Current
Stop being passive aggressive. Just be aggressive.
7
likes
1 yr ago
It is certainly not 'optimal', but it *is* doable, depending on what you want to do with it. You could go swords or valor bard and play them more like a warrior with some magical ability
2
likes
2 yrs ago
One might say your villain arc has begun. Embrace it.
"Wow boss, you're real slick with this words stuff." Gerard snickered through their squad-wide communication spell, taking a spot outside the building, leaning against the door to prop it open against the wall. "I'm surrounded by sociopaths." Gerard chuckled and sighed, the jet black of his hair and reflection of his glasses partially showing as he poked his head in the building. To Justice's credit, the open invitation to violence did put a look of uneasy surprise on the faces of the locals. The mention of military also brought some measure of confusion to the faces of the toughs- evidently not expecting a pack of military hounds to look like- well, them. To top things off, Silje approaching the main aggressor with a gun and the air crackling around her quickly drained the blood from their faces. They stared at her in shock. For the WARDENs, magic was an everyday thing- even if they weren't dedicated battle mages, they could use magic and knew what it was. It was everywhere around them and a facet of everyday life. For the general populace of Rassvet though, magic- and mages were rare and dangerous at best, and extremely lethal and destructive at worst.
"What the fuck..." One of the men managed to croak out, his face pale, obviously overwhelmed with the sudden presence of military hounds and their magic pet. "They're fuckin' freaks!" another one cried out in a bit of a panic.
"They're WARDENs!" The girl behind the cashier hissed, a frightened arm grabbing at the large man to tug him away from Silje and Tony. The announcement quickly caught the attention of the remaining civvies, who quickly began to back off, the sounds of weapons- be they knives or bats, clattering as they hit the tile. One man threw his hands up, an old, beat up revolver dangling from his fingers for a moment before slipping off and clattering to the ground. The largest of them, in an attempt to keep his tough guy persona up, managed an uneasy cough before waving away the pistol, breaking eye contact with the Tony and the almost comically smaller battle mage. "F-fuckin' tourists, yall ain't w-worth my time. Just take your shit and fuck off."
"I suppose I stand corrected." Gerard commented dryly, pushing off of the door as he started the short walk back to the car, deciding the situation handled. The motel, gas station and convenience store all shared the same parking lot, making the short walk little more than a few steps in any direction. "So we done here? We drinking or are we gonna put the smack down on the locals? Either sounds like a good time to me." Without waiting for an answer, Gerard flicked his hands, crates and folding chairs slowly beginning to float out of the back of the truck so the lot of them could start setting up their 'camp'. Perhaps tailgate was a better word for it. One of the benefits to a telekinetic was the amount of time saved cutting out manual labor, though Gerard's eclectic tastes in placement often left something to be desired.
"Beer me!" Gerard demanded of no one in particular, even as in the distance he spotted a pair of individuals leaving what appeared to be the local Marshal's station.
Hailing from the hewn halls of their mountain homes, iron dwarves are known for their hardy constitutions and stubborn attitudes. Like their steel cousins, iron dwarves are stalwart and traditional, and their families are organized into great clans. Different clans are known for their varying specializations in different forms of craft, be it gems, gunpowder or steel. Iron dwarves have long memories and lifespans, and have defended Ironspire for thousands of years, and shall continue to do so for thousands more.
CLASS Ranger/Artificer
Odran is no mere hunter or frontiersman, though they are capable of both. A ranger of the Ironborn Free Company, Odran is a skilled scout and marksman, slowly stalking across the battlefield clad in heavy armor with both patience and precision. Dwarven Rangers are both experts of their mountain regions and experts of their gear, each a capable craftsdwarf in their own right. Intead of the natural magics of elven and human rangers, Odran instead is a capable runesmith, inscribing specialized runes into equipment to perform specific effects.
Appearance
Odran is a stout and sturdily built dwarf, with a bold stance and an intimidating disposition for one so short. Forged by wine, battle, and song, Odran's wide and thick trunk of a body belies a surprising amount of deft and dexterity. Standing at a height of 4'8", he often stands no higher than the chest of other mortal beings, but is tall for a dwarf. Despite his diminutive stature, he's often denser than most humans, and certainly weighs an amount comparable to a human upwards of six feet in height.
His body is composed mostly of muscle and bound within the relatively short frame of his race, and his face is adorned with a dense, rough beard, and the copper hair over his head is sheared on the sides and pulled into a tight, short ponytail behind his head. This thick dwarf dresses in a combination of padded cloths and leather, but in battle he pulls on a hefty chainmail hauberk and hardened steel plate carapace over his leathers, his short legs stomping across the ground with surprising speed and lightness as he walks. Upon his face sits a wide, fat nose, with a crooked angle from many a fight, and regularly wears an eyepatch- a mark of a battle from long ago.
HISTORY
A career soldier, tinkerer, rune crafter and scout, Odran was born to the Stormweaver clan, a powerful crafts-clan of some repute, well known throughout Eldoria for their weapons, with many aspiring warriors seeking pieces of armor of weapons crafted by his family. While most took up the family trades, Odran instead went about a different way to seek his fortune. Some took to trade, others took to craftsmanship. Odran took to the sciences- the military sciences, to be precise. Odran joined the ranks of the Ironspire Citadel's clan warriors, here he would earn his keep through blood and sweat. The clan warriors were divided into companies, each with their own storied past.
Odran joined the Ironborn Free Company as a Ranger Scout in its service fighting against the infestations of goblins and mountain orcs that sought out the vast wealth of the mountain citadel. With his technical prowess, as well as his skill in combat, Odran advanced steadily through the ranks, becoming a trusted sub-leader of his squad commander by the end of his first campaign across the dwarven mountains. By the end of his second campaign, Odran was given command of his own squad, and by the end of his fifth campaign, he was the designated Lead Scout of the Ironborn Company, and a notable veteran in his own right. Almost a century later, Odran is the veteran of countless battles and campaigns across the mountain range and even occasionally out of it.
During one such expedition above ground, Odran witnessed a shooting star fall from the sky and crash into the ground ahead of him. Making the journey to the crater, within it Odran found a firearm unlike any he had ever seen before. When he reached out to grab it, Odran was taken to the Fates themselves. Though initially wondering if he had died, Odran took little convincing to accept his mission- after all, fighting Malakith was what he and the Ironborn had been training to fight against their entire lives.
FEARS
Odran avoids sleeping sober. After a near century of fighting, and both witnessing and dealing in untold death, Odran's psyche has been irrepably marred. To avoid harsh memories, Odran keeps his hands and mind busy as often as possible, and indulges in vices like alcohol or tobacco. A strong drink before bed keeps his mind from wandering. Like his dreams, above all Odran fears a foe that he cannot physically overcome.
GOALS
Odran's drive has always been the safeguarding of his family and his home- in that order. Even after becoming a fated warrior, his goals have not changed, only his foe. He does not care for lofty ambitions or goals, preferring to keep things simple whenever possible.
SECRETS
Something of an open secret, at least among his company Odran has adopted an orphan his company found during a mission to a small fringe town within the mountain ranges. The town had been ravaged by a pack of orcs. After clearing the town, Odran came across a youngling and her slain parents. Taking pity on the child, Odran adopted her as his own, unbeknownst to the rest of his clan. The young dwarf, Alfira, currently serves as Odran's shield dwarf (A dwarvish take on a knight's squire).
FLAW
Odran is hard headed and stubborn, almost famously so. Unwavering like an oak tree- even to his detriment sometimes. Odran's has little tact and deft when it comes to talking to more highborn folk, and isn't afraid to say what is on his mind, exactly how he sees it- no matter whom it might offend.
Skills
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy: Odran is a capable career soldier. A veteran of decades of fighting, Odran is proficient with a variety of weapons, armor and small unit tactics. Head of a ranger unit, Odran is capable of operating away from friendly lines for long periods of time, and conducts battle with a calm and level head. Patience and preparedness are among the core tenants of an Ironborn Ranger, and Odran keeps his packs and gear meticulously organized.
Odran finds himself most at home sitting inside a suit of heavy steel, and either firing a heavy crossbow or rifle from a fixed position or methodically advancing with his rifle before switching to bayonet or axe. A precise and durable marksman, Odran has considerable staying power in a fight, and has surprising amounts of dexterity and deft despite his size. Odran is no slouch in a melee either, be it using his rifle as a spear, or with his axe and bayonet in hand.
Rather capable with his hands, Odran, though not a dedicated craftsdwarf, is still a capable smith- able to make repairs to and maintain his weapons and armor, as well as build new ones if given the proper materials and time.
Unlike human and elven rangers, Odran eschews more natural magic in place of runecrafted magic. Spells and effects are carved into surfaces of weapons and equipment with specialized tools to be used at later times.
ABILITIES
Runecrafting:
While not his primary trade, Odran carries a set of runecarving tools for the purpose of carving dwarven runes into a variety of objects. Large intricate runes on the ground can explode or create snare traps, small runes inscribed on bullets to give it elemental properties, or runes carved onto mundane gear to give it magical effects. Not a primary method of combat, but used as a supplement to his combat style. Unsurprisingly, his preferred runes imbue elements and other magical effects upon his ammunition and weapons, and often keeps a satchel of runic ammunition on hand.
FATED WEAPON
Odran's fated weapon is the Meteor Rifle, which takes the form of an intricately crafted rifle of forged starmetal, and adorned with silver and carved with runes. Despite its supernatural nature, it is rather familiar to Dwarven hands. A bayonet of similar star metal is attached to its end, but can be removed to be wielded as a blade in hand.
In lieu of gunpowder and shot, the Meteor Rifle fires bolts of starmetal from its barrel, cracking like rumbling thunder with every pull of the trigger. The rifle's attacks grow stronger in potency the longer Odran waits between pulls of the trigger. This allows Odran to choose between rapid, but weak barrages of attacks or slower, more powerful strikes. A chamber in the center of the rifle allows Odran to insert carved runes to augment his attacks, though each rune can only be used once and must be prepared between battles.
Alfira Stormweaver
30 - She/her - The Spunky Shield Dwarf
RACE
Iron Dwarf
CLASS Shield Dwarf
The equivalent of a human knight's squire, Shieldbearer Aspirants- referred to as Shield Dwarves in modern times, act as second-line fighters, assistants and trainees under more experienced clan warriors. A shield dwarf's career may take any where from a few years, to a few decades, and these individuals are often capable fighters in their own right. Along with general skills, Shield Dwarves also often pick up skills specific to their mentors, as well as a variety of camp skills.
Appearance
On the shorter side for dwarven women, and Alfira stands at around 4 feet in height, and is rather noticeable with her mane of copper orange hair. Sporting fair skin and a dense musculature, Alfira is often seen with a snarky smirk and a curious twinkle in her eye. She often wears thick furs and leathers, but dons a dwarven steel half-plate over a chainmail hauberk in combat.
HISTORY
Orphaned as the result of an orcish attack on her village, Alfira was found by Odran when she was 8. The old dwarf took her in as his own daughter, and while she technically does not belong Stormweaver clan, she still claims it as her own clan name. As it wasn't uncommon for the Ironborn Free Company to take on camp followers- merchants, families, tagalongs and the like, Alfira spent most of her early life with the military company.
Around reaching her adolescence, Alfira would spend the next decade or so training under craftsdwarves in what amounts to the 'standard' education for Iron Dwarves within the Ironspire Citadel. Reaching an adequate level of proficiency in near record time, Alfira was quick to rejoin the Ironborn Free Company around the age of 25. Rejoining the Ironborn Free Company as her adoptive father's Shield Dwarf, Alfira has served in this role for the past 5 years now. She longs for the day when she can put down the apprentice's shield and pick up a rifle as a full fledged member of the Ironborn Company's combat troops.
Skills
Spry and energetic, Alfira is dexterous and quick, having taken to life in the military with a surprising amount of gusto- though there are still plenty of things to complain about. In combat, she serves as a Shield Dwarf, clad in armor and carrying an axe and shield, with a crossbow as a supporting weapon. Though lacking in experience, Alfira is strong for her size, and while her father rarely lets her loose on the battlefield, she can hold her own against basic foes.
Despite her gripes, Alfira is extremely organized and competent as a camp manager. Keeping stock of supplies, building and tearing down tents, preparing food, making repairs to equipment, assisting warriors with the donning of armor, or doing other jobs her adoptive father 'doesn't care to do'. Such is the life of a Shield Dwarf.
Here is my character sheet for you to peruse and judge at your leisure!
Odran Stormweaver
184 - Male - He/Him - The veteran
"For Iron and Stone!" —Odran Stormweaver
NAME Odran Stormweaver
RACE Iron Dwarf
Hailing from the hewn halls of their mountain homes, iron dwarves are known for their hardy constitutions and stubborn attitudes. Like their steel cousins, iron dwarves are stalwart and traditional, and their families are organized into great clans. Different clans are known for their varying specializations in different forms of craft, be it gems, gunpowder or steel. Iron dwarves have long memories and lifespans, and have defended Ironspire for thousands of years, and shall continue to do so for thousands more.
CLASS Ranger/Artificer
Odran is no mere hunter or frontiersman, though they are capable of both. A ranger of the Ironborn Free Company, Odran is a skilled scout and marksman, slowly stalking across the battlefield clad in heavy armor with both patience and precision. Dwarven Rangers are both experts of their mountain regions and experts of their gear, each a capable craftsdwarf in their own right. Intead of the natural magics of elven and human rangers, Odran instead is a capable runesmith, inscribing specialized runes into equipment to perform specific effects.
Appearance
Odran is a stout and sturdily built dwarf, with a bold stance and an intimidating disposition for one so short. Forged by wine, battle, and song, Odran's wide and thick trunk of a body belies a surprising amount of deft and dexterity. Standing at a height of 4'8", he often stands no higher than the chest of other mortal beings, but is tall for a dwarf. Despite his diminutive stature, he's often denser than most humans, and certainly weighs an amount comparable to a human upwards of six feet in height.
His body is composed mostly of muscle and bound within the relatively short frame of his race, and his face is adorned with a dense, rough beard, and the copper hair over his head is sheared on the sides and pulled into a tight, short ponytail behind his head. This thick dwarf dresses in a combination of padded cloths and leather, but in battle he pulls on a hefty chainmail hauberk and hardened steel plate carapace over his leathers, his short legs stomping across the ground with surprising speed and lightness as he walks. Upon his face sits a wide, fat nose, with a crooked angle from many a fight, and regularly wears an eyepatch- a mark of a battle from long ago.
HISTORY
A career soldier, tinkerer, rune crafter and scout, Odran was born to the Stormweaver clan, a powerful crafts-clan of some repute, well known throughout Eldoria for their weapons, with many aspiring warriors seeking pieces of armor of weapons crafted by his family. While most took up the family trades, Odran instead went about a different way to seek his fortune. Some took to trade, others took to craftsmanship. Odran took to the sciences- the military sciences, to be precise. Odran joined the ranks of the Ironspire Citadel's clan warriors, here he would earn his keep through blood and sweat. The clan warriors were divided into companies, each with their own storied past.
Odran joined the Ironborn Free Company as a Ranger Scout in its service fighting against the infestations of goblins and mountain orcs that sought out the vast wealth of the mountain citadel. With his technical prowess, as well as his skill in combat, Odran advanced steadily through the ranks, becoming a trusted sub-leader of his squad commander by the end of his first campaign across the dwarven mountains. By the end of his second campaign, Odran was given command of his own squad, and by the end of his fifth campaign, he was the designated Lead Scout of the Ironborn Company, and a notable veteran in his own right. Almost a century later, Odran is the veteran of countless battles and campaigns across the mountain range and even occasionally out of it.
During one such expedition above ground, Odran witnessed a shooting star fall from the sky and crash into the ground ahead of him. Making the journey to the crater, within it Odran found a firearm unlike any he had ever seen before. When he reached out to grab it, Odran was taken to the Fates themselves. Though initially wondering if he had died, Odran took little convincing to accept his mission- after all, fighting Malakith was what he and the Ironborn had been training to fight against their entire lives.
FEARS
Odran avoids sleeping sober. After a near century of fighting, and both witnessing and dealing in untold death, Odran's psyche has been irrepably marred. To avoid harsh memories, Odran keeps his hands and mind busy as often as possible, and indulges in vices like alcohol or tobacco. A strong drink before bed keeps his mind from wandering. Like his dreams, above all Odran fears a foe that he cannot physically overcome.
GOALS
Odran's drive has always been the safeguarding of his family and his home- in that order. Even after becoming a fated warrior, his goals have not changed, only his foe. He does not care for lofty ambitions or goals, preferring to keep things simple whenever possible.
SECRETS
Something of an open secret, at least among his company Odran has adopted an orphan his company found during a mission to a small fringe town within the mountain ranges. The town had been ravaged by a pack of orcs. After clearing the town, Odran came across a youngling and her slain parents. Taking pity on the child, Odran adopted her as his own, unbeknownst to the rest of his clan. The young dwarf, Alfira, currently serves as Odran's shield dwarf (A dwarvish take on a knight's squire).
FLAW
Odran is hard headed and stubborn, almost famously so. Unwavering like an oak tree- even to his detriment sometimes. Odran's has little tact and deft when it comes to talking to more highborn folk, and isn't afraid to say what is on his mind, exactly how he sees it- no matter whom it might offend.
Skills
Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy: Odran is a capable career soldier. A veteran of decades of fighting, Odran is proficient with a variety of weapons, armor and small unit tactics. Head of a ranger unit, Odran is capable of operating away from friendly lines for long periods of time, and conducts battle with a calm and level head. Patience and preparedness are among the core tenants of an Ironborn Ranger, and Odran keeps his packs and gear meticulously organized.
Odran finds himself most at home sitting inside a suit of heavy steel, and either firing a heavy crossbow or rifle from a fixed position or methodically advancing with his rifle before switching to bayonet or axe. A precise and durable marksman, Odran has considerable staying power in a fight, and has surprising amounts of dexterity and deft despite his size. Odran is no slouch in a melee either, be it using his rifle as a spear, or with his axe and bayonet in hand.
Rather capable with his hands, Odran, though not a dedicated craftsdwarf, is still a capable smith- able to make repairs to and maintain his weapons and armor, as well as build new ones if given the proper materials and time.
Unlike human and elven rangers, Odran eschews more natural magic in place of runecrafted magic. Spells and effects are carved into surfaces of weapons and equipment with specialized tools to be used at later times.
ABILITIES
Runecrafting:
While not his primary trade, Odran carries a set of runecarving tools for the purpose of carving dwarven runes into a variety of objects. Large intricate runes on the ground can explode or create snare traps, small runes inscribed on bullets to give it elemental properties, or runes carved onto mundane gear to give it magical effects. Not a primary method of combat, but used as a supplement to his combat style. Unsurprisingly, his preferred runes imbue elements and other magical effects upon his ammunition and weapons, and often keeps a satchel of runic ammunition on hand.
FATED WEAPON
Odran's fated weapon is the Meteor Rifle, which takes the form of an intricately crafted rifle of forged starmetal, and adorned with silver and carved with runes. Despite its supernatural nature, it is rather familiar to Dwarven hands. A bayonet of similar star metal is attached to its end, but can be removed to be wielded as a blade in hand.
In lieu of gunpowder and shot, the Meteor Rifle fires bolts of starmetal from its barrel, cracking like rumbling thunder with every pull of the trigger. The rifle's attacks grow stronger in potency the longer Odran waits between pulls of the trigger. This allows Odran to choose between rapid, but weak barrages of attacks or slower, more powerful strikes. A chamber in the center of the rifle allows Odran to insert carved runes to augment his attacks, though each rune can only be used once and must be prepared between battles.
As the battle in the immediate battlespace came to a close, the Warform began stomping it's way back towards the squad. Sparks sprayed from damaged mechanics, scorchmarks scored the surface of its armor and the legs creaked with every hefty stomp, but the Warform continued to move. Already deploying from the main body were a host of microforms, beginning spot repairs on what they could in the middle of a mission, and gathering scrap metal from the defeated forces to for quick patch jobs and temporary fixes. If lucky, one of the microforms might be able to salvage enough parts to return full mobility either through legs or anti-grav generators, if not, scavenged armor plating could at least take a hit or two to prevent further damage to its mobility.
As Rasch barked out orders, the microform attached to his back jumped off to comply, small legs skittering over to the second console and plugging in directly instead of manually inputting numbers. Acknowledged. Inputing target data. Standby.
Echo, while used to agitation on the part of bipedal organics, was not exactly well equipped to deal with it. It understood that these creatures often got frustrated about many things- perhaps their many inadequacies and inefficient biomechanics manifested itself in this form. Be that as it may, agitation often led to aggression, which when pointed towards the members under Echo's charge, was unacceptable.
The Endoform, still in good shape took up a post at the edge of the artillery platform, firmly planting itself between the surviving ZRF squad and the envenomed. Its weapons were not pointed at the ZRF, but sat in a ready position clearly indicating that if any hostilities were to take place between ostensibly friendly forces, they would be put down.
"Alert. Squad is currently fulfilling objectives. Standby. Request. Maintain distance." Echo's voice crackled over the Endoform's external speakers- perhaps a bit more menacing than intended. While the body of the Endoform housed a cluster of Unztadlige coral, the external speakers of its body only featured a single tone.
The Endoform paused for a moment longer, "Please."
"A mineshaft does sound right up your alley." Gerard shot back at Justice drily, rolling his eyes as he walked off. "You'd feel right at home I bet. -and no, Silje, I still haven't forgot what happened last time we slept undergroud. You almost killed the lot of us- I think I still have ash in my lungs to this day."
The motel's equivalent to a front desk was little more than a counter facing the outside, faded paint and cracked walls surrounding a dingy windowsill with a rusty, weatherworn bell, and an equally weathered looking old man dozing off at his post. Seemingly used to the noises of the outdoors, the old man's leathery face didn't move an inch as Gerard approached, not that the young WARDEN could even see his eyes beneath the bushiest brows he'd ever seen. Pressing the button on the bell only garnered a dull thunk, and Gerard only tried it a few more times before he got fed up and rapped his knuckles on the wood in front of the man's face. Still, not a stir.
"I think the old-timer's dead." Gerard reported, tempted to just use his magic to pick up the keys from the back wall. He doubted the man would notice.
A few, agonizing minutes, and 180 Gil later, Gerard returned, a trio of keys on a ring and with considerably less patience than when he had left. The sooner they got out of this bumfuck desert the better, he decided. 180 Gil for three bedrooms was relatively cheap, but somehow still felt like highway robbery for a "town" like this. Returning to the others by the car, Gerard was about to open his mouth when he caught the commotion going on by the small equivalent of a convenience store. From what he could hear, Tony was making friends with the locals, and Silje and Kali were making things oh so much better.
"Oh that looks like it's going well." Gerard commented sarcastically as he began meandering his way over.
"I said, something fuckin' funny, stranger?" the local repeated, a meaty palm setting itself on the counter, putting an arm between Tony and the exit. The man was about Tony's height, maybe a half inch taller, and but with a broader build- not as defined and focused as a soldier's, but definitely of someone used to doing physical labor. His head was mostly clean shaven, making the popping vein clearly visible as Silje called out to her friends, her voice neither subtle nor tactful.
"What did you just fuckin' say?" the meathead of a civvie growled, turning to face the scrawny battlemage, face red and veins popping.
What tension there already was seemed to double as Kali stepped in. Not making a show of her gun, but not exactly hiding it either. Backs stood straighter, eyes narrowed, and at least one hand disappeared from view as eyes darted between the strangers and the apparent leader of the small band of civies. On the one hand, It was four big men to the WARDEN three. On the other hand, one of the three had a gun. Out of the corner of their eyes, the more perceptive of the WARDENs spotted the girl behind the register reach underneath the counter and push a button.
At basically the same time, the WARDENs could hear Gerard in their ear, making use of the squad's communication spells. "A reminder: I think homicide is illegal in most places- this one included. Just food for thought."
The battle was turning their way, though not with the Envenomed squad coming out entirely unscathed. Echo's main body had taken some not insignificant amount of damage, and a few of the squad had been injured from fire from the gunship- as well as it's crashing carcass for that matter. During the exchange, an increasingly hectic amount of activity was limiting Echo's verbal responses. Verbal communication was not the primary- or even secondary method of communication for the hulking Unztadlige, though necessary for its organic comrades. Alice's request for a damage report for example was delivered not through verbal description but through a detailed breakdown scrawling across a relatively unintrusive box in the lower-right portion of her helmet HUD, listing a frankly unnecessary amount of information in text too small to be read and processed by organic eyes in the middle of a firefight.
In any case, Echo's immediate concerns were still with the battle, even with its Warform backing off, the Endoform still had adequate firepower for the task at hand. Salvator was quick to bark out their general orders, and Ilshar broke it down into more specific tasks he needed from Echo.
"Acknowledged. Echo taking point." The Endoform repeated, its processed voice taking on the Unztadlige's namesake. As their comrades found their courage and began to advance, Echo took the fore position in front of Ilshar and Salvator, subtly staggering its advance to be just behind their friendly squad. They were on the same side, but Echo's priorities were the safety of its own squad, and thus had no qualms about letting the friendlies perhaps absorb a bit more fire than they should.
Request. Remain behind Endoform for maximum protective value. " The Endoform's shield generator flared back to life as Echo projected its barrier forward to provide more cover for Ilshar and Salvator- it still had yet to regain full strength from their previous engagement, but would provide adequate enough cover for the smaller Envenomed element. From the weapons commandeered from the powered armor trooper, Echo selected the heavier shotgun- practically an autocannon by its own merits to fire on the remaining robotic gun platforms.
“If I can go the entire war without having to engage in something as menial as driving a truck, I'll be happy." Gerard replied haughtily, "Besides, we're on a single lane, straight road in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Who is going to shoot at us? Don't answer that." Gerard added in quickly. Even after the radio had changed, the conversation quickly branched into what could be done about the incoming Vangar royal and whether or not she would be captured, killed, or turned into some hit piece against Rassvet. Much to Lance's displeasure, when everyone on the truck was WARDEN, after 10 years of nothing but, shop-talk was hard to avoid. At least for some of them- for others, the conversation seemed to just quite literally fly over their head, as their conversation was interrupted by an explosion, small bits and fragments bouncing off a shimmering barrier that Gerard had constructed around the bed of the truck when they first started the trip.
Perhaps being around Silje had numbed Gerard to random acts of violence or explosions- maybe such a hardened attitude would stop him from panicking on the field, or more likely he'd pay too little caution to the sounds of actual explosions from enemy ordnance when the time came. Gerard glanced up to the roof of the truck cab that their resident time bomb was currently sat. He'd long since asking pointless questions like 'why?'. Silje would do what Siljes did, and it wasn't Gerard's job to keep her on a leash. It was currently Justice's, and soon enough it would be someone else's issue entirely. It was a wonder they hadn't all been terribly maimed already. Reaching into the cooler beneath his seat, Gerard drew another can of soda, and with another burst of telekinesis sent it flying up out of the truck and towards Silje on the roof. The battlemage thankfully, had been banned from the booze, though keeping her fueled with teeth rotting sugar syrup wasn't exactly cheap either.
"They probably care about the Princess little enough to send her here, but enough that they'd use her death as an excuse to carpet bomb us back to maker." Gerard commented dryly, his voice raising over the volume dial of the radio Lance was actively manipulating. "Political machinations are an enigma. Trying to understand them just kills my buzz."
Looking out the side of the truck and at the stretch of dirt along road, Gerard watched as a bullet shark the size of a cow broke out of the ground with a rumble. The sleek, smoothed metal of its armored carapace curling up like a ball as it rolled alongside the truck for a short while- likely sizing them up to see if they were worth its time- before breaking away and diving back into the rough, craggy soil. It probably smelled the etherium-disel the truck was burning, but they were either moving too fast, or didn't look tasty enough for it to bother with them. "Which one of us do you think scares off the most wildlife? My vote is Justice."
By the loosest definition of the term, one could barely consider Sapple Springs a town anymore. It was once a prospector’s town, but nobody tried to make it more than that, so when the Levistone ran dry its was only a matter of time till folks went looking for greener pastures. In their place abandoned machines, houses, and other refuse remained, a destitute collection splayed atop a small crest in the topography that jutted outward from the otherwise flat countryside like a sore. Along the old main street clung the last few stubborn remnants of life: a cramped looking Marshall's office, the rare and peculiar type of dive-bar that could only be found in the middle of nowhere and combination convenience store and gas station, connected to a rustic- and rusty- single storied motel called the Cloudgazer, if the sputtering neon sign mounted to the roof was to be believed. A small but persistent ecology thriving upon the slow yet ever constant trickle of vehicles down the High Road.
The military truck broke the solemn air as it crested the hill roaring with life: music still blaring, wheels scraping against gravel, inebriated voices unfit to communicate in hushed tones, and the grumble and groan of an engine running on fumes. Puttering to a stop underneath the LED lined canopy of the gas station, the engine gave a sputtered sigh of relief as the vehicle finally slowed down for a break. It would appear that the WARDENs were the only traffic that had come through the town that day, and while a few nosy heads poked out of windows to watch them, no one bothered stepping out of their respective buildings to welcome the travelers.
“More or less in once piece, frankly shocking.” Gerard said aloud, as he climbed out the side of the truck bed, gravel crunching beneath his leather shoes. "Wonder if it'll hold until we get to Bracca, much less Aporia or Del Sol." He asked as he stretched his long limbs and began making his way towards the front desk. While not made of money, Gerard- or more specifically his family, was more or less bankrolling their trip across the country, at least as far as lodging, food and fuel went, Gerard wasn't necessarily planning on paying for anyone's bad habits but his own. "We're only staying here for the evening right? Dust and gravel aren't good for my shoes."
A2 R1 Surviving the night, the Barghests are contacted by Director Veld of the Internal Investigative Branch. They are ordered to discreetly escort the Princess to the City of Dunbarton, where the IIB has a ground team waiting.
R. 6 The Barghests arrive at the site of the crashed ship. Wildly reacting mist permeates the area and Gerard has found the body of a member of the Vangar Diplomatic Honorguard
R. 5 The Barghests are spending the night outside doing- whatever it is they do. They are interrupted as they see the wreckage of a civilian airship falling out of the sky and crashing nearby.
R. 4 Justice manages to cool off the situation as some Marshalls arrive to confront them.
R. 3 The Barghests are getting settled in Sapple Springs, though far from smoothly. Tony's mere presence appears to have the locals riled up, and neither Silje nor Kalina seem to be making things better.
R. 2 The Barghest Squad has arrived in the town of Sapple Springs, a worn out old prospector's town with seemingly little to no through traffic
R. 1 The Barghest squad in their poorly maintained vehicle are on the High Road, an equally poorly maintained highway heading west. The closest town of Sapple Springs is half an hour away and the next stop on their journey.
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