka, combat is a social situation.

Outside of her dress, there are two notable abnormalities to Fuka. Firstly, her height. She's very tall for a woman, particularly one from Kagoshima, standing at 6'1. Her great height is counterbalanced by her leanness, her figure carrying the toned muscles of a long-distance runner (understandable, considering the amount of sprinting she did during her Acadamy days). The second is her left arm. If one looked closely they'd be able to notice that it's merely coated in latex to mimic living skin, an advanced prosthesis to make up for the loss of the original during an artillery barrage.

Age: 23

Origin: A native of Kagoshima, and a noble to boot. Had she stuck around Fuka would have been in line to become the tozama daimyo of a portion of it, but she deserted instead.

Personality: Fuka is not motivated by politics or morality or any philosophy. All of those are boring stories made up by cowards to make themselves feel better about killing. Fuka fights because she's good at it and it's fun, and if people are willing to pay her to why would she turn them down? War is an adventure, a game with the highest possible stakes. She has no loyalty to anyone except her flight and the people paying it, a true mercenary.

These ever so slightly sociopathic tendencies are counterbalanced by her genuine cheerfulness. Her uninterest in house politics makes it easy for her to make friends from pretty much any corner of the Inner Sphere. She has an appreciation for the fine things in life: good clothes, good food, good music, and good times. She likes being on friendly terms with her comrades because the flight that can't work together is the first to get destroyed. A quick way to her heart is by joining her on the hunting trips she tries to schedule regularly, her love of big game trophies only accentuated by having someone to show them off to.

A holdover from Fuka's honor-bound upbringing is that she has little to no respect for captives, seeing them as both not good enough to win and not brave enough to take the honorable way out. They exist to do what she wants, whether that means her laundry or being sold for a few C-Bills.

History: The Nakanos are a line of minor nobility within the Draconis Combine, dedicated servants of House Kurita who have long served in various branches of the military and militia. Fuka was to be no different, allowed great luxury growing up at the expense of her future service. From an early age she was taught the importance of loyalty to the Coordinator and the tenets of bushido, told that she must present herself as an example to the lower classes.

A shame then, that she never paid much attention to those lessons. Fuka was always more interested in gratification than she was in service, so while she was looking forward to a military career it was entirely due to a childish fascination with war. Her relative's stories made getting shot at fun, and that was all Fuka cared about.

Even if she had wanted to join the Infantry or the Admiralty Fuka was trained in the use of BattleMechs, slipping into the cockpit of the family heirloom Archer with her father to watch him maneuver before eventually being given the controls herself. The moment she put on the Neurohelmet, she knew she didn't want to do anything else.

Military academy seemed a natural fit for a kid with a love of mechs, and indeed Fuka was enrolled at Sun Zhang, but she chafed under the strict control of enlisted life. She was noted as something of a strategic slacker, just managing to toe the line of decorum without ever impressing her instructors. The sole exception was in combat, where she proved to be a natural at shooting and brawling (although her brute force style left little room for the nuances of piloting or tactics).

But with the ongoing Fourth Succession War the Combine was not in a position to turn down recruits, even if they were perhaps uninspiring. Fuka was awarded her daishō and assigned to the Sun Zhang Cadres, sent off to prove herself in some of the nastiest conflict zones House Kurita could find.

To the surprise of her family, her comrades, and even herself Fuka managed to excel. The shift from the training hall to the real world gave her the push needed to demonstrate her skill, using her penchant for gunnery and melee to support her lance while letting her comrades cover for her shortcomings. In one particularly noteworthy incident, her flight caught a team of FedSun mechs out of position and essentially vaporized them. In a single salvo all but one of the Davionites were killed outright, save for the pilot of the Shadow Hawk that Fuka managed to cripple.

With a successful raid under her belt Fuka happily sent her captive off to get broken in, uninterested in owning a slave but pleased with the kudos she'd get for him at home. The feeling of accomplishment carried her through the rest of the war, right up until the final few days when a bombardment blew her left arm at the shoulder.

Fuka was largely unphased by the event (once the pain subsided, of course, she'd happily admit that she was screaming like a stuck pig until the medics got some serious sedatives into her), simply chalking it up to luck. Plenty of people left the war in much worse shape than she had, and it wasn't like she couldn't afford a replacement limb. Hell, any disappointment she might have felt was quickly forgotten when she was informed that she had graduated from the Cadre and made a junior lieutenant.

The end of the war and her "wounded veteran of a noble family" status afforded Fuka some time off, sent home to convalesce before the next inevitable engagement. Now once again constrained by societal pressures she had time to consider her position. The war had been fun, but the rigor and structure of military life annoyed her. She was proud of having been made an officer, but that was only because of the sense of personal achievement. She didn't want to spend her life polishing her boots and her superiors' asses, she just wanted adventure.

Her slave was now working on the Nakano estate, and his presence gave her an idea. While she had no actual problem with his mistreatment (after all, if he didn't want to be captured he would have sat on a grenade) but his want of freedom inspired her to seize her own. Fuka deserted her family and her liege and stole their property along the way, smuggling the Bastard out of the city in a crate of laundry. After that, Alvin was left to his own devices because Fuka had her own problems.

On the run and liable to be shot for treason if discovered she beelined for the newly independent Rasalhague, intending to use it as a stopping point before continuing on in search of a company looking to hire. Conveniently, there was a company looking to hire in Rasalhague!

Now her main goal is to get her hands on a proper heavy or even assault mech, so as to continue the carnage.

Skills:

Gunnery: 5
Piloting:1
Guts:5
Tactics:1

Abilities: We'll keep track of pilot's abilities here once they earn any. These are usually beneficial modifiers for specific situations, and will be "awarded" during the RP if it feels like a pilot earned it. Same soft statistic as Skills, used mostly for flavor to give a unique flare to every pilot.

Misc:

• Members of the Pillar of Gold are expected to practice art in all its forms as part of their advanced place in society, so Fuka is a fair hand at many types of artistic expression. However, she's best as a musician, playing a steel guitar and singing. She's also a trained martial artist, the practice of unarmed self-defense taught both at home and in school. Outside of her swordsmanship Fuka is a practitioner of Kūdō.
• Speaks both her native Japanese and English perfectly, can understand French and German but struggles somewhat in speaking.
• Is well armed even outside her mech, as befitting a samurai. Besides the traditional katana and matching wakizashi she wears due to having earned them in Sun Zhang, she also keeps a modified G-150 hunting rifle, chambered in 11 millimeter for big game. The final weapon is a simple Nambu autoloader. If asked Fuka will gleefully share that it's intended for herself if her mech is ever disabled.
• Smokes, really only because she thinks it looks cool.

Rise of Rasalhague

Nowhere close to done but out here so I don’t lose it

My Hider

Fuka

https://imgur.com/a/ZH9ExDT

Name: "Samurai" Nakano Fuka

Nickname: As much as she'd like for people to use her stolen rightful title, Nakano's accepted the fact that she can't actually make them.

Appearance: Fuka does not look like a graduate of a military academy or an officer in the Dragon's Combined Soldiery, her veteran status by her youthful appearance and sunny disposition. Having grown up with wealth and taste she dresses up whenever the weather allows her to, donning colorful kimonos and hakama in all manner of social situations. It's worth noting that to Fuka, combat is a social situation.

Outside of her dress, there are two notable abnormalities to Fuka. Firstly, her height. She's very tall for a woman, particularly one from Kagoshima, standing at 6'1. Her great height is counterbalanced by her leanness, her figure carrying the toned muscles of a long-distance runner (understandable, considering the amount of sprinting she did during her Acadamy days). The second is her left arm. If one looked closely they'd be able to notice that it's merely coated in latex to mimic living skin, an advanced prosthesis to make up for the loss of the original during a botched ejection.

Age: 22 OR 23

Origin: A native of Kagoshima, and a noble to boot. Had she stuck around Fuka would have been in line to become the tozama daimyo of a portion of it, but she deserted instead.

Personality: How does your character usually behave? This is the important bit, feel free to go into detail if you want.

History: The Nakanos are a line of minor nobility within the Draconis Combine, dedicated servants of House Kurita who have longed served in various branches of the military and militia.

Skills:

Gunnery: 5
Piloting:1
Guts:5
Tactics:1

Abilities: We'll keep track of pilot's abilities here once they earn any. These are usually beneficial modifiers for specific situations, and will be "awarded" during the RP if it feels like a pilot earned it. Same soft statistic as Skills, used mostly for flavor to give a unique flare to every pilot.

Misc: Add anything here you feel is important about your character, or that you normally add to your CSs. Otherwise, you can leave it empty or delete it.

Smike's Sheets

Nowhere close to done but out here so I don’t lose it

Fuka

Name: "Samurai" Nakano Fuka

Nickname: As much as she'd like for people to use her stolen rightful title, Nakano's accepted the fact that she can't actually make them.

Appearance: Fuka does not look like a graduate of a military academy or an officer in the Dragon's Combined Soldiery, her veteran status belied by her youthful appearance and sunny disposition. Having grown up with wealth and taste she dresses up whenever the weather allows her to, donning colorful kimonos and hakama in all manner of social situations. It's worth noting that to Fuka, combat is a social situation.

Outside of her dress, there are two notable abnormalities to Fuka. Firstly, her height. She's very tall for a woman, particularly one from Kagoshima, standing at 6'1. Her great height is counterbalanced by her leanness, her figure carrying the toned muscles of a long-distance runner (understandable, considering the amount of sprinting she did during her Acadamy days). The second is her left arm. If one looked closely they'd be able to notice that it's merely coated in latex to mimic living skin, an advanced prosthesis to make up for the loss of the original during an artillery barrage.

Age: 23

Origin: A native of Kagoshima, and a noble to boot. Had she stuck around Fuka would have been in line to become the tozama daimyo of a portion of it, but she deserted instead.

Personality: Fuka is not motivated by politics or morality or any philosophy. All of those are boring stories made up by cowards to make themselves feel better about killing. Fuka fights because she's good at it and it's fun, and if people are willing to pay her to why would she turn them down? War is an adventure, a game with the highest possible stakes. She has no loyalty to anyone except her flight and the people paying it, a true mercenary.

These ever so slightly sociopathic tendencies are counterbalanced by her genuine cheerfulness. Her uninterest in house politics makes it easy for her to make friends from pretty much any corner of the Inner Sphere. She has an appreciation for the fine things in life: good clothes, good food, good music, and good times. She likes being on friendly terms with her comrades because the flight that can't work together is the first to get destroyed. A quick way to her heart is by joining her on the hunting trips she tries to schedule regularly, her love of big game trophies only accentuated by having someone to show them off to.

A holdover from Fuka's honor-bound upbringing is that she has little to no respect for captives, seeing them as both not good enough to win and not brave enough to take the honorable way out. They exist to do what she wants, whether that means her laundry or being sold for a few C-Bills.

History: The Nakanos are a line of minor nobility within the Draconis Combine, dedicated servants of House Kurita who have long served in various branches of the military and militia. Fuka was to be no different, allowed great luxury growing up at the expense of her future service. From an early age she was taught the importance of loyalty to the Coordinator and the tenets of bushido, told that she must present herself as an example to the lower classes.

A shame then, that she never paid much attention to those lessons. Fuka was always more interested in gratification than she was in service, so while she was looking forward to a military career it was entirely due to a childish fascination with war. Her relative's stories made getting shot at fun, and that was all Fuka cared about.

Even if she had wanted to join the Infantry or the Admiralty Fuka was trained in the use of BattleMechs, slipping into the cockpit of the family heirloom Archer with her father to watch him maneuver before eventually being given the controls herself. The moment she put on the Neurohelmet, she knew she didn't want to do anything else.

Military academy seemed a natural fit for a kid with a love of mechs, and indeed Fuka was enrolled at Sun Zhang, but she chafed under the strict control of enlisted life. She was noted as something of a strategic slacker, just managing to toe the line of decorum without ever impressing her instructors. The sole exception was in combat, where she proved to be a natural at shooting and brawling (although her brute force style left little room for the nuances of piloting or tactics).

But with the ongoing Fourth Succession War the Combine was not in a position to turn down recruits, even if they were perhaps uninspiring. Fuka was awarded her daishō and assigned to the Sun Zhang Cadres, sent off to prove herself in some of the nastiest conflict zones House Kurita could find.

To the surprise of her family, her comrades, and even herself Fuka managed to excel. The shift from the training hall to the real world gave her the push needed to demonstrate her skill, using her penchant for gunnery and melee to support her lance while letting her comrades cover for her shortcomings. In one particularly noteworthy incident, her flight caught a team of FedSun mechs out of position and essentially vaporized them. In a single salvo all but one of the Davionites were killed outright, save for the pilot of the Shadow Hawk that Fuka managed to cripple.

With a successful raid under her belt Fuka happily sent her captive off to get broken in, uninterested in owning a slave but pleased with the kudos she'd get for him at home. The feeling of accomplishment carried her through the rest of the war, right up until the final few days when a bombardment blew her left arm at the shoulder.

Fuka was largely unphased by the event (once the pain subsided, of course, she'd happily admit that she was screaming like a stuck pig until the medics got some serious sedatives into her), simply chalking it up to luck. Plenty of people left the war in much worse shape than she had, and it wasn't like she couldn't afford a replacement limb. Hell, any disappointment she might have felt was quickly forgotten when she was informed that she had graduated from the Cadre and made a junior lieutenant.

The end of the war and her "wounded veteran of a noble family" status afforded Fuka some time off, sent home to convalesce before the next inevitable engagement. Now once again constrained by societal pressures she had time to consider her position. The war had been fun, but the rigor and structure of military life annoyed her. She was proud of having been made an officer, but that was only because of the sense of personal achievement. She didn't want to spend her life polishing her boots and her superiors' asses, she just wanted adventure.

Her slave was now working on the Nakano estate, and his presence gave her an idea. While she had no actual problem with his mistreatment (after all, if he didn't want to be captured he would have sat on a grenade) but his want of freedom inspired her to seize her own. Fuka deserted her family and her liege and stole their property along the way, smuggling the Bastard out of the city in a crate of laundry. After that, Alvin was left to his own devices because Fuka had her own problems.

On the run and liable to be shot for treason if discovered she beelined for the newly independent Rasalhague, intending to use it as a stopping point before continuing on in search of a company looking to hire. Conveniently, there was a company looking to hire in Rasalhague!

Now her main goal is to get her hands on a proper heavy or even assault mech, so as to continue the carnage.

Skills:

Gunnery: 5
Piloting:1
Guts:5
Tactics:1

Abilities: We'll keep track of pilot's abilities here once they earn any. These are usually beneficial modifiers for specific situations, and will be "awarded" during the RP if it feels like a pilot earned it. Same soft statistic as Skills, used mostly for flavor to give a unique flare to every pilot.

Misc:

• Members of the Pillar of Gold are expected to practice art in all its forms as part of their advanced place in society, so Fuka is a fair hand at many types of artistic expression. However, she's best as a musician, playing a steel guitar and singing.
• Speaks both her native Japanese and English perfectly, can understand French and German but struggles somewhat in speaking.
• Is well armed even outside her mech, as befitting a samurai. Besides the traditional katana and matching wakizashi she wears due to having earned them in Sun Zhang, she also keeps a modified G-150 hunting rifle, chambered in 11 millimeter for big game. The final weapon is a simple Nambu autoloader. If asked Fuka will gleefully share that it's intended for herself if her mech is ever disabled.
• Smokes, really only because she thinks it looks cool.

Rise of Rasalhague - A "mostly" canon BattleTech mercenary roleplay for mech enjoyers

@SmikeOf course, I'm more than happy t help out any newcomers to the franchise. This was very much designed for new people who were interested, so you'll fit right in :)

@6slyboy6

Awesome! Doing some preliminary digging around, will ask questions later

Rise of Rasalhague - A "mostly" canon BattleTech mercenary roleplay for mech enjoyers

I’m entirely new to BattleTech but have been interested for a while now, I’d like to give it a shot if you’d have me.

Vigil of the Faithful (Anime-Inspired Exorcist RP)

Prologue

Yamileth was no stranger to sleeping in the car, not after the training she had gone through. Seven odd years of late-night rituals and early morning Bible studies, hundreds of hours learning all facets of the Trade. She had quickly gotten used to grabbing sleep whenever and wherever she could, even if it meant napping in the back seat of a beat-up '69 Camaro with a giant dog huffing and grunting next to her.

The sweltering heat did not bother her as she slept, for she was dreaming of a nicer time. Her visions were murky, the words within unclear, as if she were viewing the scene from under the surface of the water, but she recognized it all the same. Yami's dreams typically revolved around one subject: Ekaterine.

There were on a beach somewhere, alone save for the sound of surf lapping against sand. Neither of them spoke but so much was being said! They communicated through the touch of Yami's still soft hands against Ekaterine's battle-calloused ones, sharing their warmth in a world where they could just sit and rest. When Yamileth leaned against her mentor she was saying that they were safe not just for the moment but forever, free from fear or worry.

They kissed, just as they always did in her dreams, and just as always it was bittersweet. Yami could only get what she wanted, what she craved, from her imagination. Even her slumbering subconscious knew that it was impossible for the relationship to ever be more than mentor and student, and that grim truth gave her a flitter of restlessness.

It was quickly swallowed up by the beauty of the fantasy, disbelief suspended as it would be for any other romance. If this seaside dreamscape was the only place she could be honest with Ekaterine about her feelings then Yami would just have to make the most of it.

"Yami, wake up."

Stolen away from it all by the object of her affection, how cruelly ironic. Yamileth grunted as she shifted away from the window, sluggishly reaching for Cohort's fuzzy face.

"Where are we?"

Not Vegas, that was for sure. As opposed to sun-blasted sand and towering monuments to excess, they were surrounded by rolling mountains and verdant sage. The only sign of civilization was a collection of run-down homes and the little service station that the Stavrophore had deemed worthy of supplying their 'steed' with fuel.

Ekaterine stepped out of the car and Yamileth followed, ears popping from the change in pressure.

"Bellemont, ten miles or so from Flagstaff. I need to check in with a friend, it'll take a few minutes. Fill up the car."

She wasn't usually that curt, but then again she was running on empty. They had just gotten back from a routine hunt when word of the Vegas Incident came, leaving them only enough time to resupply before hopping back in the car. Yami had managed to squeeze in a few hour's rest, but as far as she knew Ekaterine hadn't slept in more than a day.

As much as the novice hunter wanted to push her teacher into the backseat to sleep she knew that doing so would only test Ekaterine's patience. In the time they had worked together, Yami had noticed that the Stavrophore often struggled to rest when on the hunt, relying on force of will and strength of belief to drive her onward. This made it harder for her to recover which in turn led to her nightmares getting worse, cutting into her time even back home in the convent.

That cycle was bearable thirty years ago when Ekaterine had been a young soldier on the Eastern Front. She was older now, worn down from too much struggle and not enough care. She treated herself like a mule to be worked to death, choosing to either get torn apart by horrors or drop dead from exhaustion in a final act of penance.

Yamileth hoped that in doing so she'd the forgiveness she had been fighting so hard for.

Bellemont reminded her of her home in Georgia. Stepantsminda was mountain country, albeit much colder than anywhere in Arizona, and the people there lived simply. She could see the creaky carts of her neighbors in the aging Fords and Buicks that lined the unpaved street, the little bar on the corner not too dissimilar to the tavern her father had habitually visited. And both were mere villages hidden in mere provinces, entirely swallowed up by the Russian Bear and American Eagle.

She stood out more than she had in Stepantsminda, but only just. Whereas in her country people noticed her height here they were drawn to her clothes. If Ekaterine had to guess she would have said that they all assumed she was Catholic, although of a strange branch where they wore hobnailed boots and stovepipe caps with their habits as opposed to the traditional nurse's shoes and coif.

There was no time to educate the locals on the Great Schism. Ekaterine ignored their stares as she marched towards the ramshackle warehouse that passed for a church in that part of the country, skipping the front entrance in favor of the screen door at the back.

"Elder Hall, are you in?"

"Door's open!"

Ekaterine took the invasion, stepping into her old friend's office. It was much as she remembered it, with its cheap carpet and peeling wallpaper, secondhand shelves creaking under the weight of books. The Elder himself was seated in a folding chair at a thrift store desk, closing his copy of the Scriptures.

"Mother Ekaterine, a pleasant surprise. You've been well I hope?"

Not in the slightest, but she had long ago learned that Americans asked how you were doing, they didn't actually mean they wanted to know.

"As well as I can be. The hunt stops for no man, and it's called me to Las Vegas. A Compact's gone dark, and the culprits must be crushed."

"I take it that's why you're here then. As always the Church of Jesus Christ is happy to help our Eastern brethren in any way we can.

One of Ekaterine's many sins was failing to extend the same understanding she gave to her non-Orthodox and non-Christian colleagues to the Latter-Day Saints. Part of this was due to the Church's refusal to nominate members to the priesthood on the basis of skin color, for any organization that rejected a continent of God's children was one that she could never see eye to eye with, but much of it was simple bias on her part. As far as religions went it was still in its infancy, born not even two centuries ago. Such a young church had little to offer in the fight against darkness, and Ekaterine was woefully pragmatic.

But Elder Hall was a friend and a fellow warrior, a veteran who had fought against Imperial Japan just as she had. He was brave, actually brave as opposed to blinded by pride and wrath like herself, but he was simply outmatched when it came to supernatural threats. Hall had survived Peleli and Okinawa, Ekaterine wasn't going to let him die in the back alleys of Sin City.

"I need only a weapon, one separate from my shotgun. Your knife, do you still have it?"

Hall smiled, opening the cabinet of his desk to produce a simple cardboard package. Opening it revealed the contents, the traditional Ka-Bar knife beloved by all Marines and anyone else who expected to stab someone as part of their day job. Ekaterine lifted it with the same reverence she would treat any holy tool, drawing it from its sheath to get used to the weight. The parkerized blade bore a single inscription, Psalms 91:4.

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

"It took care of me, may it do the same for you."

She nodded, sheathing the blade once more before saying her goodbyes. There was a four-hour drive ahead of her, enough time to down some cold coffee and a handful of Biphetamine 20. Some of the sisters frowned on her popping amphetamines, but Ekaterine wasn't exactly taking them for fun. The rush of adrenaline wasn't recreational, the intense burst of focus was not an experience she enjoyed. But it was useful, and if the Lord didn't want her to do it He would have let her know by now.

The Camaro screamed down the street of Las Vegas like so many of its brethren had done before, but instead of ferrying drunk college kids it carried instruments of God's will, two of his children and one of the dogs designed to serve them. They had taken the time to gird themselves for battle on the way in, holsters strapped on and bandoliers wrapped around chests. Adjusting her rearview Ekaterine could Yami doing a final count of her magazines and speed loaders, the flash of silver from Cohort's muzzle telling the nun that their hound had been properly armed as well. She had yet to meet the creature that enjoyed being chewed on by seven hundred pounds of jaw strength, especially not when it had been augmented by blessed silver.

Ekaterine liked to think that Cohort was as dedicated to task as she was, for what other reason did he allow Yamileth to poke around his mouth covering his fangs with metal caps?

Her own loadout was ready, her habit now covered by her armor plates and a surplus ammo-carrying vest from Vietnam, each pocket loaded with a magazine for one weapon or another. At her hip was a shotshell bag, a fresh box of buckshot tucked in for easy access. Her bag contained more and of differing varietals for changing situations.

All in all Ekaterine was pushing a hundred pounds of extra weight, a load that even seasoned soldiers would find hard to fight in. She carried it as if it were all a part of her body, legs carrying her into the thick of the fighting as soon as the car stopped moving.

She didn't waste time making conversation like her Muslim comrades did, nor did she respond to Father Alistair's words. In that moment she existed for one purpose: violence.

The Elder Vampire needed to go. Ekaterine saw everything else as distractions, problems to be dealt with once the root was dug up. She sprinted past soldiers, civilians, and monsters alike, deadset on destroying the mockery of human beauty.

"Anyone that brings me back a head will earn their ascension!"

None of them would bring anything to the wretch, not once Ekaterine was done with it. Her boots trod rats into mulch as she bore down, eyes narrowing as a pair of ghouls attempted to put themselves between her and her prey. A swing of her gloved fist shattered one's jaw while the other was sent stumbling back by way of a shoulder to the chest, mere distractions trying to keep her from her righteous goal.

She didn't aim her shotgun so much as she pointed it in the general direction of the Leader, relying on faith and close range to guide her shot. The Ithaca jerked in her hand at the pull of the trigger, blessed buckshot ripping holes through the monster's side. But to Ekaterine's annoyance the fiend had been ready, deftly dodging most of the payload.

The Leader snarled, launching itself at Ekaterine with all the speed and strength of an apex predator. The nun saw the claws coming but found herself temporarily helpless, the devil's eyes locking with hers and reaching past for her soul with its foul magic. For a moment Ekaterine remembered what it was like to be terrified, the natural superiority of the undead once again unquestioned. She was a rabbit challenging a hawk, a fool!

Ekaterine only just managed to lift her weapon in an attempt to block, the talons deflected away from her tender throat towards her exposed face. There was a flash of white pain and trickles of blood dripping down her forehead, the sense of violation as her body reacted to injury...and the leering smile of That Which Should Not Be.

The spell was broken. Ekaterine was enraged once more.

She lashed out with a scream, drowning out all noise as she smashed her head forward. Her body was just another holy weapon, a tool to be used. Shards of teeth pierced her headdress and dug into her scalp, more minor wounds to be treated later. The Leader was defanged with a gurgling cry, the sound of weakness only serving to encourage the berserker's hate. Ekaterine's throat produced sounds that could only barely be considered human as she lifted the Less-Than-Mortal by the neck, throwing her quarry to the asphalt.

Vampires were largely resistant to physical trauma, making brute-force weapons generally inferior. It was simpler and far easier to invest in a consecrated spear or a simple stake with which to stab the swine. Ekaterine liked having options, however, which was why the spiked bottoms of her boots were also silvered. She gave the monster no time to escape, jumping on its chest with a brutal snarl.

Its sternum cracked, the black heart beneath crumbled to dust, and Ekaterine laughed madly.

All the doubt, the exhaustion and her loosening grip on reality, all of it was so very worth it now that she was home.

Yamileth wouldn't have admitted it under torture in Tartarus itself, but she was very much out of her depth. The hunts with Ekaterine, the banishing rituals with her adoptive coven, all of that had been good experience but nothing could have prepared her for this. They had driven into a warzone, Green Beret black ops type yelling commands and emptying M16s into feral hordes while civilians scrambled for safety. There was a guy with a sword fighting two vampires at once, swarms of bats diving in to nip at exposed flesh...

...what the hell was she doing here? She wasn't ready for this!

But it was too late to back out now. As Ekaterine tore off in search of skulls to collect Yamileth took up position behind the car, arms shaking as she tried to steady her rifle. There were so many targets to choose from and too much chaos to do it in, friend and foe alike embroiled in a great melee so that Yami couldn't even shoot without risking friendly fire.

A flailing of limbs in her periphery stole her attention, Yami swinging her M1 towards the commotion with her finger on the trigger. She almost put a bullet through the head of some unfortunate barman running as fast as his legs could carry him. That speed was still far too slow, the bloody gash across his thigh draining his strength as a ghoul gave chase. As Yami switched targets the man stumbled and fell, desperately dragging himself as his pursuer drew closer.

"Cohort, fetch!"

She pointed to the bartender and the Cane Corso bounced forward, bowling past friendly troops to grab the injured soul's collar with his teeth. As Cohort pulled the man towards cover Yamileth dumped shots into the ghoul, focusing on volume as opposed to accuracy.

The first shot went wide, two and three snapped an arm like a dry branch and number four went in through the temple and came out by earlobe.

One down, way too fucking many to go.

Smike's Sheets

Hider

The Camaro screamed down the street of Las Vegas like so many of its brethren had done before, but instead of ferrying drunk college kids it carried instruments of God's will, two of his children and one of the dogs designed to serve them. They had taken the time to gird themselves for battle on the way in, holsters strapped on and bandoliers wrapped around chests. Adjusting her rearview Ekaterine could Yami doing a final count of her magazines and speed loaders, the flash of silver from Cohort's muzzle telling the nun that their hound had been properly armed as well. She had yet to meet the creature that enjoyed being chewed on by seven hundred pounds of jaw strength, especially not when it had been augmented by blessed silver.

Ekaterine liked to think that Cohort was as dedicated to task as she was, for what other reason did he allow Yamileth to poke around his mouth covering his fangs with metal caps?

Her own loadout was ready, her habit now covered by her armor plates and a surplus ammo-carrying vest from Vietnam, each pocket loaded with a magazine for one weapon or another. At her hip was a shotshell bag, a fresh box of buckshot tucked in for easy access. Her bag contained more and of differing varietals for changing situations.

All in all Ekaterine was pushing a hundred pounds of extra weight, a load that even seasoned soldiers would find hard to fight in. She carried it as if it were all a part of her body, legs carrying her into the thick of the fighting as soon as the car stopped moving.

She didn't waste time making conversation like her Muslim comrades did, nor did she respond to Father Alistair's words. In that moment she existed for one purpose: violence.

The Elder Vampire needed to go. Ekaterine saw everything else as distractions, problems to be dealt with once the root was dug up. She sprinted past soldiers, civilians, and monsters alike, deadset on destroying the mockery of human beauty.

"Anyone that brings me back a head will earn their ascension!"

None of them would bring anything to the wretch, not once Ekaterine was done with it. Her boots trod rats into mulch as she bore down, eyes narrowing as a pair of ghouls attempted to put themselves between her and her prey. A swing of her gloved fist shattered one's jaw while the other was sent stumbling back by way of a shoulder to the chest, mere distractions trying to keep her from her righteous goal.

She didn't aim her shotgun so much as she pointed it in the general direction of the Leader, relying on faith and close range to guide her shot. The Ithaca jerked in her hand at the pull of the trigger, blessed buckshot ripping holes through the monster's side. But to Ekaterine's annoyance the fiend had been ready, deftly dodging most of the payload.

The Leader snarled, launching itself at Ekaterine with all the speed and strength of an apex predator. The nun saw the claws coming but found herself temporarily helpless, the devil's eyes locking with hers and reaching past for her soul with its foul magic. For a moment Ekaterine remembered what it was like to be terrified, the natural superiority of the undead once again unquestioned. She was a rabbit challenging a hawk, a fool!

Ekaterine only just managed to lift her weapon in an attempt to block, the talons deflected away from her tender throat towards her exposed face. There was a flash of white pain and trickles of blood dripping down her forehead, the sense of violation as her body reacted to injury...and the leering smile of That Which Should Not Be.

The spell was broken. Ekaterine was enraged once more.

She lashed out with a scream, drowning out all noise as she smashed her head forward. Her body was just another holy weapon, a tool to be used. Shards of teeth pierced her headdress and dug into her scalp, more minor wounds to be treated later. The Leader was defanged with a gurgling cry, the sound of weakness only serving to encourage the berserker's hate. Ekaterine's throat produced sounds that could only barely be considered human as she lifted the Less-Than-Mortal by the neck, throwing her quarry to the asphalt.

Vampires were largely resistant to physical trauma, making brute-force weapons generally inferior. It was simpler and far easier to invest in a consecrated spear or a simple stake with which to stab the swine. Ekaterine liked having options, however, which was why the spiked bottoms of her boots were also silvered. She gave the monster no time to escape, jumping on its chest with a brutal snarl.

Its sternum cracked, the black heart beneath crumbled to dust, and Ekaterine laughed madly.

All the doubt, the exhaustion and her loosening grip on reality, all of it was so very worth it now that she was home.

Yamileth wouldn't have admitted it under torture in Tartarus itself, but she was very much out of her depth. The hunts with Ekaterine, the banishing rituals with her adoptive coven, all of that had been good experience but nothing could have prepared her for this. They had driven into a warzone, Green Beret black ops type yelling commands and emptying M16s into feral hordes while civilians scrambled for safety. There was a guy with a sword fighting two vampires at once, swarms of bats diving in to nip at exposed flesh...

...what the hell was she doing here? She wasn't ready for this!

But it was too late to back out now. As Ekaterine tore off in search of skulls to collect Yamileth took up position behind the car, arms shaking as she tried to steady her rifle. There were so many targets to choose from and too much chaos to do it in, friend and foe alike embroiled in a great melee so that Yami couldn't even shoot without risking friendly fire.

A flailing of limbs in her periphery stole her attention, Yami swinging her M1 towards the commotion with her finger on the trigger. She almost put a bullet through the head of some unfortunate barman running as fast as his legs could carry him. That speed was still far too slow, the bloody gash across his thigh draining his strength as a ghoul gave chase. As Yami switched targets the man stumbled and fell, desperately dragging himself as his pursuer drew closer.

"Cohort, fetch!"

She pointed to the bartender and the Cane Corso bounced forward, bowling past friendly troops to grab the injured soul's collar with his teeth. As Cohort pulled the man towards cover Yamileth dumped shots into the ghoul, focusing on volume as opposed to accuracy.

The first shot went wide, two and three snapped an arm like a dry branch and number four went in through the temple and came out by earlobe.

One done, way too fucking many to go.

Smike's Sheets

Prologue

Yamileth was no stranger to sleeping in the car, not after the training she had gone through. Seven odd years of late-night rituals and early morning Bible studies, hundreds of hours learning all facets of the Trade. She had quickly gotten used to grabbing sleep whenever and wherever she could, even if it meant napping in the back seat of a beat-up '69 Camaro with a giant dog huffing and grunting next to her.

The sweltering heat did not bother her as she slept, for she was dreaming of a nicer time. Her visions were murky, the words within unclear, as if she were viewing the scene from under the surface of the water, but she recognized it all the same. Yami's dreams typically revolved around one subject: Ekaterine.

There were on a beach somewhere, alone save for the sound of surf lapping against sand. Neither of them spoke but so much was being said! They communicated through the touch of Yami's still soft hands against Ekaterine's battle-calloused ones, sharing their warmth in a world where they could just sit and rest. When Yamileth leaned against her mentor she was saying that they were safe not just for the moment but forever, free from fear or worry.

They kissed, just as they always did in her dreams, and just as always it was bittersweet. Yami could only get what she wanted, what she craved, from her imagination. Even her slumbering subconscious knew that it was impossible for the relationship to ever be more than mentor and student, and that grim truth gave her a flitter of restlessness.

It was quickly swallowed up by the beauty of the fantasy, disbelief suspended as it would be for any other romance. If this seaside dreamscape was the only place she could be honest with Ekaterine about her feelings then Yami would just have to make the most of it.

"Yami, wake up."

Stolen away from it all by the object of her affection, how cruelly ironic. Yamileth grunted as she shifted away from the window, sluggishly reaching for Cohort's fuzzy face.

"Where are we?"

Not Vegas, that was for sure. As opposed to sun-blasted sand and towering monuments to excess, they were surrounded by rolling mountains and verdant sage. The only sign of civilization was a collection of run-down homes and the little service station that the Stavrophore had deemed worthy of supplying their 'steed' with fuel.

Ekaterine stepped out of the car and Yamileth followed, ears popping from the change in pressure.

"Bellemont, ten miles or so from Flagstaff. I need to check in with a friend, it'll take a few minutes. Fill up the car."

She wasn't usually that curt, but then again she was running on empty. They had just gotten back from a routine hunt when word of the Vegas Incident came, leaving them only enough time to resupply before hopping back in the car. Yami had managed to squeeze in a few hour's rest, but as far as she knew Ekaterine hadn't slept in more than a day.

As much as the novice hunter wanted to push her teacher into the backseat to sleep she knew that doing so would only test Ekaterine's patience. In the time they had worked together, Yami had noticed that the Stavrophore often struggled to rest when on the hunt, relying on force of will and strength of belief to drive her onward. This made it harder for her to recover which in turn led to her nightmares getting worse, cutting into her time even back home in the convent.

That cycle was bearable thirty years ago when Ekaterine had been a young soldier on the Eastern Front. She was older now, worn down from too much struggle and not enough care. She treated herself like a mule to be worked to death, choosing to either get torn apart by horrors or drop dead from exhaustion in a final act of penance.

Yamileth hoped that in doing so she'd the forgiveness she had been fighting so hard for.

Bellemont reminded her of her home in Georgia. Stepantsminda was mountain country, albeit much colder than anywhere in Arizona, and the people there lived simply. She could see the creaky carts of her neighbors in the aging Fords and Buicks that lined the unpaved street, the little bar on the corner not too dissimilar to the tavern her father had habitually visited. And both were mere villages hidden in mere provinces, entirely swallowed up by the Russian Bear and American Eagle.

She stood out more than she had in Stepantsminda, but only just. Whereas in her country people noticed her height here they were drawn to her clothes. If Ekaterine had to guess she would have said that they all assumed she was Catholic, although of a strange branch where they wore hobnailed boots and stovepipe caps with their habits as opposed to the traditional nurse's shoes and coif.

There was no time to educate the locals on the Great Schism. Ekaterine ignored their stares as she marched towards the ramshackle warehouse that passed for a church in that part of the country, skipping the front entrance in favor of the screen door at the back.

"Elder Hall, are you in?"

"Door's open!"

Ekaterine took the invasion, stepping into her old friend's office. It was much as she remembered it, with its cheap carpet and peeling wallpaper, secondhand shelves creaking under the weight of books. The Elder himself was seated in a folding chair at a thrift store desk, closing his copy of the Scriptures.

"Mother Ekaterine, a pleasant surprise. You've been well I hope?"

Not in the slightest, but she had long ago learned that Americans asked how you were doing, they didn't actually mean they wanted to know.

"As well as I can be. The hunt stops for no man, and it's called me to Las Vegas. A Compact's gone dark, and the culprits must be crushed."

"I take it that's why you're here then. As always the Church of Jesus Christ is happy to help our Eastern brethren in any way we can.

One of Ekaterine's many sins was failing to extend the same understanding she gave to her non-Orthodox and non-Christian colleagues to the Latter-Day Saints. Part of this was due to the Church's refusal to nominate members to the priesthood on the basis of skin color, for any organization that rejected a continent of God's children was one that she could never see eye to eye with, but much of it was simple bias on her part. As far as religions went it was still in its infancy, born not even two centuries ago. Such a young church had little to offer in the fight against darkness, and Ekaterine was woefully pragmatic.

But Elder Hall was a friend and a fellow warrior, a veteran who had fought against Imperial Japan just as she had. He was brave, actually brave as opposed to blinded by pride and wrath like herself, but he was simply outmatched when it came to supernatural threats. Hall had survived Peleli and Okinawa, Ekaterine wasn't going to let him die in the back alleys of Sin City.

"I need only a weapon, one separate from my shotgun. Your knife, do you still have it?"

Hall smiled, opening the cabinet of his desk to produce a simple cardboard package. Opening it revealed the contents, the traditional Ka-Bar knife beloved by all Marines and anyone else who expected to stab someone as part of their day job. Ekaterine lifted it with the same reverence she would treat any holy tool, drawing it from its sheath to get used to the weight. The parkerized blade bore a single inscription, Psalms 91:4.

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

"It took care of me, may it do the same for you."

She nodded, sheathing the blade once more before saying her goodbyes. There was a four-hour drive ahead of her, enough time to down some cold coffee and a handful of Biphetamine 20. Some of the sisters frowned on her popping amphetamines, but Ekaterine wasn't exactly taking them for fun. The rush of adrenaline wasn't recreational, the intense burst of focus was not an experience she enjoyed. But it was useful, and if the Lord didn't want her to do it He would have let her know by now.