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Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 15, 2017 23:53:02 GMT -6
[attr="class","Im"] [attr="class","really"] [attr="class","exhausted"]History is dictated by the victor. [attr="class","rhythm"]  ❝ My house was built on the graves of people like you. | Sol stood on the ramp of the Firefly Class VTOL, back-lit by the dancing waltz of amber and red, as the song of automatic weapon's fire chattered in the distance like hundreds of throat less skulls making a grim mockery of laughter by gnashing their bare jaws. Overhead the searchlights of the Yamato, an Imperator Class Bullhead gunship stabbed through the smoking ruins of a once peaceful township that now lay mostly in ruin, like the fingers of an indifferent god sifting through the ashes, seeking out any small pockets of resistance still holed up in the skeletal hovels. The fighting had mostly concluded by this point, and the burst of gunfire that split the night, along with the imposing presence of the Yamato were mostly for show, to cow those that still might come crawling out of the wreckage and make a nuisance of themselves, as well as those already subdued and herded into the village center like cattle while squads of soldiers ransacked those few buildings that still stood with enough certainty to risk entry.
To call them soldiers was by this point a generous fallacy, and even Sol caught himself stung by the realization as he watched loads of anything valuable, salvageable, edible, or otherwise, carried towards other landed VTOLs like that upon which he currently stood. They were actually little better than raiders, and even the proud young man could see with enough with his single golden eye to make out the looks of fear and despair that painted the faces of those huddled in the center of the square before him. There was whimpering, down-turned gazes, and flinching whenever those tasked with watching the crowd raised their voices, distorted by full facial armor to a tinny roar, to remind the peasants that one poorly made decision could end with them all stitched head to toe with hollow-point ammunition. In a way, though not in such that would be any comfort to those before the rows of rifles, Sol sympathized with the cringing mass. He knew well that sensation of helpless acceptance, and fatalism in the face of an unjust reality.
It brought him no joy to reduce the already meager existence of these humble folk, and he was not so skilled in deception that he could convince himself that none had perished in the opening discharge of shock and awe that had left the landscaped blackened and smoking around him. It was a simple matter of need, of upbringing and of foul fate that had brought him here, at least as near as he could tell. Caught in the web on intrigues that stretched far beyond his ability to see, betrayed, and cast out by Legion as a traitor, forced to abandon his lands, much of his wealth, and gather his people and flee, Sol had found himself responsible for thousands of now destitute soldiers and civilians, and without means or matters to provide for them all. Barnett's contract, though lucrative when he'd had holdings and a stable platform to play his power-base, could no longer provide the capital needed to furnish, clothe and feed those that called the young cyclops Lord.
The only answer had been to capitalize upon the destabilization of Rift's provinces by the execution of the former king, and the resultant resistance that had sprung up to oppose Barnett. Most all armed forces in the kingdom had been marshaled to prevent Barnett from extending his grasp any further into loyalist territory, while Aldous' own forces were committed in their entirety to protecting the capital from civil unrest. It made the lesser towns and villages easy targets for someone who had a couple battalions and some of Legion's most sophisticated weapons of war at his disposal. It would have seemed too easy by far, if not for how poor the plunder actually was. These soft targets etched out a meager existence, and put up nothing in the way of a meaningful fight compared to the hardened legions of Sol's own forces. It was a question of necessity, not honor, and in a lot of ways that stung the most.
Yelling from the blockade around the captured population, little more than a few hundred souls, broke Sol from his contemplation, and he watched as a man burst from the crowd and charged through the line of soldiers that held the mass hostage. A soldier, a young man, private first class, by the stripes on his cloak, took aim and released a controlled burst from the dust actuated submachine gun in his hands. Hollow point man-slayers peppered the unwise rebel, and he collapsed to the cobbles, dead in a pool of his blood that rooster tailed back towards the shivering horde in a crimson spray upon the stones. A child wailed loudly.
Sol told himself that the child wasn't calling for his father. He shook his head at the waste.
(tagged)⏤ @.someone(notes)⏤ I hope you like this template! |
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Post by Gresian on Feb 17, 2017 16:35:55 GMT -6
 - Gresian Esten - “You never know where life will take you. Sometimes it brings you down a path full of lovely flowers and smiling faces, but more than likely it will stab you in the back and leave you for dead in an abandoned alleyway”WORDS: 744 | TAGS:Solomon Moon | NOTES: Despite the images Gresian doesn't wear an eyepatch. Relaxing wasn't a choice word for the situation in the eyes of most men, but Gresian found the experience to be a good way to ease his mind. As a mercenary who had built a bit of a name for himself in the undergrounds across the kingdoms, he usually got some more difficult jobs like taking on other hunters or mid to low tier politicians, some having a small entourage with them which kept things interesting. This was the first time in a while that he got a crowd control job, but with the comparatively low stakes it was a good way to make a little cash while slowing down from the typical hustle.
A sadistic smile spanned his lips as he directed his gaze towards the crowd, listening to the slight whimpers and the soft cries of children and adults alike. He watched a few soldiers run about, raiding and looting the ruined town of what little resources it might have had left to offer. Certainly there would've been more to gain if they didn't lay waste to the town to such a great extent, but that was a mistake in the past without any way to be corrected. He stood idly near the front of the soldiers, his shifting eyes scanning the horrified looks on the people's faces, and the similarly grim look on some of those around him. He had his hand placed firmly on the grip of his sword, ready to draw the moment someone stepped out of line. It was an odd weapon considering those who surrounded him mostly carried guns, but as someone trained to be a hunter his choice in weaponry was a little less common than the typical military man.
His preparedness to take on whoever tried to push through seemed to just be a waste of concentration as a break was made a little bit away from where he stood, not close enough for him to be the one to deal with it. Regardless, it didn't take long for the situation to be resolved as the man was quickly gunned down by one of the men without any hesitation, the body of the attempted escapee soon laying face down in a pool of his own blood. Gresian swiftly pushed his way through the lines of soldiers, shoving them aside with little regard as he made his way towards the gruesome scene that just unfolded. Upon reaching the small pocket of space that was occupied only by the fresh corpse of the dead man, he knelt down and gripped his fingers into the cheap fabric of the back of the man's shirt, lifting his ruined body up and displaying the bullet-ridden front to the people in the crowd.
"Take a good long look! This is what happens if you try and make a run for it!" He bellowed out at the crowd, his words dripping with a sense of satisfaction with the display. It truly seemed like he was enjoying this, which was due to the fact that he was indeed having fun at the moment. "Now, if any of you are bold enough to make a run for it, I'll be glad to stop you myself." To punctuate his statement, he unsheathed his blade, driving it through the center of dead man's back with considerable force which created yet another hole for the small amount of blood remaining in them to drip out through. His sword shone with a crimson tinge where it jutted out from the man's stomach on the other side, and to add one final insult to injury Gresian activated the flames of his sword, burning the man's body into a horrid image before pulling his sword back out and tossing the corpse into the horrified crowd. "Wasn't really sure who the body belonged to, so if it's yours claim it now," He sneered, clearly enjoying his work a bit too much. There was a maniacal instability in his tone which highlighted the only reason why he had bothered to do what he just did, not to make an example of the man but to strike fear into the crowd.
He returned to his spot in the lines of soldiers, a mix of cautious and fearful glares given to him by both the crowd and militia alike. He wiped some of the blood on his cloak with his hand, only managing to smear it around a bit making it stain even more. Shin of GS + Adox |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 18, 2017 22:20:33 GMT -6
[attr="class","Im"] [attr="class","really"] [attr="class","exhausted"]History is dictated by the victor. [attr="class","rhythm"] ❝ My house was built on the graves of people like you. | Before the blood had stopped flowing, and as the the crimson streaks insinuated themselves into the paving stones, a shiver seemed to roll through the crowd. It was a subtle thing to anyone who wasn't accustomed to looking for signs that someone might suddenly choose to become violent, but to Sol's golden eye it stood out like glinting steel sliding from a sheath. He was holding his breath, waiting for the abrupt demise of some poor farmer to spark a wildfire that would have to be extinguished with automatic weapon's fire. Many of the crowd were whimpering, some weeping openly, while others tried to choke back their terror and were staring ahead with glistening blind eyes. However there were more than a mere few that were glaring defiantly into the row of rifles, meeting the threat of death with a noble indifference that was familiar to Sol as the looks in the gaze of defeated but unbroken warriors. These rural folk surprised him, and the bravery of this small percentage made the young serpent lord wonder what kind of fight they would have offered had they been better armed.
He was not the only one holding his breath. His men didn't enjoy gunning down civilians any more than their leader, and each and every soldier present was frozen stock solid in anticipation of the match that would break the levy and send a surge of humanity charging towards them. The small group of rifles was outnumbered while the main share of Sol's force swept the wreckage around them, and if all the civilians took it in their heads to make a stand, it would be a bloody and perilous affair for both sides. Of course, their stylized headwear, masks of dull metal that served as protection and atmospheric filtration, hid this anxiety from the crowd, and their stiff posture of raised weapons betrayed nothing but a lethal readiness for what might come, but they were afraid, and Sol could smell it. Each man feared having to do what the private had just done, taking the life of an opponent who stood no reasonable chance, and feared having to protect his fellows from the wrath of the subjugated mass.
Then a voice, as sweat and as poisonous as antifreeze, rose out of the formation, and a man, dressed less like a warrior and more like a hunter, strutted into ring of baited breath like a noir peacock and did the unthinkable. He taunted the crowd. Women gasped, children cried, and men gawped as he plucked the executed man from the cobbles and proceeded to dishonor the corpse in a gutwrenching display of arctic cold brutality. The flames of the hunter's weapon, and the sudden stench of seared human flesh caused many of the kneeling mass to leap to their feet, either of shock or outrage. To be ambushed, terrorized, and now mocked, the crowd seemed much less docile as the body was cast carelessly back to the street.
Sol's mouth would have hung slack, if not for the scarf that had been wound tightly around his neck and the lower portion of his face, or the fittings of wire and rivets that were set into his jaw. The audacity, the callous, sadistic antipathy was something he would not have ever expected of one of his own men.
"What the fuck does that idiot think he's doing? He'll start a fucking riot!" A man's voice, faintly musical and accented by distant origins, spat in utter disbelief from somewhere behind Sol.
Rhett Farrel, the only member of Sol's unit to lack an official rank, was tall, lanky, and saturnine, sporting a pair of triangular orange ears upon the crown of his head, one half hidden by a berret of some obscure military unit that none of the House of Moon had ever heard of. He strode up beside his youthful commander. With a willowy frame and flowing wispiness to his movements, he seemed he might have stood to a height with the young commander, but had some point been stretched out so that he now stood several inches taller and much leaner. His uniform did not match that of Sol or any of the other men in the VTOL's cabin, and consisted of a pocket laiden flak-vest, over a pair of of equally capacious cargo pants, that ended in pointed jackboots, the points of which curled upwards slightly. The pattern of his dress would have been life-threatening to anyone with a sensitivity to chaotic visual stimulus, as it was a clashing patchwork of various digital camoflage designs that alternated across a central line of division from his beret down to his mismatched boots. While failing as actual camoflage, the design did make trying to accurately track his movements a tear-jerking affair, and gave a distinct impression of a jester's motley.
At this very moment however, Rhett's demeanor could not have been further from the jovial persuasion of the fool he so well resembled. In fact, judging by how his slanted eyes bulged and his words were spat through fangs gritted around an unfortunate toothpick, he was quite furious with what he'd just seen.
"WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU FIND THESE GUYS?" He continued, his voice rising to a pitch as he plucked the toothpick free and jabbed at the distant shape of Gresian, as if trying to impale the far off merc with the wooden point. Thankfully, his insubordinate behavior towards the lord commander was muted by both distance and the various other sounds filling the air, and Sol was not forced to directly confront the lack of regard for his station. Rhett was likely aware of this fact, as he would never risked such a tone with Sol in front of anyone outside of the craft they were standing in.
Sol could not have answered if he had wanted to. Even beneath the bandanna that bound the lower half of his face, it was possible to see he was grinding his teeth as he stared at the scene that was threatening to boil over in the square beyond.
Rhett was just about to unleash another vocal volley of disdain when he was halted, mouth half open by the raising of Sol's left hand. The fingers, wreathed in a finely tailored black glove, crooked twice, beckoning towards another occupant of the VTOL's personnel cabin.
Another figure joined the pair as the mouth of the landing ramp, a bookish elderly man who stood a bit shorter than Sol. Corporal Warren Dallas, despite his rank, was effectively Sol's second in command by virtue of a close relationship with the young lord's late father. He wore the same uniform as his commander, a long swallow tailed infantry coat of blue fabric with golden stitching, over a breastplate of banded mail, and a pair of serviceman's pants, concluding with a pair of blunt jack-boots and greaves. A pair of tinted round glasses partially obscured intensely blue eyes, whilst a large revolver of ludicrous proportions lay in a holster against his left hip.
Sol bowed his head, and muttered a few quiet and very painful words into Dallas' ear, and the elder man's expression did not flicker from stoney indifference as he nodded politely and then without a word strode out into the night.
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A few tense minutes later, a short man with brown hair, brilliant blue eyes behind round smoked lenses, approached the mercenary who had so recently made a spectacle of himself. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a cross between a collapsable shovel, and a hand axe. It was about two three feet long, and looked as it it would be difficult to use effectively for either purpose for which it was apparently designed. To any soldier of Legion it would have been immediately identifiable as a Standard Issue Serviceman's Trenching Tool.
"Gresian Esten." The bespectacled man barked as he thrust the odd tool into the hunter's hands, "You are to retrieve the remains of that civilian, dig a suitable grave, and bury them."
Without awaiting a reply, rather trusting that the squad of loyal soldiers that had overheard the command would see to it's conclusion, most of which were now regarding Gresian with the blank metal stares of both helmets and rifles, Dallas turned on his heel and made to depart, but not before amending his instructions.
"I'd recommend to carry out your task quickly. If you are not done by the time we have loaded the last of the troops on the transports, I am afraid you will not be among the number who return to the Yamato."
(tagged)⏤ @gresian(notes)⏤ Rhett color code e77777 Dallas Color Code 7787e7
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Post by Gresian on Feb 18, 2017 23:50:47 GMT -6
- Gresian Esten - “You never know where life will take you. Sometimes it brings you down a path full of lovely flowers and smiling faces, but more than likely it will stab you in the back and leave you for dead in an abandoned alleyway”WORDS: 1188 | TAGS: Solomon Moon | NOTES: Gresian font color: e61919. A sadistically satisfied smile painted itself across his lips, the sudden outrage and shock of the crowd giving him much more entertainment than anything else thus far. He was ever cautious of the soldiers around him, perfectly prepared to see one lash out at him for his actions. The military had always seemed so strict and uptight about codes and honor, but then again these men didn't seem to exhibit such traits as much. Gunning down a village was certainly not something he expect out of such 'noble' kinds of people, but he clearly wasn't opposed to such things either. As he stood within the ranks, he let his eyes wander away from his immediate surroundings, looking to the soldiers that were hustling about and raiding whatever they could manage. It was amusing, like watching tiny little bugs scurry about looking for crumbs. His amusement quickly turned sour as he continued to watch, These people are so idiotic. The actions these men were taking reminded him greatly of himself many years back, 'It's only because we need to,' What a lame excuse. I give it a month before these people become a wandering group of bandits. While he lacked a distaste for their actions, he wasn't particularly happy about how naive he believed they were. He had once been a happy young boy full of hope, but it was dire times like this that shaped him into who he was now. He didn't regret the outcome of his life, just that he had once been foolish enough to bother with hope or the belief that good people were rewarded.
He was snapped out of these thoughts by a man who was part of the original company who handed him an odd looking tool, a hybrid piece of equipment that resulted in a rather useless outcome. "Gresian Esten," Gresian tilted his head to get the man to continue talking, turning the tool around in his hands with a bit of curiosity as to why he was handed such a thing. "You are to retrieve the remains of that civilian, dig a suitable grave, and bury them." A scowl overtook his face, an immediate disdain being formed towards the man. He stared daggers at Dallas, watching him turn away before bothering to finish his statement, "I'd recommend to carry out your task quickly. If you are not done by the time we have loaded the last of the troops on the transports, I am afraid you will not be among the number who return to the Yamato." His blood was boiling at this point, what had been such a good experience was being ruined by someone so blind to their own fate.
"Excuse me," He sneered back, tossing the hybrid tool into the ground right behind Dallas. It dug into the ground slightly, the tool sticking up and refusing to fall over. "Now, I'm sure you're well aware of this, but that isn't the only dead man laying about this city, and furthermore you know full well I'm not the one who offed them in the first place. Now follow me on this one here, it's a bit of a brain teaser, but for what reason are you asking me to bury a body I didn't even kill when you're own men are able to kill without any sort of follow up? Besides, you people come here to ransack a village of everything it has and leave the inhabitants for dead, they won't be burying all of their own themselves so what difference does this one person make. Hell, you could just show them all a little mercy and gun them all down right now." His expression shifted yet again, his eyes declaring a silent challenge to Dallas. His statement near the end about showing them mercy was far from something he really cared about, it was simply something he mentioned to try and get a stir out of either Dallas or the villagers as he made his voice loud enough for them to overhear him. "Let's be real here, you can claim that what you're doing is all good and righteous, that it's for the better and that it will all turn out, but as someone who knows that road I'll let you in on a little secret... You'll either live a naive life thinking you're a hero, or you'll wake up to see you've been the villain all along."
Gresian was well aware of what kind of people he was talking to, the house of Moon wasn't exactly unheard of. On top of hearing stories in passing, he had also done a little research on the group before signing on to this mission. He didn't plan on sticking around very long, just get his compensation for the job and head out. His eyes stayed from Dallas to look towards a distant figure, his eyes locking on the singular one of the man in the distance. "Since I don't care about going back up to Yamato, I think I'll just get my pay now and head out if you don't mind." Without bothering to look back at Dallas, he walked towards Solomon, his gaze never leaving the golden eye of the cyclops warrior. He had heard a fair amount about the man from his connections, apparently the man had a knack for fighting, and based off certain sources wasn't above to soil his hands with blood if need be. About a hundred kills huh, wonder how many more slipped under the radar. While he doubted the young man's track record was nearly as extensive as his own considering the age gap as well as the fact that Gresian made his living off of killings, he wasn't about to deny that Solomon had a pretty long list himself.
Gresian's hand subconsciously shifted to the hilt of his sheathed blade as he approached, not one to foolishly wander right up to a renowned warrior without any sort of prep. He was arrogant, wholeheartedly believing that if it did come to blows he would sweep Solomon without much trouble, but still not stupid enough to not be ready to fight. As soon as he was within a few feet of Solomon he stopped, his gaze still connecting even after the walk. He performed a mock bow, making its sarcastic intention as plainly obvious as possible. "As you know, I was hired here to help with seizing the city and keeping the crowd from acting out, not to dig graves for some poor bastard who thought that running was a good idea. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be compensated now so I can get out." He extended his hand out as if demanding the payment immediately, the imagery of a withering rose painted across his palm. Despite having just disobeyed orders and now going to demand the leader of the clan for payment, he held himself with the confidence of a veteran warrior receiving yet another award of bravery to add to his collection. Behind his eyes was a solid portrayal of confidence, a little too much confidence at that.
Shin of GS + Adox |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 19, 2017 1:11:32 GMT -6
[attr="class","Im"] [attr="class","really"] [attr="class","exhausted"]History is dictated by the victor. [attr="class","rhythm"] ❝ My house was built on the graves of people like you. | As Gresian stormed past, Dallas wore that blank expression of what might have been utter disinterest or the good natured patience of an elder with an unruly child .
"Your opinion has been noted." He replied matter of factly to the insolent merc's less than eloquent tantrum. Very little of it was even worthy of argument, given that the sadist's understanding of the situation and attitudes of those involved was so woefully skewed that there were not enough hours left in the night, nor the patience left in anyone present for that matter, to educate him otherwise.
The armored troops on the other hand responded as any loyal soldier would to seeing a brazen act of insubordination, followed by an already proven to be reckless and unstable element aggressively approaching their commanding officer. Those that were carrying loot, carefully placed their cargo on the floor, while those that were near cover placed themselves within easy reach of a solid object, while still more on roofs or gathered on the ramps of VTOLs quietly arranged themselves into firing lines.
It was not long before every rifle that was not dedicated to controlling the crowd was pointed at Gresian instead. A hundred, plus change, of some of the best equipped and trained warriors to come out of Legion in recent history soon had the arrogant hunter lined up in their sights. The man in black might have been routinely hired to assassinate hunters, but he was currently surrounded by a force that was routinely deployed to wage war against them. No amount of confidence in the world, nor aura for that matter, was enough to shield oneself from a hail of rapid fire assault rounds from a hundred directions at once.
Solomon, standing tall in a suit of laquered banded mail, that hugged his broad form like the scales of a great snake, regarded the approaching mercenary with a eye of polished gold or burning sulfur. With a bandanna wrapped around the lower portion of his face, a patch strapped across the hollow of his right eye socket, and a kabuto style helmet sporting a broad crescent across the brow, it was impossible to make out his exact expression.
"I'd stop right there if I was you..." The vulpine faunus to Sol's right said wearily as Gresian reached the foot of the ramp, noting the hand on the hilt of the arrogant fool's sword.
It was at this point that something inside the cabin moved, something large and heavy enough to make the entire aircraft lurch on it's landing struts, rocking back and forth. This was followed by a rythmic plodding sound, each one accompanied by the craft sinking and rising on it's shock absorbers.
At first it seemed that an entire wall of the VTOL's cabin had come to life and was steadily making it's exit from the craft, but as the shape came into view behind Solomon and Rhett, it became apparent that the golem was actually a man of gigantic proportions, wreathed from head to toe in composite sheets of overlapping armor. The giant stood tall enough that he had to double entirely over to fit inside the crew compartment of the transport.
With a stride that was triple the span of an average man, the armored hulk squeezed past Rhett and Sol, and stepped right over the ramp and to the earth nearly three meters away. The craft seemed to breath a sigh of relief, before it sprung upwards once free of the titan's weight. The armored man's sabaton caused the cobbles to creaked beneath his mass, and, strangely, small pebbles near his planted heels began climbing up the outside of his armor's polished surface. Across the great ox's back was strung a sword that was as enormous in dimension as the name "Great Sword" might suggest, and then some.
Moving slowly, as if doing so quickly would displace enough air to generate a wind of gale forces, the giant effortlessly plucked a blade as broad across as Gresian's shoulders from his back, and then with a snapping motion he caused the blade to extend to it's full length of nine feet, just shy of the total height of it's wielder.
As if on a cue, the turrets of the VTOL and along with every other such craft currently touched down through the town, swung around to face the black swordsman, and two sets of triple rotary barrels each began spinning to the sounds of ominous whirring. The giant cocked his head to one side, and emitted a series of cracks, no doubt a result of being hunched over in the aircraft's interior all this time.
Sol reached into his pocket, and from it he pulled a single brass coin, not even enough to get a coffee at a rural cafe, and then with no ceremony to match that of his warder's entrance, he tossed the tarnished piece of currency at Gresian's feet.
"The Lord Commander thanks you for your service. Take your payment and get out." Came the voice of Warren Dallas from behind and just to the right of Gresian. The barrel of his revolver, nearly two feet long from sight to hammer, glinted with the light of the flames as it was leveled unerringly at the back of the scoundrel's head.
For the second time that night, the entire population, both welcome and unwelcome, of that unremarkable village held it's collective breath.
(tagged)⏤ @.someone(notes)⏤Rhett color code e77777 Dallas Color Code 7787e7 |
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Post by Gresian on Feb 19, 2017 12:36:24 GMT -6
- Gresian Esten - “You never know where life will take you. Sometimes it brings you down a path full of lovely flowers and smiling faces, but more than likely it will stab you in the back and leave you for dead in an abandoned alleyway”WORDS: 962 | TAGS: Solomon Moon | NOTES: Notes go here. Gresian could feel the tension in the air around him, his eyes looking at the swath of soldiers who had their sights set on him. He wore an amused grin, and his posture showed that despite the multiple barrels aimed towards him he didn't have any fear towards them. He had lost his fear of death long ago, and for the time being, he still saw a way out of this position if things turned for the worst. He watched silently as a behemoth of a man exited the nearby airship, the massive figure provoking no more than a brief look from the overconfident mercenary. The crew of this mission certainly were a colorful bunch, but that was not of any concern to Gresian. All he cared about was getting his payment and heading off.
His grin flickered off for a second as he was presented with a brass coin, the worthless currency tossed without care at his feet. The intent behind the motion was clear, and he could feel the already tense atmosphere stand still in anticipation. The collective breath of everyone around him had ceased, awaiting his response. They knew he wasn't the most savory individual, and it could be assumed that he would try and lash out causing a rather unceremonious end to his life. What happened next, though, was not what most expected.
Gresian's back arched backward as he threw his head back, a sick and disturbing laughter erupting from his mouth. It echoed across the silent crowd, the full extent of his nature now on full display. The sounds had a ring of joy to it that was so pure, it began to seem horribly wrong. A sharp, cold undertone was also carried by the eerie melody of his exhales, an empty sort of sound that only one who had seen death could fully understand. It was a broken sound, a sound often carried by someone who had snapped under the pressure of a drawn out battle, the sound of someone who had seen far too many close friends strewn lifelessly across a battlefield.
As he began to calm down from his laughing episode, he rebuilt his composure, but this time it was a bit off. It was more... relaxed, his limbs hanging a bit limper and his features a bit more jovial. There was a newfound sinisterness in his eyes as he gazed directly and the single eye of the cyclops leader. Gresian seemed to lack any regard for the many guns aimed towards him, all of his attention focused on the captain of the crew.
"You know, it's very flattering to know that I'm seen as such a powerful threat that the house of Moon feels the need to have all its guns on me as well as a full security detail around its leader," He taunted, a clear mocking tone to his voice. The pattern to his speech seemed to have shifted as well, his words having weird inflections as if he felt that the proper way of saying everything was too dull. He made sure to speak loud enough that everyone present could hear him, he wanted everyone to know exactly what was going on. "However, if I may ask, where did your pride go? Raiding villages isn't something I expected out of people who are nobility. I'm sure your late father would be very disappointed in you." That last part was meant to try and get a rise out of Solomon, nothing more than a little game Gresian wanted to play. "Regardless, I'm sure you know that I don't want to leave with just a cheap coin, so let me make a formal challenge now. If I remember, that's how your house settles its scores, right?" His grin grew a little larger, a little colder too. He had done his research before joining and it looked like it might pay off. "So, here's what I propose. We have ourselves a little duel, one on one. If you win, I'll leave without further incident, I'll even let you keep that brass coin. However, if I win, you pay me in full and don't send any further opposition my way regardless of how much time passes. Of course, this can only stand if you still have any honor left in you, which I highly doubt considering the state these people find themselves in."
Gresian's intent with the way he worded himself was rather simple, to enrage his potential opponent and to back them into a corner where they couldn't refuse the challenge. He knew that they still had some pride, albeit false pride in his eyes, so he doubted they would go back on their traditions when it came to resolving problems. As well, his first statement set up a bit of a mental game right off the bat. It was true that he doubted that they saw him as such a threat, but with that simple notion set in place, they would be making his taunting accusation come true if they did decide to shoot him there and then. Furthermore, his mention of the security detail would call attention to how their leader surrounded himself with fighters instead of preparing to defend himself, something Gresian believed a true warrior wouldn't tend to do. And, as the icing on the cake, he brought up Solomon's father. He assumed it would be a sore spot for the young lord to be called out about that in such a manner, so even if none of his other tricks played out he hoped that anger alone could make Solomon act impulsively and accept the challenge. For as basic as his statement had been, there was a lot of thought put behind it meant to trap everyone listening.
Shin of GS + Adox |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 19, 2017 13:32:54 GMT -6
[attr="class","Im"] [attr="class","really"] [attr="class","exhausted"]History is dictated by the victor. [attr="class","rhythm"] ❝ My house was built on the graves of people like you. | "You know, it's very flattering to know that I'm seen as such a powerful threat that the house of Moon feels the need to have all its guns on me as well as a full security detail around its leader," "However, if I may ask, where did your pride go? Raiding villages isn't something I expected out of people who are nobility. I'm sure your late father would be very disappointed in you." "Regardless, I'm sure you know that I don't want to leave with just a cheap coin, so let me make a formal challenge now. If I remember, that's how your house settles its scores, right?" "So, here's what I propose. We have ourselves a little duel, one on one. If you win, I'll leave without further incident, I'll even let you keep that brass coin. However, if I win, you pay me in full and don't send any further opposition my way regardless of how much time passes. Of course, this can only stand if you still have any honor left in you, which I highly doubt considering the state these people find themselves in."
The air seemed still as Gresian spoke, every rifle, soldier, and hunter prepared for the unstable lunatic to do something stupid. The laughter was hardly a surprise, the man had already made it clear that he had more than a few screws loose, and all it succeeded in doing was cementing the idea that he was nothing more than a mad dog. No one was disappointed.
All the same, that omnipresent tension in the air seemed to increase, like a noose slowly slipping tight, and the air itself took on a tangible, oppressive quality. The situation had shifted from a fear of what ludicrous thing this random mercenary with a death wish might take into his head to do, to a fear of how their commander might respond. There was the audible ripple of weapons being cocked as the man made mention of the late Terrel-Daton Moon. That indeed struck a nerve, but Gresian might have been surprised to learn that it was not just the bereaved son that had felt the insult, in fact, every soldier present felt the sting of that particular slap. After all, the death of the former Lord Commander was just as much a failing of the force as a whole as it was a failing of Terrel's son.
Sol's golden eye glinted with an uncanny light as he swept the crowd with his gaze, attempting to take in the expressions behind the tactical visors and gas masks. He could feel their attention and expectation weighing upon him. His sought out the eyes of his mentor, Warren Dallas, and the bookish man gave a subtle nod. That was all the verification that Sol needed. If Dallas was content with it, then so was Sol.
With his left hand, SOl reached up and tugged down the scar that was wrapped around his jaw. The flesh beneath was broken, swollen, and split down the center by row of stitches. He smiled, the wire that held his broken jaw shut could be seen criss-crossing his teeth.
He wrapped his right hand around the hilt of his sword, the leather creaking upon the ceramic, and strode down the ramp. The giant in armor dutifully made way for his leader. As Sol grew close, his grip tightened and he faked as if he meant to draw his blade and cut down the merc in a single motion, but the sword remained firmly housed in it's sheath, and he released the grip a moment later.
Then it was Sol's turn to laugh. It was a tortured, ragged sound, spat through a broken jaw and gritted teeth, until it sounded more painful that joyous. It was not nearly so long nor melodramatic as Gresian's, and almost seemed good natured, as if all this were just a friendly jest. Surely he was about to commend the rogue for his guts, and his defiance, and offer him a lofty position in his personal guard. Sol after all could use people like him.
In a soft, croaking voice, distorted by having to squeeze through the gaps in his braced jaw, slurred and cracked by lack of use, the One Eyed Dragon spoke.
"Kill this fool."
Before the first syllable was uttered, the entire force opened fire. Assault rifles barked in tightly controlled bursts that chattered like massive woodpeckers, just as the rotary chainguns of the landed VTOLs unleashed searing streams of tracer rounds that lit up the night like streaks of liquid fire. Dallas stepped back as he fired a pair of rounds at the base of Gresian's skull with a single pull of the trigger.
Sol turned and marched back up the ramp. He'd already wasted enough time on some disobedient nobody, and he had much more important things to see to.
(tagged)⏤ @gresian(notes)⏤ Sol color code c7ca2c
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Post by Gresian on Feb 19, 2017 18:32:38 GMT -6
- Gresian Esten - “You never know where life will take you. Sometimes it brings you down a path full of lovely flowers and smiling faces, but more than likely it will stab you in the back and leave you for dead in an abandoned alleyway”WORDS: 614 | TAGS: Solomon Moon | NOTES: Looks like this may be Gresian's second, yet final thread if things don't turn around for him. He waited in anticipation for the response, feeling the tension of the situation increase. Ready for Sol to accept the challenge his mind was set to combat, his thoughts focused on his golden-eyed foe. The situation had blown up more than he had expected, but the thrill was absolutely amazing to him. He watched as Sol pulled down the scarf, revealing a less than desirable situation for the man. As he continued to hold his gaze on the man, he saw him go for his blade only to stop part way. Then there was the laugh, clearly not something that was easy for the man to do. No wonder he had been so silent, it was pain for him to speak.
And then it happened, a moment that sent the whole situation into chaos. Before the first syllable of Sol's sentence was finished, a hail of fire was on its way to Gresian, the rattling of guns swallowing the command like a wolf crushing the windpipe of its prey. "Sh*t!" It was all he could manage to say, the wave of bullets upon him. The inside of his cloak glowed a deep green, and many of the incoming bullets seemed to lodge themselves into his cloak, some continuing to block other incoming bullets. The green glow had been caused by a coating of earth dust being activated in his cloak, creating a defensive barrier. To help defend he tucked his hands into his sleeves, concentrating his aura to his head to keep it from getting too roughed up. He wouldn't just stand around to be hit either as he started running the moment the firing started. His main concern was the rounds being fired by the VTOLs as they would be much more dangerous. His defenses could hold off a number of the smaller rounds of the rifles, but aircraft rounds would blast through with ease if he let them hit. That being said, he didn't just run blindly, he ran directly towards Dallas. If he was going to keep a second volley from coming down on him, he would need to get close to someone who they wouldn't risk the chance of accidentally hitting.
He gasped as the two bullets fired by his current target struck his neck, his aura covering the damage but the force still causing his breath to get caught in his throat for a moment. The bandage he wore around his neck came loose, revealing scales underneath. As that happened, the scales popped up into a frill around his head, about doubling the apparent size. He popped his right hand out from his sleeve, grabbing his sword from his sheath and making an arching strike at the older man's arm. His sword had a red sheen from the blood of the corpse he had defiled, making it match the crimson fangs at its base. "All I asked for was a fair battle, guess there really is no honor left in your ranks!" While he wasn't horribly damaged from the volley, his aura had taken a heavy beating in defending against what his cloak couldn't manage to stop.
While he was focused on keeping close to Dallas to keep any further fire off of himself, he performed one trick to try and get the one on one duel he had requested. He realized his situation was grim, but he was either going to get out of here by force or die trying. The aformentioned trick was his semblance. He activated it on Sol, hoping it would be enough to get him to reconsider the duel, but it was a slim chance and he doubted it would do much to help. Shin of GS + Adox |
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Post by Solomon Moon on Feb 21, 2017 21:37:02 GMT -6
[attr="class","Im"] [attr="class","really"] [attr="class","exhausted"]History is dictated by the victor. [attr="class","rhythm"] ❝ My house was built on the graves of people like you. | Much like their hot-headed leader, Shock and Awe was the default setting of the Moon Forces, but that was not to suggest that everything was just for show. The entire force moved as a single cohesive unit, practiced to the point of acting less like living, thinking individuals, than singular parts of a massive machine of war. Gresian was fatally mistaken to believe that even as much as a gap existed in the onslaught when he'd picked a fight from the very center of a literal army.
The waves of withering rifle fire did not come in volleys, as to do such a thing would utterly defeat the point of laying down suppressing fire in the first place. Instead, only a third of each squad, each finely tuned teams in their own right, was firing at any given time, unleashing hellish bursts from their weapons for as long as it would take a man to yell, "DIE! MOTHERFUCKER! DIE!", meanwhile the second third of the trinary (a Moon Forces term for this sort of combat doctrine, around which the majority of their infantry maneuvers were based), were lining up their own shots and awaiting their own cue to take up the chant of burning lead themselves. The final third of the line were recharging their clips, and ready to fire by the time their turn came.
He was right to hedge his bets, by placing himself near a friendly target, as given his situation there really weren't that many options left open, but still he was guilty of a critical miscalculation. That being that this was not anticipated. Dallas was already on the back foot, laying down fire from the hip and unleashing two more of his own shots into the storm of lead surrounding Gresian, but he was hardly defenseless. In fact, one might have said he had the greatest defense that the House of Moon could claim.
A hand of incredible proportion, large enough to enclose the paw of a full grown brown bear, and sheaved in a layer of metal polished to a reflective sheen, showed none of the plodding lethargy that it's owner had displayed when stepping from the airship, as it snatched at the folds of Gresian's protective cloak. The giant knight was much faster than a man in that much armor had any right to be, and whats more, the mercenary had utterly ignored his presence in order to press an attack on a threat who was much further away. It was an easy feat to snag a fistful of the merc's cloak, given that it was laden with a thousand grains of lead. At the same instant, falling like the blade of a guillotine, the massive blade of the giant's greatsword slammed into the earth between Dallas and Gresian, effortlessly cleaving through air, stone, and everything else unfortunate enough to be in the way. In a single earth shaking effort, the giant suit of armor had erected a ten foot long, four foot high wall between his companion and the ill-fated target of the force's ire.
Just as each and every squad of rifles were a cohesive unit, the four pillars of Solomon's Honor Guard were a practiced and well experienced team, and this was not some sort of sloppy aim on the silent giant's part. It was a calculated ripost to the clear objective that Gresian had been aiming for. That is to say, it immediately countered the advantage that Gresian had sought to gain by targeting the gunslinger.
Dallas seamlessly dropped into cover behind the massive blade, and traveled up the length of the blade as if it were a low pony-wall, towards the sword's wielder, and the safety that the giant knight would provide.
With Gresian's ability to flee hampered by the grasp of an irate goliath, and under no compunctions as to worry about harming the armored titan, the underslung chain-guns affixed to the wings of Sol's dropship unleashed a cloud of incendiary rounds upon the snared hunter. Meanwhile the squads of rifles continued to unload a concentrated stream of death upon the merc's position.
Lastly, but not least, the other player forgotten by the unlucky criminal, entered the fight.
From within the capacious pockets of his motleyed flak-jacket, Rhett Farrell, produced three stick grenades of archaic design. His slanted eyes shone with malice, and his fangs glistenned behind a smile that was too wide as his triangular ears flattened against his skull. Like the jester he resembled, he began to juggle the weapons of war.
"Shoulda just taken the copper, dumbass." He muttered, mostly to himself as a fourth grenade materialized in his hand, and he lobbed one of the other three over the armored beast's head, to land right beside Gresian's feet.
This grenade was followed closely by another, and then another, each replaced by a duplicate conjured from the fox's semblance as he juggled.
(tagged)⏤ @gresian(notes)⏤ Rhett Color Code e77777
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Post by Gresian on Feb 22, 2017 14:20:23 GMT -6
- Gresian Esten - “You never know where life will take you. Sometimes it brings you down a path full of lovely flowers and smiling faces, but more than likely it will stab you in the back and leave you for dead in an abandoned alleyway”WORDS: 651 | TAGS: Solomon Moon | NOTES: Pride's bane is an unconscious mind. Things weren't looking so hot for the lizard faunus as he tried to keep close to Dallas, careful to evade the attacks coming from him at least. However, in his rather desperate situation, he failed to notice the hulking mass of a man in armor step up to help his comrade. Gresian ground to a halt as the giant's blade was slammed down into the terrain before him, blocking his path to his target. This wasn't good for him, as his only way to keep the constant hail of bullets off of him was blocked off. His cloak did a good job at protecting him by this point, the bullet-ridden fabric more metal now than anything else.
It was what happened next that caught Gresian off guard. Over the goliath's head flew a grenade, landing menacingly right next to his feet. "SH-" The bomb exploded, cutting off whatever words Gresian may have added. Getting his aura up to guard, the blast launched his body back from the blast, his head smacking into the blade that had been planted behind him by the behemoth man. Upon impact Gresian's body fell to the ground, but he didn't get up. He just lay there, unable to move, his eyes shut and his limbs limp.
His mind numbed, thoughts crawling to a standstill as he lay on the ground despite his attempts to move. He couldn't even open his eyes, and his ability to keep his semblance operational dissolved, the effect leaving its target as quickly as it had appeared. The hell!? He thought to himself, unable to force the words out of his mouth, What the f*ck just happened!? He desperately tried to move his body, there was no way in hell he was going to be downed by something stupid like that. He wanted to get back up, keep up the fight, he knew he could take them on if he could just get up. His thoughts strayed to one of his adversaries finishing him off in his crippled state, that was probably the worst way he could imagine going. If he was going to go out, the least he could do is go out fighting, then again he believed that he could never go out fighting because he would always win the fight.
To anyone looking on, it would look as if Gresian had died on impact from the head injury. His body ragdolled across the ground, limp and seemingly lifeless. His chest seemed to not move in the slightest, though someone who took the time to check might find his heart still beating. He was alive, but his body was in shock. Underneath the corpse-like exterior was a racing mind, one that knew what his situation was but not where it was going or if he was going to live or die. It was a sobering thought, but not a welcoming one. He despised the fact that he was even in a position to have such thoughts.
A sudden wave of drowsiness washed over him, his mind protesting slightly but was swallowed up the the weightless feeling of sleep. His mind made one final grasp at consciousness until it finally slipped away, burried under the tides. He had slipped unconscious, his mind blank and his body appearing dead unless properly checked. Shin of GS + Adox |
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