Although the demise of both of his companions was going to be troublesome to explain away, the most pressing thought on Logan's mind was the fact that he was gambling on the Shepherds not being so jaded by the slaughter of their thousands of brothers-in-arms that they were going to accept his explanation without killing him. He shivered, despite the baking sand and burning air. Perhaps I should turn back? Perhaps they haven't noticed me? Perhaps- His internal debate was cut short at the sight of the closest Shepherds getting into ready positions. He couldn't back down now or else he really would be struck down as someone who was just there to cause trouble. Therefore there was only one option and he wasn't certain that he'd like it.
The Dark Mage tromped forward until he was within yelling distance of the lead trio(Which appeared to be made of a mage, a priest, and a dancer of some kind(Some sort of joke, eh?)), thought about what he was about to do, and then dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. The spellcaster glared forward at the group as his lips peeled back into a disturbing grimace that showed altogether too many teeth. He tossed the sack of rations and water forward, consistently keeping eye contact with the dancer as she seemed to be the one furthest from harm, and thus the most important. The lips shifted slightly as Logan spoke in the friendliest tone he could manage, spewing forth a font of information in the form of a self introduction. "Good day, travelers~! I am but a humble spellcaster, newly freed from a contract that bound me to some rather oafish fellows! I wish to travel with you for a time, as there is both safety in numbers and the chance of a lovely talk with colorful people of all walks of life, as I am certain that your troupe is made of such people." He made a stiff bow, clearly trying rather hard at something he didn't usually do. "As a token of goodwill I bring both water and food, and my exceptional talents in the art of magic. Or the water could be poisoned either unbeknownst to me or I could be a sleazy individual and be attempting to kill you with said food. I say that I'm not but I could be lying about that too but I'm fairly certain I'm not. But I could be. Now, I could also be lying about that but I don't like to lie because I prefer it when people tell the truth, but again I could be lying about that. Thus I suppose I should say it's a pleasure to meet you and mean you no harm unless I'm a liar which I hope I'm not." The voice trailed off into a series of panting gasps, the horrifying grin fading as Logan harshly wheezed in the hot air, before continuing with a panting: "...Well?"
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That sounds good, go ahead
Only the natural residents of the horribly dry land felt perfectly at ease in the blazing desert sun. The air felt like molten metal to the untrained civilian, and each breath was labored and dry, scratching at the throat. It felt like the air was the same consistency as grains that constantly shifted underfoot. Only the sparse mountains were exempt from at least a fraction of the blasting radiation of the sun, and that's where anyone with an ounce of sense would hold up. And yet, it made it easy to track fugitives.
The waves of heat provided at least one boon to the hapless wanderers that tromped through the yellow sea of fire. Almost two kilometers distant from where the majority of the Shepherds were resting among the sparse trees that dotted the desert, three men of varying sizes lay within the shimmering natural cover. They were observing the group of exiles and fugitives as a whole, with the middlemost man(A heavyset man of most likely Valmese origin, clearly less than comfortable in the blistering heat) hefting a small telescope of interminable origin. The blonde man to his left seemed to be even less suited for the desert sun(Clearly Feroxian in origin, his furred cape soaked in pungent sweat), as he constantly muttered threats at the sun. The third and final man, however, seemed to be quite at ease with the entire arrangement. Black hair and dark eyes complimented impressively pale skin even as the heavy coverings of a Plegian Dark Mage covered most of the man's lithe form. He seemed to be basking instead of boiling in the heat, uninterested in the either the cursing of his blonde companion or the gasping pants of his muscular Valmese superior. Prideful braggarts, the lot of them.
Logan had been forced into this mission by way of an overly threatening man with a large knife and the promise of meeting the ever dwindling population of Shepherds. If the rumors were to be believed, the crazed Exalt of Yilsse had ordered the once-proud group of volunteers executed for high treason and conspiring against the throne, something that had been unheard of in the many years following the war against Grima. Hilarious. I don't suppose the populace believes that the Divine Dragon watches over them, too. He allowed himself a small snort of laughter, unheard over the heavy breathing of his compainions(The Feroxi swordsman looked like he was suffering from heatstroke), and turned his attention to the group in front of him. Interesting. They haven't died after being subjected to the blazing heat of the desert for days on end, which is more than I can say about the sorry fools who don heavy gear and waste their breath. The spellcaster tossed a pointed look at his obviously dying companions, noting that it was only their discipline that seemed to be killing them, as neither had made a move for the pack of supplies that lay only a few feet behind them. I'll give them five minutes before one of them collapses. Then I can go talk to the ones who don't seem to be as stupid. His careful consideration and planning wasn't needed. Moments after he settled in to wait for one of the brutes to do something moronic and kill themselves, the blonde man snapped. Logan carefully moved back as the swordsman hauled himself off the sand and glared down at the Valmese Knight, before saying something exceptionally unkind and making for the supplies. The man got two steps into his proud and haughty stride before collapsing face-down on the yellow sand, unmoving. The other idiotic savage didn't respond, instead focusing entirely on making sure the next harsh breath would come. It was almost too perfect.
A full minute later, Logan hefted the bag of supplies over his shoulder as he stepped over both of the corpses. A simple stab had been enough to finish the weakened men and take their mutual funds. He began the slow trek over to the Shepherds encampment, careful to be as non-threatening as possible(Even if he had just killed two men in cold blood).
The waves of heat provided at least one boon to the hapless wanderers that tromped through the yellow sea of fire. Almost two kilometers distant from where the majority of the Shepherds were resting among the sparse trees that dotted the desert, three men of varying sizes lay within the shimmering natural cover. They were observing the group of exiles and fugitives as a whole, with the middlemost man(A heavyset man of most likely Valmese origin, clearly less than comfortable in the blistering heat) hefting a small telescope of interminable origin. The blonde man to his left seemed to be even less suited for the desert sun(Clearly Feroxian in origin, his furred cape soaked in pungent sweat), as he constantly muttered threats at the sun. The third and final man, however, seemed to be quite at ease with the entire arrangement. Black hair and dark eyes complimented impressively pale skin even as the heavy coverings of a Plegian Dark Mage covered most of the man's lithe form. He seemed to be basking instead of boiling in the heat, uninterested in the either the cursing of his blonde companion or the gasping pants of his muscular Valmese superior. Prideful braggarts, the lot of them.
Logan had been forced into this mission by way of an overly threatening man with a large knife and the promise of meeting the ever dwindling population of Shepherds. If the rumors were to be believed, the crazed Exalt of Yilsse had ordered the once-proud group of volunteers executed for high treason and conspiring against the throne, something that had been unheard of in the many years following the war against Grima. Hilarious. I don't suppose the populace believes that the Divine Dragon watches over them, too. He allowed himself a small snort of laughter, unheard over the heavy breathing of his compainions(The Feroxi swordsman looked like he was suffering from heatstroke), and turned his attention to the group in front of him. Interesting. They haven't died after being subjected to the blazing heat of the desert for days on end, which is more than I can say about the sorry fools who don heavy gear and waste their breath. The spellcaster tossed a pointed look at his obviously dying companions, noting that it was only their discipline that seemed to be killing them, as neither had made a move for the pack of supplies that lay only a few feet behind them. I'll give them five minutes before one of them collapses. Then I can go talk to the ones who don't seem to be as stupid. His careful consideration and planning wasn't needed. Moments after he settled in to wait for one of the brutes to do something moronic and kill themselves, the blonde man snapped. Logan carefully moved back as the swordsman hauled himself off the sand and glared down at the Valmese Knight, before saying something exceptionally unkind and making for the supplies. The man got two steps into his proud and haughty stride before collapsing face-down on the yellow sand, unmoving. The other idiotic savage didn't respond, instead focusing entirely on making sure the next harsh breath would come. It was almost too perfect.
A full minute later, Logan hefted the bag of supplies over his shoulder as he stepped over both of the corpses. A simple stab had been enough to finish the weakened men and take their mutual funds. He began the slow trek over to the Shepherds encampment, careful to be as non-threatening as possible(Even if he had just killed two men in cold blood).
Then let's give Vrissa someone to talk to, shall we?
Well, looks like I lied through my teeth as I honestly cannot figure out how to do this next part. Apologies.
Post is being worked on now
Well, looks like I lied through my teeth as I honestly cannot figure out how to do this next part. Apologies.
Post is being worked on now
So, quick question, where's everyone at? Just randomly scattered around Plegia?
Well, since I messaged TwilightDragon about transferring characters, I'll add them here.
Name: Logan
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Birthday: March 5th
Class: Dark Mage
Allied to?: The ones who promise him the best experience.
Weapons:
-Dying Blaze(Looks to be falling apart.)
-Mire
-Thunder
Clothing: The basic clothing of one of Plegia's dark mages, adorned with a large coat for colder climates.
Appearance: Skinny and pale, with dark shaggy hair that falls past his chin, with the back usually tied up. Behind his thick bangs lie sharp, exceptionally focused eyes, their dark color nearly indistinguishable from that of his hair. Upon Logan's forehead(usually kept well hidden behind the hair) is a tattoo that stretches across his face, wherein three eyes of Grima stare outward, etched in a vivid purple. More such tattoos mar his pale body, one running down each limb and a large, complex tattoo stretching across his back.
Overall Picture:
Forehead Tattoos:
Personality: A seeker of knowledge. Is overactive in this pursuit, coming across as almost forceful in if something piques his interest. Easily swayed with the promise of new things to examine and learn. Turns hostile when refused or spurned away from people or things of interest, giving no head to himself or others. Treats everything he comes across as an experiment. While not ashamed of his past, doesn't like speaking about it(More specifically his tattoos) as it usually ruins any first impressions that could be made.
Biography: The young Logan was born in Plegia, in a dark temple that once housed thousands of the cultists of Grima. It was a dark place, lonely, with about thirty hopeless worshipers of the fell dragon wishing furiously in for their god to reawaken once more. The leader of the small band, an especially devout Grimleal, took it upon herself to make sure that Logan would be able to support the next bearer of the Fell Blood as the future of the failing religion. As soon as the youngest addition to the cultists was able to talk, he was told to join in on the rituals, both arcane and physical, and to offer his body and soul to Grima so that the dark god would stalk the land once more.
Years past before anything brought change to Logan's cramped world. Upon his "true" ascension into the ranks of the Grimleal (A ritual that permanently carved the marks of Grima onto his skin) the young man was taken outside to see the horrors that the "heroes" of Naga had wrought. As his escort swayed and moaned, pointing to the hated light and the 'twisted, hateful, living creatures' the would-be cultist felt only a disturbing amount of interest in this thing that his 'family' feared. The temple was boring, with the people inside speaking worn-out phrases of hate and despair over and over, with only the darkness and the damp for company. Logan's decision was as set in stone as the words the priests of Grima recited. He began to plot to escape, taking renewed interest in the dark magic that his people constantly used, dissecting weapons and tools in order to slate his thirst for knowledge, taking to exploring by himself in order to find the best way to navigate the dark corridors of what was once his home, and now his prison.
It would be another full year before Logan made his move. After making sure he had soaked up as much information as he could from his surroundings, the young man slipped away in the early hours of the morning, bearing powerful tomes and the most unique items he could get his hands on. His escape was quick as it was clean, with nary an alarm raised nor a swift arrow to the spine. For the first time in his life, Logan was able to go where he pleased. Unfortunately for him, that meant to the nearest roadway, where he was promptly and swiftly reported to the local authorities for his obvious affiliation with Grima.
After confirming that the young man with the vibrant tattoos and the clothes of a dark mage didn't mean death to the living and the resurrection of the bearers of the Fell Blood(Mostly because the guards didn't want to upset a magi), the guards of the area reluctantly let him go, informing Logan that it wasn't wise to flaunt his markings if he was going to make it in the world. He took the words to heart as he left the city, before vanishing into the barren Plegian landscape for a time. He appeared in towns randomly, usually with more than a few scrapes and bruises. As his hair grew out, the questions about his origins faded away and he began to explore the people he had been warned about. Logan found that the more he asked questions, the more information he got, and the better questions he could ask. The young man began to feel the interest that spurned him to escape from his old life burn more and more as he discovered new things, and found unique ways to discover. He began to obsessively collect things that were viewed as rare, and dismiss any care for personal safety. He took on jobs that nearly killed him for a chance to see something that no-one else had, and began to spread out his searches even more.
He heard of the purge that the current Exalt of Ylisse was performing, and began to search for something that promised to soon not be of this world: The Shepards.
Quirk: Will eat absolutely anything once.
Strengths: Intelligence, inquisitiveness.
Weaknesses: Lacks common sense. Will opt to go for rarity rather than function, and is greedy to a fault when it comes to discovering new things.
Likes: Knowledge, magic, tomes, rare things, interesting people, discovery, honesty, puzzles, hot weather, experiences of all sorts, life, death, sweet food, and observation
Dislikes: Liars, anti-intellectualism, people asking him questions, boring people, pain, damp places, cold weather, the Grimleal(only the cultists, he's fine with Grima)
Romantic Interest: None, but he's open to new experiences.
Other:
And now for the mean male manakete:
Name: Kayech
Age: Looks anywhere from the last years of his teens to mid twenties. He's around fifteen to sixteen hundred years of age.
Gender: Male
Birthday: Oct 17th, although he doesn't care and thus doesn't know.
Class: Manakete
Allied to?: Factionless, and likes it that way. However, he'll work with people that catch his eye, if only to probe for their weaknesses.
Weapons: Dragonstone+, Elixir
Appearance:
Personality: Arrogant, crude, sadistic, prideful, careful. He takes what he feels like he deserves, and that makes him forward to a fault. Kayech is also very much a hoarder, taking everything that he can get his hands on, from gold to people.
Biography: There is little known of Kayech's early years, other than that he was born in a little known country into a very small group of manaketes. This time wasn't deemed influential in later years, so nearly nothing else was known about Kayech until about two hundred years after his birth. As a very young manakete, he figured something out that none of his brethren seemed to abuse. He lived a lot longer than humans, so why not use it?
The resulting actions were tempered by that single thought, and thus the conquest of Kayech began. His first step to dominion over the humans that lay around him was through the realm of war, aiming to do glorious battle and revel in bloodshed even as his kind chose to sleep during parts of their adolescence. He took many near-fatal wounds during this time, with the most prominent being his ruined jaw where a heroic warrior has thrust his lance through the male manakete's face. With each bloody defeat and victory, Kayech grew stronger in body and mind, aiming for an apex where he could kill strong men even without the aid of his draconic form. It would take nearly six hundred years before his goal began to show signs of appearing. It was then he killed a large man by snapping his neck on accident, something that delighted young Kayech so much that he redoubled his efforts, abandoning any sense of stealth as he cut a swath of destruction through the surrounding countryside. Unsurprisingly, this attracted the local lord and his anti-dragon units, who beat the still young manakete within an inch of his life, then dragged him back to the dark dungeons underneath the castle, where he remained for generations until he escaped due to a large-scale war drawing the lord's forces away, before disappearing again.
The next mention of Kayech, who if accounts are to believed, looked only marginally younger than his current incarnation, appeared fifteen years later. After making sure to escape from any sort of organised government, he set up his place of power in the broken continent of Valm. He began to simultaneously lead raids on small villages and recruit the local banditry, killing the local men and boys until he forced the population to rely entirely upon his men. Once his complete control over the area was complete, Kayech finally started to realize his ambitions. Because he lived a lot longer than any of his men, he spent the centuries in nearly sickening pleasure and arrogance, shaping bloodlines to his will by killing the ones he didn't like, and forcing the breeding of others. By killing any children he fathered, he prevented the spread of any icons that could be worshiped beside himself. A special pet project of his involved the complete domination of a line of healers that he educated from birth, creating a language that was dissimilar from any he'd heard before and instilling a dependence on him that caused the linage to be nothing more than broken, unthinking slaves who would heal him no matter the cause, and lived only for his pleasure. The male manakete used this to his fullest advantage, never leaving his throne of gold and ruined bones without one of his faithful and waif-like healers close behind.
Quirk: Has the most scars in the army.
Strengths: His ridiculous hardiness, even without the addition of his dragon form. Is horribly cunning and merciless when he finds a goal he wishes to achieve. Is exceptionally careful and will not take chances. Very thorough, charismatic
Weaknesses: Prideful and eager to show it, which conflicts with his already careful nature. Disgustingly arrogant. Hates the confines of armor, even in human form, despite the rather obvious benefits to doing as such. Weak to flattery and compliments.
Likes: Beautiful things, humans, his healers, research, his lifespan, rulers, gold.
Dislikes: Dragon slaying weapons, other manaketes, Grima, Naga, people who don't listen.
Romantic Interest: Absolutely anything or anyone he wants at the time.
Other:
Name: Logan
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Birthday: March 5th
Class: Dark Mage
Allied to?: The ones who promise him the best experience.
Weapons:
-Dying Blaze(Looks to be falling apart.)
-Mire
-Thunder
Clothing: The basic clothing of one of Plegia's dark mages, adorned with a large coat for colder climates.
Appearance: Skinny and pale, with dark shaggy hair that falls past his chin, with the back usually tied up. Behind his thick bangs lie sharp, exceptionally focused eyes, their dark color nearly indistinguishable from that of his hair. Upon Logan's forehead(usually kept well hidden behind the hair) is a tattoo that stretches across his face, wherein three eyes of Grima stare outward, etched in a vivid purple. More such tattoos mar his pale body, one running down each limb and a large, complex tattoo stretching across his back.
Overall Picture:
Forehead Tattoos:
Personality: A seeker of knowledge. Is overactive in this pursuit, coming across as almost forceful in if something piques his interest. Easily swayed with the promise of new things to examine and learn. Turns hostile when refused or spurned away from people or things of interest, giving no head to himself or others. Treats everything he comes across as an experiment. While not ashamed of his past, doesn't like speaking about it(More specifically his tattoos) as it usually ruins any first impressions that could be made.
Biography: The young Logan was born in Plegia, in a dark temple that once housed thousands of the cultists of Grima. It was a dark place, lonely, with about thirty hopeless worshipers of the fell dragon wishing furiously in for their god to reawaken once more. The leader of the small band, an especially devout Grimleal, took it upon herself to make sure that Logan would be able to support the next bearer of the Fell Blood as the future of the failing religion. As soon as the youngest addition to the cultists was able to talk, he was told to join in on the rituals, both arcane and physical, and to offer his body and soul to Grima so that the dark god would stalk the land once more.
Years past before anything brought change to Logan's cramped world. Upon his "true" ascension into the ranks of the Grimleal (A ritual that permanently carved the marks of Grima onto his skin) the young man was taken outside to see the horrors that the "heroes" of Naga had wrought. As his escort swayed and moaned, pointing to the hated light and the 'twisted, hateful, living creatures' the would-be cultist felt only a disturbing amount of interest in this thing that his 'family' feared. The temple was boring, with the people inside speaking worn-out phrases of hate and despair over and over, with only the darkness and the damp for company. Logan's decision was as set in stone as the words the priests of Grima recited. He began to plot to escape, taking renewed interest in the dark magic that his people constantly used, dissecting weapons and tools in order to slate his thirst for knowledge, taking to exploring by himself in order to find the best way to navigate the dark corridors of what was once his home, and now his prison.
It would be another full year before Logan made his move. After making sure he had soaked up as much information as he could from his surroundings, the young man slipped away in the early hours of the morning, bearing powerful tomes and the most unique items he could get his hands on. His escape was quick as it was clean, with nary an alarm raised nor a swift arrow to the spine. For the first time in his life, Logan was able to go where he pleased. Unfortunately for him, that meant to the nearest roadway, where he was promptly and swiftly reported to the local authorities for his obvious affiliation with Grima.
After confirming that the young man with the vibrant tattoos and the clothes of a dark mage didn't mean death to the living and the resurrection of the bearers of the Fell Blood(Mostly because the guards didn't want to upset a magi), the guards of the area reluctantly let him go, informing Logan that it wasn't wise to flaunt his markings if he was going to make it in the world. He took the words to heart as he left the city, before vanishing into the barren Plegian landscape for a time. He appeared in towns randomly, usually with more than a few scrapes and bruises. As his hair grew out, the questions about his origins faded away and he began to explore the people he had been warned about. Logan found that the more he asked questions, the more information he got, and the better questions he could ask. The young man began to feel the interest that spurned him to escape from his old life burn more and more as he discovered new things, and found unique ways to discover. He began to obsessively collect things that were viewed as rare, and dismiss any care for personal safety. He took on jobs that nearly killed him for a chance to see something that no-one else had, and began to spread out his searches even more.
He heard of the purge that the current Exalt of Ylisse was performing, and began to search for something that promised to soon not be of this world: The Shepards.
Quirk: Will eat absolutely anything once.
Strengths: Intelligence, inquisitiveness.
Weaknesses: Lacks common sense. Will opt to go for rarity rather than function, and is greedy to a fault when it comes to discovering new things.
Likes: Knowledge, magic, tomes, rare things, interesting people, discovery, honesty, puzzles, hot weather, experiences of all sorts, life, death, sweet food, and observation
Dislikes: Liars, anti-intellectualism, people asking him questions, boring people, pain, damp places, cold weather, the Grimleal(only the cultists, he's fine with Grima)
Romantic Interest: None, but he's open to new experiences.
Other:
And now for the mean male manakete:
Name: Kayech
Age: Looks anywhere from the last years of his teens to mid twenties. He's around fifteen to sixteen hundred years of age.
Gender: Male
Birthday: Oct 17th, although he doesn't care and thus doesn't know.
Class: Manakete
Allied to?: Factionless, and likes it that way. However, he'll work with people that catch his eye, if only to probe for their weaknesses.
Weapons: Dragonstone+, Elixir
Appearance:
Personality: Arrogant, crude, sadistic, prideful, careful. He takes what he feels like he deserves, and that makes him forward to a fault. Kayech is also very much a hoarder, taking everything that he can get his hands on, from gold to people.
Biography: There is little known of Kayech's early years, other than that he was born in a little known country into a very small group of manaketes. This time wasn't deemed influential in later years, so nearly nothing else was known about Kayech until about two hundred years after his birth. As a very young manakete, he figured something out that none of his brethren seemed to abuse. He lived a lot longer than humans, so why not use it?
The resulting actions were tempered by that single thought, and thus the conquest of Kayech began. His first step to dominion over the humans that lay around him was through the realm of war, aiming to do glorious battle and revel in bloodshed even as his kind chose to sleep during parts of their adolescence. He took many near-fatal wounds during this time, with the most prominent being his ruined jaw where a heroic warrior has thrust his lance through the male manakete's face. With each bloody defeat and victory, Kayech grew stronger in body and mind, aiming for an apex where he could kill strong men even without the aid of his draconic form. It would take nearly six hundred years before his goal began to show signs of appearing. It was then he killed a large man by snapping his neck on accident, something that delighted young Kayech so much that he redoubled his efforts, abandoning any sense of stealth as he cut a swath of destruction through the surrounding countryside. Unsurprisingly, this attracted the local lord and his anti-dragon units, who beat the still young manakete within an inch of his life, then dragged him back to the dark dungeons underneath the castle, where he remained for generations until he escaped due to a large-scale war drawing the lord's forces away, before disappearing again.
The next mention of Kayech, who if accounts are to believed, looked only marginally younger than his current incarnation, appeared fifteen years later. After making sure to escape from any sort of organised government, he set up his place of power in the broken continent of Valm. He began to simultaneously lead raids on small villages and recruit the local banditry, killing the local men and boys until he forced the population to rely entirely upon his men. Once his complete control over the area was complete, Kayech finally started to realize his ambitions. Because he lived a lot longer than any of his men, he spent the centuries in nearly sickening pleasure and arrogance, shaping bloodlines to his will by killing the ones he didn't like, and forcing the breeding of others. By killing any children he fathered, he prevented the spread of any icons that could be worshiped beside himself. A special pet project of his involved the complete domination of a line of healers that he educated from birth, creating a language that was dissimilar from any he'd heard before and instilling a dependence on him that caused the linage to be nothing more than broken, unthinking slaves who would heal him no matter the cause, and lived only for his pleasure. The male manakete used this to his fullest advantage, never leaving his throne of gold and ruined bones without one of his faithful and waif-like healers close behind.
Quirk: Has the most scars in the army.
Strengths: His ridiculous hardiness, even without the addition of his dragon form. Is horribly cunning and merciless when he finds a goal he wishes to achieve. Is exceptionally careful and will not take chances. Very thorough, charismatic
Weaknesses: Prideful and eager to show it, which conflicts with his already careful nature. Disgustingly arrogant. Hates the confines of armor, even in human form, despite the rather obvious benefits to doing as such. Weak to flattery and compliments.
Likes: Beautiful things, humans, his healers, research, his lifespan, rulers, gold.
Dislikes: Dragon slaying weapons, other manaketes, Grima, Naga, people who don't listen.
Romantic Interest: Absolutely anything or anyone he wants at the time.
Other:
Would the repairs and refits be in field, or would it be something that happens in a designated location to repair damaged units and the like?
Metal pistons hissed and creaked as the Reichsritter's main cluster of sensors swung back and forth, creating a detailed picture of the varied units that were apparently gathering like a moth to a flame. Deep inside the machine's heart, Jonathan leaned away from his controls, sighing deeply at the newest additions. Not one fucking day. Not one fucking day without something. Not even one He maneuvered the heavy machine into a slump, letting it stalk thunderously over the metal piles as it chose to lead the way to Haven. As it walked, he opened up the comms channel to the Moloch, cutting all of the external speakers as to cut out unwanted listeners. "Look, August, I only know one of these fucks and that's the asshole who's mecha relies on an unstable reactor for its primary mode of assault. He's called Pony, he belongs to a man named Padama." The comms switched over to Pony's mecha. The next words were filled with as much tired venom as Jonathan could muster. "What the hell are you doing, Pony? There's no reason for your sorry ass to be near me as of right now. There's a reason I fucking drink away from the hanger."
The time following the skirmish, had, if anything, invigorated Logan. The blood and sweat he'd expended had been repaid nearly twice over at the collection of information and items he'd looted off the bandit corpses as the Shepherds had fled the scene. It had been rather simple to get at the valuables after the Dark Mage had taken an impressively sharp knife from the first corpse he came across. It also made it easy to separate a man's hand from his last healing concoction. He was fully rejuvenated and richer by both a Fire tome and said knife by the time both armies had retreated fully from the battle. He'd made quicker time than many of the other Shepherds in the desert heat, basking in the harsh sunlight even as the wounded faltered behind.
Even as the sun set in the land of Ylisse, Logan stalked into the shadows by his lonesome, pausing only momentarily to confirm where the more interesting people, namely Lumara and Laius, chose to spend their night. The velvet of night blanketed the land before he found a corner away from the group proper and settled down, playing with the sharp blade in the cool air.
Even as the sun set in the land of Ylisse, Logan stalked into the shadows by his lonesome, pausing only momentarily to confirm where the more interesting people, namely Lumara and Laius, chose to spend their night. The velvet of night blanketed the land before he found a corner away from the group proper and settled down, playing with the sharp blade in the cool air.
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