Sol's men


A kilometer away, the interior of the bullhead's cabin hummed and moaned, as sixteen dust pistons thrummed like the beating heart of some colossal metal beast, functional bucket seats rattling as the the armor and equipment of the occupants struck a dissonant chorus against the hard plastic. The cab was entirely designed to favor function over form, with sleek black panels covering the windowless walls, bolts exposed to facilitate easy replacement, and the aforementioned bucket seats, a dozen of which lining each wall, bereft of padding in favor of durability. Above each seat was a single equipment locker, within which arms and equipment, dust clips, discarded or broken armor plates, grenades, radios, and other military grade equipment could be occasionally glimpsed, all arranged with surgical precision. Some of the lockers had a name engraved beneath them on a shiny brass plaque, "Dallas", "Farrel", "Kine", and "Moon", to name a few, and though those seated beneath those names were not the only occupants of the rumbling beast's iron belly, they were easily the most notable.

Corporal Warren Dallas was the least of the named riders in stature, only in that he was slightly bookish, as well as rather unremarkable with his cool blue eyes and side parted brown hair, and he wore a uniform that matched the more common soldiers that sat on either side of him, but his gold framed reading glasses, polished silver sidearm that possessed a barrel as long as the muzzle of an assault rifle, and commendation medals arranged straight and square on his left lapel in numbers too numerous to count, set him far above the others in both rank and apparent station. He was currently rereading the event itinerary, as well as scouting reports, and attendance accounts, for what must have been the dozenth time since boarding the flying APC.

Specialist Rhett Farrel's choice of dress, while apparently military in nature, perhaps finding origin from some hedge estate or small time Mistral militia, immediately set him apart from the bookish corporal that he sat across from. Both his flack jacket, and cargo pants, each of which overflowing with the suggestions of munitions and ordinance, bore a digital camouflage pattern that resembled the "dazzle" patterns used on archaic military vehicles to baffle visual scanners in times long gone, that had fallen out of style since the advent of radar and thermal imaging. The pattern on the jacket was divided down the center, where it went from black and white to black and yellow as it passed his median, and on the pants the colors were reversed, thus affording the man's body an eye-jarring quality that was a mess of jagged lines and clashing colors that alluded to the motley of a court jester. Ironically, while the designs might have been influenced by camouflage, the effect was to make him quite eye-catching. In shape he was very lean, and though of average height he had a willowy frame that made him seem as if he'd been stretched out, which was further emphasized by his narrow and angular features, slightly upturned eyes and long pointed nose. Rhett was currently worrying a strip of salted beef between his teeth, which like the rest of him were long and pointed, as his absurdly bright red beret dangled loosely from one of the two twitching fox ears that rested atop his head.

Private Kine First Class, was the lowest ranking of the named riders, but hardly the least. A giant of a man, hunched fully over to avoid striking his head against the equipment lockers which cleared the heads of others present by three feet or more, and occupying two of the wide bucket seats with his incredible mass. He was decked from head to foot in sheets of dust tempered metal and composite, over high tensile strength woven fiber, beneath which resided a core of solid muscle and bone like the steel frame of a suspension bridge. A literal giant, that could barricade the gate to a castle by himself, he sat as rigid as a statue with a greatsword the width and height of an average man laid across thighs like tree trunks, as hands that could swallow a man's head whole and still have width to spare caressed the razor edge with a whetstone. A face as broad and blocky as a cliff, as if hewn from solid stone, punctuated with a cross shaped scar that converged upon the bridge of his nose and diagonally quadresected his face, was framed by ghost white hair that was tied back in a single shock, as eyes of a similarly unbroken milky hue seemed to stare ahead unblinkingly. Apart from the monolithic blade, the albino titan bore no other equipment, save a full helmet that was fashioned of a single solid sheet of polished silver, unbroken by a single rivet or even eye slits.

The last of the named men was the youngest of the four, and bore no rank, save a nickname that might have seemed humorous to any who did not know him personally, or were unaware of his reputation. Solomon-Daton Moon, Son of Terrel-Daton Moon, CEO and Lord Commander of Moon Military Contractors, "The One-Eyed Dragon", sat slightly slouched, hands locked together in his lap, as he swayed back and forth in time to the rhythmic beating of the bullhead's massive dual engines. A single eye, the vacant socket of it's neighbor covered by a rondel that had once been the disc guard of a Faunus arming sword, stared ahead at the featureless floor of the cabin with a shocking intensity that was only compounded by that of it's striking golden hue. Despite being garbed from head to toe in a uniform fit for parade, that being high collared waistcoat whose tails fell past his waist that was made of the finest blue silks, baring an intricately stylized version of his family crest, none other than the fractured celestial body of Remnant itself between his shoulder blades, rendered in silver and golden tread with such painstaking detail so that it seemed that every crack and fragment of the captured image my explode apart at any second, framed with sleeves perfectly tailored to hug the thickly muscled arms within and accented with twin dragons coiling around his forearms, blue on the left red on the right, legged serpents' crests set with sapphires and rubies respectively, all over a lacquered breastplate treated with blue dust that gave the metal a pulsating blue sheen that seemed to shift with currents in the air, the young man looked more soldier than noble. His powerful features, wide lips full lips, pronounced jaw, bold nose and noble brow seemed perpetually set with a determined scowl, that better suited a man taking cover in a trench and preparing to go up and over than they did a young lord preparing to make his appearance at one of the largest tournaments in Remnant. Truth be told, Solomon did not seem much of a difference between the two.