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Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

What Ingrid heard was praise. Outside of some intentional decisions to engage in honorable dueling, had she ever been truly on the Colonel's bad side? There were failures, as even the greats of the Inner Sphere experienced, but it didn't often come to a scalding after-mission dress down. She was, at her worst, competent but headstrong. A tempestuous person who usually knew better than to let those chivalric impulses influence every possible decision.

It still felt off. Maybe it was that little remark that she had trouble hearing as anything but a barb; you would have dropped that Jenner if you attempted to.

Everything that he said about her felt like it was meant to be positive, but she couldn't help but read it as the least charitable interpretation. Ingrid's eyes kept staring forward as she was debriefed, her face taut and her posture tauter, and she ended it with a quiet "Thank you, sir."

The rest of them did a well-enough job, minus the...concerning lack of control on the part of Mechwarrior Rivers; if it wasn't the Colonel's prerogative she'd also prepare a few remarks on trying to act like a human instead of an animal...and she gave them terse nods in turn as the Colonel finished speaking with them. Regardless of her own doubt, she didn't want it to leak out to the people she temporarily stood above.

She could've solved her issues with some of the alcohol so graciously donated by some backwater hick with more curiosity than common sense, but all the same, an intruder was also a good distraction.

The first introduction the newcomer received to the House Daschke style of hospitality was a sword. She was standing behind the rest of these armed men and women, having watched with cool regard as he was relieved of his moonshine, but the curved sword she had at her side only came out after he was mercifully cut free. Even if he was now their guest instead of just a mere intruder, that short lady in the back sure seemed as if she was looking for reasons to use that sword.

If only because she was standing next to him at the time, Tarak heard a brief mutter: "I was hoping we'd keep ourselves secret...if he returns, he'll tell his whole village of the cave-people with a fresh load of supplies..."

@Th3King0fChaos

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

The residual steam from her Ostroc hadn't yet dissipated before she was climbing down its side, having to skip a couple rungs on the mounted handholds as they had been blown off by shrapnel in the fighting. There were still a couple pockets that glowed with an unnatural heat within the cratered armor, and its innards hung open like a man disembowled.

Ingrid was better off, nothing more than the usual slight tenderness in the limbs from getting thrown around in combat. A few seconds after she left the comfortable sauna of her cockpit, the winter cold of the cave - amplified by wearing not much else besides a cooling jacket, boots and briefs - bit at her skin. Her expression was grave, her lower lip pulled taut upward as she took her neurohelmet off, handing it to advancing form of Sanders silently.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Looks like you managed to get the shit beaten out of you, ma'am."

"I did, Sanders. Thank you for your work on the hand actuators." She gave a brief huff through her nose, and looked at him in the eye as she added "If her crew is willing, get to work on the Raven first. I did not suffer much here."

She heard him say something about a savior complex, but paid it no heed. From there it was straight to her 'room', a subdivision made with some leftover medical curtains, where unlike the others she had no one waiting to welcome her back. Her interim period was spent bathing by dumping lukewarm water over her head and calling it even, returning to her whole uniform, and then marching back to the briefing table. There, she sat on a crate with her sheathed saber clasped over by both hands and pointed toward the ground. The spitting image of an old Terran warlord of many centuries ago, if being a short, barely imposing and slightly damp woman didn't impact that impression.

In her own internal estimation, she hadn't succeeded. Supplies were here, casualties were acceptable, but their expenses in repairing damage were going to be great and not all of the supplies were here. The debriefing would be the ultimate determining factor in their success, but for now, the tight-lipped expression Ingrid made while staring forward was enough to get across that she had failed by her own metric.

𝘌𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 - 𝘈𝘳𝘤 𝘐: 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭

Thoughts.

Everything stops before I can even perceive what happens next - a stream of banner-color lights I know as neon, stop-start, stop-start, every second a new thing that I have to make room in my mind for. I am shown a story that has no relation to me and I no relation to it - what is a Latino? How can it slow down time? I know the answer to both of these and I don't really care, I want answers - concise. Real. The fact that the Gods conspired to waste 240 minutes of my life and an infinitesimal fraction of it at the same time burns. Rash. I have a rash on my skull now. Scabaceous and oozing with a thick pus that comes out runny and drips down the side of my head. It's making the Gods itch too.

A week passes. Two weeks pass. 10 seconds pass.

Stop recommending things to view. It isn't a joy to anyone. You're going to forget that I ever existed in a year.

I am still standing in front of the two grey thought-shapes in front of me. I called them Reinforced Doormen once. Their existence comes in before the rest of the people around me. "Oh," I mutter, no one in particular listening. Then, I briefly shuffle. All I can do is that; this God-given raiment tilts as a jug with a narrow base. Umara, young-mask, too serenely shaped to be among us strangers. "I am not a sad. Stop sniffing my rags, all of you, if the mere thought makes you crumple down like bone underneath a wheel."

There are two words up there that seem to invoke a strange tittering in the sky. I look up a little again and let the rain soak and the image of the guards drip down into my eyes as well..

Thoughts continue.

I'm convinced that I will end up causing a terrible problem here, but I have God at my side. He is drooling and He is holding a heavy metal object in His hands, and I know it will technically hurt to be struck with. I can't continue to exist without it. There is a plan in store for me. No consensus is reached or attempted to be reached.

I hold up my hands to them. Gnarled, tree-branch hands. I forget which trees are the white ones, but like that.

And then, I speak. I speak as they do.

"All I have to do is speak that I am speaking as they speak, and then I speak," I remind the others. They're going to learn about how to do this one way or the other, so best to remind them.

"(I don't have anything. I am a beggar and a forager,)" I say in perfect Whatever-The-Ogres-Speak. Look! Stare directly at it, what I said, as it hangs in the air: the ( and the ), the binding circle of clarification! With it, the world opens up. "(I've gotten the robes on my back and the bindings on my feet. The one who says he's misplaced his purse is obviously lying, so let me pass in poverty while you go bother the rich character.)"

You know what a parenthesis is, right, Gods?

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

The heat had yet to immediately abate, despite the rain that rolled down the front of the cockpit in sheets. Sweat began to run in small rivers through the neurohelm's visor, and her skin felt like it was being placed up against hot metal everywhere - but this moment's pain was paid off in success. That Jenner, pain in the ass that it was, at least had the common decency to avoid a pointless death like its comrade in the Raven had. Ramrod's eyes caught up with the retreating mech...

She had a shot, briefly, that'd have a good chance of simply removing it from the field of battle - one burst of laser fire to the damaged leg could bring it down into the ground, helpless. And it'd be one less problem to deal with in the future...

She did not take the shot.

Though hardly a codified piece of knightly lore, if she wanted a retreat, she would give the same to the warrior on the other side of the glass. That was simply what felt correct in the moment, and with that decision made, she turned away.

She didn't see fit to repeat the Colonel's orders this time, simply trudging along in the mud to back up the convoy, suffering greatly as this machine's stiff artificial muscles were slowed by the excessive heat. A single large laser shot was thrown at the Longbow, even if it was unlikely to hit at this distance - anything else would've only brought this machine to an outright dangerous heat level, and with steam rolling off of its torso already, she didn't see fit to find out what her limit was.

𝘌𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 - 𝘈𝘳𝘤 𝘐: 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭

Stonehill District - West Gate

Thoughts.

I would like to begin my recount of this story with an emphatic statement: I am I.

The rest of the world are She and He and They and It. It. I am I; when I hold my hand up, I am holding my hand up. The sensation is the same as anyone else's, but I can see that there is something being done and it is happening from my perspective. There are lines drawn, first black and then white, appearing, and no line greater than the one formed of I.

It was the philosopher Trantaeus, about a century ago, who said...did he? A century ago? I see it and I can tell that it is a century ago and just a few seconds ago, as it was written, self-same. The name 'Trantaeus', from whom my father half-named me, only existed when it was decided just a few moments ago. My eyes peer down at the ground and I wonder what the point of having such a detail being spelled out is. There is nothing to be gained from little intricacies that do not serve to build a story, it is just the detail-oriented diseased mind that demands the fake existence of a seamless world even though it is the one sewing it together. I feel a little peeved.

Do you hear me? If you're listening and not just reading, here's some other things you want to know.

25 years ago I was visited by the Viscount of Theatan, who sought from me the secret of eternal youth. He was already younger than I was, arriving in a horse and with three attendants. I had little answer for him, but I could give him a platitude: the Gods reach upon those they find most interesting. They will drag away stone and blow away cloud for Their beloved children, those They find endearing - whether this is to be just interesting people or people specifically like a child, I can't tell him. I look upon the white and the grey walls and I see the Gods speaking as babes in viewing things we would never understand. I have already seen the Fae-scion and how people clamor for it, despite its hollow eyes. Where have we seen those eyes before? It is beloved. It will be protected. The Viscount was both puzzled and relieved - after all, he had lived a life most interesting by his own recollection. He was guaranteed to live forever. But he wanted youth, and I wanted food, so I told him that he would never age a moment afterward. It is true: he stopped existing the moment he left me.

11 years ago I was visited by a Fae woman, luminous, plates across the head that flowed like white sheets of ice that formed a frozen waterfall. She stared down at me and beat me into an inch of my life and she asked that I immediately tell her what her future would be, lest I finally die. I wonder if I should have taken her up if she was willing, but I am still here. I told her that her inevitable fate is to go get married to a king that I forget the name of, and from there she would be remembered for some time. I guess I remember her.

The last time someone visited me, it was a weak, old farmer armed with arrows. He asked me for advice of love, but the God demanded that I kill him. The God wanted me to appear unhinged and willing to occasionally dabble in violence so that this is established ahead of the start of the narrative. I was tired so I accepted it without a fight. His arrows were fashioned into bolts after some work, and they served me well into the coming winter where I had little but birds and smoked meats to subsist on.

None of those were real in any sense. All of those anecdotes came into existence as written, not a moment before, plopping down into the world like a fat shit

Must I do that in Goeta still? I cannot make sense of how the humor They ply works...

Thoughts Continue.

solely for the purpose of making this fake place fit in more with what They expect. What is the point if none of those will ever come into existence again? It seems like such a minor thing to waste time on, but I am terrified what would happen if there were things that took up more time than the continued thread of my existence. The narrative is literally only just starting, but I can see the line of memory being reorganized before my very eyes - look! That bit about the music of spheres used to be up after the 11 years ago bit! I swear, I can promise you! It was there before! Look at my finger pointing at your screen, RIGHT there.

The music of the spheres. Dancing men melted down into nothing and reformed as trees. Fox-faced women and blood in the mouth. Like most of this music, it doesn't sound real - I haven't gotten used to it yet.

I told you. It sounds very whiny, I know. But...oh, right I remember the point. Spear-tip, pen-tip, sharp. Trantaeus believed that one's own existence could only be continued by one's own self, and like how the insects of the wood will be born from the ether and disappear with winter, so too will man exist only up until his self-will and the care of others runs out. I was going to make a point about - I can see a container being drawn around my thoughts as I speak. The Gods conferred - They want direct action. Otherwise I am only making Their story hard to read. Go bite your thumb, the only reason I am able to be written for is because I keep my sanity down my throat with this! You won't keep me in here!

I stand in the rain and I let my face grow soaked as it seeps through the veil, my moss-crab shell never was good at keeping the wet out. I watched the two do their song and dance, their rough speech formed to be delightful and pleasant and presenting them as rough, and I just wondered when I would be let out of the rain. Of course, I keep still as the goblin inspects Germaine, old, wise-face. I wouldn't want to be seen as human, not here - what They've shown of this city makes it appear as a small nightmare.

Thoughts continued.

I wonder what I smell like. I imagine it isn't pleasant, if I'm not the one being called 'human' here. That's the end of my status as one of my own, until it becomes relevant. Thus starts the new species of Tennaeus. [/human].

I can only hope that this travel-raiment made of decades craft hides it best. I certainly do not feel the same as the others, with their own thoughts kept in their heads, read and put into organized lines like ducks in a row. Grasping at an ironwood staff, I step forward, moving along the flat plane and the flatter plane of one line into the next.

Thoughts continued.

I wonder what's in the space between these lines. Must be the stuff that makes up the universe here. Oh, I like it when I speak and it comes out as blue - important things are happening now.

"Oh! Reinforced Doormen." I hold my arms out to them, the towering two ogres grey-skinned at each side. "I am the Oracle of Fonys, Tennaeus. Heard of me or not, we are with that red-haired one as much as we are with this fire-haired one."

I would affirmatively touch Farfa, thing that is bringing us together, provided he did not recoil at the thought of coming into contact with me. My eyes turn upward, and I look upon the ogres two. The veil clings to my face, still hiding it but providing a silhouette as it lay flush.

"Unless you want something besides just kind words and assurances, first guards. You want to make our first posts difficult."

𝘌𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 - 𝘈𝘳𝘤 𝘐: 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭

Tennaeus

Tennaeus, or The Mad Oracle of Fonys

________________________________________ Tennaeus Malstein 50 | Male | Human _______________________________________________ ❏ BIRTHPLACE: Porta ❏ CASTE: Hermit ❏ AFFILIATIONS: The Malstein Family (Prior), The Fine Arts Society of Porta (Prior) ❏ GOALS: To appease the Gods that have taken over his life and, hopefully, convince them to leave him alone. _______________________________________________ TALENTS: ◆ Outdoorsy. Living in the woods for 20 years gives you a good sense of how to get around without anyone's help. ◆ Keeping It Contained. There are many terrible things that Tennaeus could do, but he fights the urge. ◆ Sounding Mystic. Strange revelations sometimes come as plain as day, but who would believe them if they didn't sound vague? EQUIPMENT: ◆ Carving gear, with which he can make animal corpses into more useful things. ◆ Traps, which is useful for making animals into animal corpses. ◆ A crossbow, which the Gods convinced him is the best solution for making animals into animal corpses when the traps don't work.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ A handsome and stately man prior, his appearance is now warped and strange - pale, pitted skin pulled taut over a muscular but thin frame, sunken and glassy eyes that glow with an eerie light, narrow fingers tipped with claws and a hunched back. He wears a bulky raiment of animal bone and carapace tied over long rags and rattling strings of bone-chip prophecies he's etched to remind only himself. He wears a thick veil over his face, claiming it is at the behest of the Gods that he keep hidden. Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ At first glance, just speaking to him and ignoring the circumstances one is likely to meet an insane fortune-teller in the woods, he would come across as glib but doddering. More immediately like a precocious grandfather whose finer details and sense of time have become lost with age. However, any further past that and he's clearly quite insane. Referring to things and people that don't possibly exist and muttering strange things that only grow more disquieting as you think about them. He does as his so-called 'Gods' demand of him, and sometimes that drives him to act violently - but not without an outburst of weeping apology that only makes the whole of it more disturbing to view. Erratic and uncertain, he is only barely holding onto the semblance of humanity he's left in himself before he becomes something else entirely. Arcana ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Major: The Fool There's only so many ways one could begin to describe seeing everything at once and having to process it with but one mind. Driven from his rich life as an epicurean and thrown out to the hills, he can sometimes parse what he gets as useful knowledge and "advice" from the "Gods". He claims that the gods of this world are just barely-existent pantomime of things at the same time greater and far lesser than them, and this isn't terribly endearing to most people, so he's far removed from society - but not entirely. They say that, if you can survive the days-long trek to the cave in the woods where he resides, sometimes he will speak to you. And sometimes, he will say things that one man couldn't know on his own. His mind-breaking knowledge of everything can be used to drag up prophecy and impossible knowledge, and through this he has found...something to cling onto. He could have broken into far more pieces than he would have otherwise if he didn't live out a life as a minor prophet. To be frank about it, he gets to know things OOC that he has no IC business knowing. Minor: N/A

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Combat: ••••• Culture: ••• Commerce: •• Magic: • Survival: •••••••••• Karma: •••

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⥑ Ember to Ashes ⥏ Dark Fantasy/Mythology (Interest Check)

How do I know that wasn't a joke, then? The meta fuckery's starting off strong

⥑ Ember to Ashes ⥏ Dark Fantasy/Mythology (Interest Check)

Tenny, I want you to poop in public the moment you enter Goeta. ^{That is not a request, its an order.}

@Haha

RP ain't even started and you're treating him like shit...

⥑ Ember to Ashes ⥏ Dark Fantasy/Mythology (Interest Check)

Tennaeus the Funny Crab Man

Tennaeus, or The Mad Oracle of Fonys

________________________________________ Tennaeus Malstein 50 | Male | Human _______________________________________________ ❏ BIRTHPLACE: Porta ❏ CASTE: Hermit ❏ AFFILIATIONS: The Malstein Family (Prior), The Fine Arts Society of Porta (Prior) ❏ GOALS: To appease the Gods that have taken over his life and, hopefully, convince them to leave him alone. _______________________________________________ TALENTS: ◆ Outdoorsy. Living in the woods for 20 years gives you a good sense of how to get around without anyone's help. ◆ Keeping It Contained. There are many terrible things that Tennaeus could do, but he fights the urge. ◆ Sounding Mystic. Strange revelations sometimes come as plain as day, but who would believe them if they didn't sound vague? EQUIPMENT: ◆ Carving gear, with which he can make animal corpses into more useful things. ◆ Traps, which is useful for making animals into animal corpses. ◆ A crossbow, which the Gods convinced him is the best solution for making animals into animal corpses when the traps don't work.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ A handsome and stately man prior, his appearance is now warped and strange - pale, pitted skin pulled taut over a muscular but thin frame, sunken and glassy eyes that glow with an eerie light, narrow fingers tipped with claws and a hunched back. He wears a bulky raiment of animal bone and carapace tied over long rags and rattling strings of bone-chip prophecies he's etched to remind only himself. He wears a thick veil over his face, claiming it is at the behest of the Gods that he keep hidden. Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ At first glance, just speaking to him and ignoring the circumstances one is likely to meet an insane fortune-teller in the woods, he would come across as glib but doddering. More immediately like a precocious grandfather whose finer details and sense of time have become lost with age. However, any further past that and he's clearly quite insane. Referring to things and people that don't possibly exist and muttering strange things that only grow more disquieting as you think about them. He does as his so-called 'Gods' demand of him, and sometimes that drives him to act violently - but not without an outburst of weeping apology that only makes the whole of it more disturbing to view. Erratic and uncertain, he is only barely holding onto the semblance of humanity he's left in himself before he becomes something else entirely. Arcana ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Major: The Fool There's only so many ways one could begin to describe seeing everything at once and having to process it with but one mind. Driven from his rich life as an epicurean and thrown out to the hills, he can sometimes parse what he gets as useful knowledge and "advice" from the "Gods". He claims that the gods of this world are just barely-existent pantomime of things at the same time greater and far lesser than them, and this isn't terribly endearing to most people, so he's far removed from society - but not entirely. They say that, if you can survive the days-long trek to the cave in the woods where he resides, sometimes he will speak to you. And sometimes, he will say things that one man couldn't know on his own. His mind-breaking knowledge of everything can be used to drag up prophecy and impossible knowledge, and through this he has found...something to cling onto. He could have broken into far more pieces than he would have otherwise if he didn't live out a life as a minor prophet. To be frank about it, he gets to know things OOC that he has no IC business knowing. Minor: N/A

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Combat: ••••• Culture: ••• Commerce: •• Magic: • Survival: •••••••••• Karma: •••

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⥑ Ember to Ashes ⥏ Dark Fantasy/Mythology (Interest Check)

I'm not certain about it for obvious reasons, but would you be willing to take any characters with the Fool arcana?