Dark Future IC, Enjoy!

[Gramlin Aletracker]

The half moon hangs high in the night sky, lights dotting it’s surface, the stars flicker through the frosty sky and there is silence. Nordopolis sleeps, nighttime is harsh in this desert city; the ground freezes, temperatures drop below minus ten and very few people venture outside. Even livestock and pack animals huddle together for warmth in their stables and pens. However at the very edge of the city amongst the low market buildings of the southern traders court there is noise. The hubbub of men and women loading vehicles and pack creatures fills the night air. Angry shouts are directed at those clumsy enough to drop valuable boxes, and orders are called out by the traders. One vehicle is being repared from a small mechanical problem, nearby travellers watching with interest. Just outside the ruckus groups of mercenaries huddle around separate fires, some regaling others with tales of daring exploits, showing off scars and exaggerating the facts, others whisper hushed warnings of the evil beast men who live deep in the deserts, while others still are explaining orders and strategies in calm but powerful voices.

The trade caravan is preparing to leave, all this activity has been going for several days non stop, the traders and travellers accompanying them wish to leave by damn the next day to use the temperatures to their advantage and still they haven’t fully loaded or prepared. Supplies for the first leg of the journey through the wastelands to the sea need preparing food, water and ammunition still need to be gathered, purchased from the many merchants specialising in fulfilling the needs of these caravans. All the while a myriad of profiteers hang around the edge of the hubbub, trying to make as much money from the traders, herders, mechanics, mercenaries, travellers, doctors, explorers and various other men and women who form the trade caravan. These people range from con artists selling items such as invincibility potions to gullible mercenaries and damaged goods to the eager traders, to prostitutes, and petty thieves picking pockets of everyone relaxed enough to be unwary of their sly fingers. Also there are young men and women desperate to leave the city trying to hire themselves out to the caravan, applying for jobs such as baggage handlers, cattle drivers or even applying to join the mercenary company hired to protect the travellers. Most are turned down, however some with promise are accepted unknown to them as little more than cannon fodder.

And Isao watches it all, standing just outside the group. These people worked hard, as he once did. Before his vow....

Amongst the ruckus of the preparations Laertes sits alone on an upturned crate. In his hands is his sword, the cold steel glittering in the light of the fire in front of him. This man is the Captain of the mercenary company; his job is to oversee his soldiers protecting the caravan, a job which most in his position would normally give to a sergeant or other officer. In fact it is a job he has often delegated himself, but for some reason known only to him he has chosen to accompany this caravan to Westronia.

As he sits alone with the flickering light of his fire a short man with vast shoulders and upper body approaches him and whispers in his ear
“The new bloods are ‘ere to see ye’ sir”
Laertes nods and clears his throat
“Only bring the ones with promise” he calls out as the short man scurries away a cruel grin on his face.
The short man eventually reaches a small and almost dead fire on the other side of the camp,
“Cap’n will see ye’ll nah” he shouts out in his thick ‘Meric accent.
The group of new mercenaries stand up to follow him some with confidence others with slight reluctance. As the group of new bloods approaches the veteran captain several existing mercenaries and tagalongs attach themselves to the group, most wish to see the Captain’s response, some have things to say to him themselves and others missed his briefing earlier and need to hear his outlining of the plans to the new guys.

As the group approach the captains fire he is sitting staring at the moon a wistful gaze in his one eye. At first glance he seems peaceful and serene however when he looks down this image is shattered, the left side of his face hidden when he was looking up is now visible, the disfiguring scars tearing his face into a constant grimace of anger and pain. Several of the new initiates make a double take as the captain stands up.
“What a rag tag bunch of Murphy forsaken sons of canidons” he mutters, as he over looks the group, several catch his eye as promising however he keeps this quiet.
“Stand Sharp!” shouts the short man and many of the recruits do so, jumping to attention, the tagalongs and existing mercenaries stay loose and relaxed. Several of the veterans snigger at the fresh faced recruits trying to impress the Captain, they know he’s not a traditional soldier and cares little for formalities and parade ground fanciness so loved by national armies across the globe.
“At ease you idiots…” Laertes mutters as the short man sniggers to himself
“Lets get one thing clear here, you are not soldiers… you’re mercs. You don’t stand to attention, you don’t dress fancy and ye’ don’t fight for a cause.” He says loudly as he stands up from his crate sheathing his sword as he does so. His bionic hand free he flexes it, tiny motors and gears whining quietly, barely audible over the ruckus of the camp.
“Revolutionaries…” he continues “think with their hearts, Soljers think with their Heads… Mercs… like me and like ye’ think with their pockets!” at this he smiles with the unscathed side of his face. Several of the recruits seem upset by this, these ones would be the first to go, they had a misplaced sense of honour, they’d probably die for their friends or employees, they were the meat shields.
“We fight ta get paid… no more no less” he carries on with a speech he’s used many times before with new bloods.
“Any questions?” he asks to the crowd, one plucky young man with cold blue eyes and cropped blond hair shoves his hand up into the air, Laertes nods at him, bidding him to speak.
“When do we get paid?” the young man asks. “Oh and er… how much?” he adds as an afterthought.
Laertes raises an eyebrow, this one is cocky, he’ll also die quickly, he probably thinks of this as an adventure, fighting for fun.
“As soon as we reach Westronia, cash on delivery… you know the drill, we’re no different than a courier” he answers “and you’ll get enough… providing you make it, if not I get ta pay fer ye’ funeral. Expenses like ammunition and rations are provided by our employer”
The mention of mortality quietens the crowd and Laertes lets a grin light across the unscarred half of his face. He suddenly sees a lone man watching his group. He starts to walk towards the man, one with three swords on his belt, who looks him dead in the eye. He wears an thick cloak over his clothes and has his hood up against the wind. Laertes focuses on him and walks in his direction. Coming closer, he sees that the clothes under the cloak are riddled with colour, though the darkness makes it difficult to say which. Unusual.
“Where’s ya gun?” He barks as he reaches the man who is obviously of oriental descent. His face says enough.
“Guns are for cowards and weaklings” the man replies in a calm voice, he seems utterly relaxed and un-phased by the intimidating figure of Laertes, this in its self is odd, most men would shrink down from Laertes’ imposing figure, especially if they weren’t acquainted with him. The grin fades from his face as he reaches the man and stands a few inches away. The oriental man looks him dead in the eye, not moving an inch. Suddenly Laertes bursts out with laughter and claps the man on the shoulder with his bionic hand, a blow that would floor most people, the oriental man has his hand on the hilt of the shortest of his swords an instant later,
“Quick reactions… brave… foolish… I like ye’; you’d fit right in. Interested?”
"No."
Laertes chuckles as he moves back to the group looking each new recruit up and down, assessing them and working out who’ll be useful. The man would join soon enough, once the dangers became apparent. Three swords, ha.
Most of the new bloods die on their first assignment, but once they’ve passed that mark they often survive to rise right up through the ranks like he had. Once he’s done this assessing the recruit soldiers and medics he returns to his crate and sits down.
“Your orders are to guard the caravan, our employers property is what you are protecting, however I hate to say it but we’re not getting paid enough to waste our lives. So if it’s you or the crates don’t be stupid. Live to collect your pay. However this does not mean I’ll tolerate cowards… I will personally shoot anyone found to be putting their skin over the general welfare of the company… capiche?” He said as he reached the last bit his rested his hand on the pistol lying on the crate next to him.
“You will all be on day duty, from sunrise to sunset everyone is on duty… when we stop for the night we’ll take it in turns to watch. Two watchers minimum. Three of you will be assigned to the minitank...” he gestures as an all terrain car with a plasma cannon mounted on the back “- that will change on a rota, those of you with vehicles will be outriders as will I, those not on mini tank duty or outrider duty will be split up through the caravan in and on the various transports. Ok? Any questions?” he finishes.

Combined post by Star Eagle and Gramlin Aletracker.
All traders, tag alongs and mercenary characters are counted as being here, so go ahead and post!

This post has been edited by Star eagle on Jan 19 2009, 03:02 PM

[Tassadar]

She cautiously approached the group. Miyuki was late. Once she had found a job for herself - a mercenary job nonetheless - she walked as fast as her body allowed to the shelter Tanak had created. It had taken her two hours just to pack everything, and another hour to get to the meeting. She was late, and would have to suffer the consequences. Miyuki looked at her meter. Sixtyfive percent remaining. It'd be enough for one small trick.

“Sorry I'm late. Is Laertes that big guy over th...?”
Laertes raised his hand, and pulled the trigger. The woman's back arched as the shot penetrated her body, leaving no trace. Another woman stepped out of the shadows.
“So as I was asking before rudely being interrupted... That big guy must be Lae...”
Another shot. He didn't hesitate even a split-second. She was similar to the woman that had stepped out of the shadows a few seconds ago. She had to be killed. And - again - another woman stepped forward.

“Could you stop doing that? If you don't need my help I could just as well go somewhere else,” she said, while turning her back to the man with the bionic arm. He was an imposing figure, were it not for his arm. Silly man, cutting off his own arm so he could get a stronger one. Then again, it wasn't much different from what she did.
“Turn around, I'm behind you.” The three illusions vaporized, leaving a woman of roughly twenty years behind. Her red hair flowed down as a blood colored waterfall, her shirt was revealing enough to make men look at her another time, but her legs... Her grotesque legs were the only reason nobody could ever love this woman. Miyuki knew all to well her legs scared people, so she invented a manipulative device, the one that had its energy drained because of her 'little' trick. It would have to recharge again during the day.

Miyuki trudged into the light.
“I don't suppose you have a gun for me, or something along the lines of that?”

[HLY]

Scott leaned back against th cold metal side of the mini-tank, watching the captain and the new recruits. A smile stole onto his face as he remeber his own 'interview' when he had arived at the city not too long ago. A couple of the new guys strolled past him, towards friends or the fire, muttering to themselves as they did.
"Don't worry about the captain" shouted mich in the middle of there muted conversation "He may be a sour-ass, but he's alright when you get to know him"
the freshmen kept walking afterwards, muttering a sarastic alright as he walked away.
Now that there was nothing much of any intrest to watch, the ex-medical student stolled to the nearest campfire, sitting down amongst the mercenaries, both rookie and veteran. The buzz around the campfire was a mix of hollow grumblings, jokes between old and new friends, anticipation of finnaly going, and of course, beting. Right now, the main focus was on how long it'd take to reach westronia, which he joined in with heartily, though it eventualy drifted to the new blood, how many of them would survive and wich ones.
As the disccusion escelated, Scott tuned out, drawing his crossbow from his back, and begining toispect the weapon. The would probably be leaving soon, and if he was caught unprepared, well, captain has an acid tounge, to say the least. The main stock and the arms where in perfect order, as was he ammo cache and the reloading spring. That was one of the advantages to the lower tech weapon, it required barely any mantinence, the other was that everyone underestimated it.
Finnaly, he hit the power switch on the scope and targeter salvaged from his old service rifle. Both of them flared slowly to life, dull green light filling the lenses. He peered through the scope, playing with the settings to ensure it worked. Finnaly, he switched on the targeter, and the screen burst to lie. The piece of Wetronian advancement was a masterpiece, tracking the movement of those in it's sight, and the distance, though it did often give the young man a headche if he used it too much.

[Blackmane Wolf]

Xenothan was getting bored with all this chatter, this man may intimidate some people with his bionic hand and mangled face, but that was nothing new to Xenothan, as he had also had his fair share of accidents. He pulled a spanner and a pair of plyers out of his pocket and started to tinker with a loose bolt in his left hand and tried to block out all the shouting around him. he realised that the captiain didn't apretiate this from the bullet hole that appeared a few seconds later, and the smoking barrel of the captain's revolver.

"Ok, ok I'll listen, but please can you let me fix me hand first, I spent hours on this." Xenothan moaned, a sarcastic tone in his voice and a smirk on his face

[Wizwum]

Neela pulled her head from within the bonnet of the truck; hopefully her minor tinkering had got it working again. Her face and shoulders were covered in sweat and oily marks, despite the cold weather. She pushed a few stray hairs from her eyes with her dirt stained gloves and made a quick note to have a wash before they departed. She almost resented being drafted into helping out with this sort of thing before the caravan had even left, but she had pledged her engineering abilities, and she was one to honour her word. It was either that or fork out a share of the money hiring the mercs, and that was something she definitely wasn't going to do. She reached into her pockets for a pair of jumper relays and attached them to the engine. After a few turns, the engine began to struggle and cough, but soon enough it revved up and began to purr away. With a satisfied smile, she placed the tools back in her belt, and closed the bonnet lid, stepping down from the seat of her bike she had been standing on to reach inside the large military vehicle. A couple of the onlookers gave her a short clap and she curtsied, before wheeling her bike back out of the way. Leaving the now chugging vehicle behind her, she approached one of the main hirers.
"It's up and working now, anything else needs sorting?"
"Nope, thats it. Just turn up here when we're ready to go, you're on leave til then."
With a sigh, she turned around and made her way towards the town; hopefully there would be some sort of washing facilities nearby. As she passed the crowd of new mercenaries, she had a glance to eye each of them up. Most of them were young men, but there were a few more eccentric figures. One wore robes to his feet and had swords at his hip, and another was a young woman. At least there was one person on this blasted caravan she might actually be able to talk to. Turning her head back the way she was headed, she spotted a figure, and stopped dead in her tracks. It was hard to make it out fully, with the only light provided by a couple of floodlights, but it was a figure that irrefutably, undeniably, belonged to her brother.

[Lord Blackstaff]

He sat on the top of one of the merchant trucks. Nobody had noticed him, nobody would, at least till he chose to let them do so. He had 'signed up' in his usual way, but placing a contract on the table of the leader. His signature included. In this case it had been a contract of guardianship. He'd be supplied with food, drink, a place to sleep and stow his baggage and he'd supply his skills.
His box containing his equipment and varied poisons, herbs, plants, and many other strange concoctions that he'd prepared beforehand or bought over the span of his travels. His long range sniper rifle lay in his lap. It had been a gift from a thankful client in Westronia, he wasn't one for sentimentality, however it had been one of the best available and far better than his previous one. So he had kept it.
Pulling out a small electrician's equivalent of a swiss army knife he examined the tractor beam device on his wrist. It had been playing up recently, he gently pulled it over his hand and unscrewed a catch on the side. It flipped open easily. Clicking a small light on he examined the internals. A wire was loose. Again. He'd have to get a replacement sometime soon. In Westronia hopefully, unfotunately, he wasn't in Westronia so he'd need to make do. Poking around he found where the wire was supposed to be fixed in and soldered it into place. Snapping the catch shut and screwing it into place he flicked a switch on the top of the device. There was a faint hum and he used his cortic implant to direct the beam, picking up a small crate ten meters away. Satisfied it worked, he slid the tractor device back onto his wrist and deposited the tool into a pocket in his stealth robe.
Despite his actions, nobody had noticed him yet. These people were very unobservant. He sat in the darkness; barely moving, his shape and colour blending nearly perfectly with his surroundings, and watched as Laertes attempted to intimidate the warrior with the blades. A bushiõ, unusual to be seeing one of them this far away from their homeland. They were a people bound by honour and duty. Archaic forms at that, in Syrion's opinion. Without room for any common sense usually. Laertes gave up, of course, nobody could intimidate one of them, they didn't know the meaning of fear.
He watched as a strange lady got herself shot three times before finally appearing behind Laertes. After the first shot, he blinked, frowned slightly, closed his eyes, shook his head, and concentrated. Something was buzzing in his head. He concentrated, ignoring a strange feeling in his skull; the third time she appeared, he saw the image fade and a young woman move behind Laertes. His mouth twitched, cold face calculating. Interesting.
Of course, Syrion Silvertongue never missed anything. It was fatal in his line of profession.

[Antonious]

Sampson moved quietly through the trees, he had not interest in being involved in the role call. Social settings... confused him. His brother speicies could make and do increadable things, things that had saved his life again and again. Still they did insist on chatting, on using strange sounding words to explain simple things. The thing called humour was also confusing. The relationship thus far had worked however, he was getting on with his mission, they provided a satisfaction to his curiosities away from the professors in the temple and he provided protection. Which is what he was doing now, skills must be trained... or lost.
Half way through the tree line Sampson thought he saw something in the actual convoy, yet he couldn't be sure. In a combat situation trust first impressions, if a beast is startled, if one of your senses tingle with danger then don't ignore it. You will find that conciousness is over rated at reacting to danger. The memory of his teachers voice pressed over Sampson briefly, he smiled at how long that lesson had taken to learn. His teacher was good at explain the more difficult words however, and he was almost never wrong... despite being somewhat more frail than he should be.

A sharp but quiet hiss filled the surroundings as Sampsons armour locked down. on his HUD multiple images flashed to life containing shield strength, heat levels, ablative armour levels. He left his HUD optical filter off to save power.. It was afterall a clear day and Sampson was probably wrong. Reaching behind his back Sam pressed a button on his sniper rifle and it folded out even as he moved quietly, softly to the end of the tree line and into a position were he could sweep the area with his sniper rifle...

He was sure something was out there.

[Star eagle]

Laertes settled down once he had explained the route and duties to the mercenaries. The traders had been very specific about taking the route they would despite Laertes objection that it was unnecessarily dangerous, for one he’d rather have entered Westronia from the north east rather than the south east as border warfare was worse to the south and they’d no doubt get involved. However he apparently wasn’t being paid for tactical knowledge or advice just brute strength and a wary eye. He was fine with that, he would survive and once he reached Westronia he would never have to do mercenary work again. Underneath his combat armour he could feel the pendant resting against his skin, nestled between his chest and the coarse fabric of the tunic he wore underneath his combat armour. Hopefully no-one would find out that his package was missing till he’d reached the safety of the borders of Westronia but if they did he’d had his fair share of encounters with bounty hunters and assassins. His remaining hand strayed up to the dreadlock dangling over his shoulder; at the end he’d tied a bone. It was the bone of his last would be assassin’s trigger finger.

The unknown man had appeared in his room almost a month ago, Laertes had woken up to a silenced pistol barrel in his face and a knife to his throat, his guards lay dead outside his room and no-one would be able to get into the room on time to save him if the man had decided to kill him, however the assassin had been too lax, he’d taken his time and gloated, he’d explained to Laertes why he was going to die and Laertes had sat there listening to this all, while he’d listened he’d started to reach for his gun, the assassin so caught up in his boasting had missed this and the first he knew about the gun in Laertes’ hand was the smoking hole that appeared in his gun hand. The assassin now disabled Laertes bound him and extracted the trigger finger knuckle bone and then killed him. Assassins and bounty hunters were always too slow; those that weren’t too slow succeeded but were viewed as ruthless murderers.

As he sat thinking the mercenaries around him started to get to know each other, exchanging greetings and stories of their past. Some seemed obviously destined to become friends; others seemed to view themselves above the social niceties and avoided contact. However most of the company was mixing well as the night drew on. It was almost dawn now and the traders were beginning to work harder in the darkness, the moon had sunk below the horizon and the darkest part of night was upon them.

[HLY]

well, things had certainly got interesting fast, noted Scott as he rummaged through his med-pack, ensuring everything was there. Good, nothing missing, bandages, a few sedatives, it was much smaller than he had hoped to work with, but it'd do for field work.
First had been the pretty girl or should he say three, that had had a close encounter with the captain, this leaving him highly puzzled as to who she was, and how there where so many. Next had been a Proeliator decked to the heavans in high technology, wearing the garb of the Temple of Radience from back home. This had made Scott slip back into the shadows when he had seen the priest, out of form more than tradition, before he realised the Proeliator couldn't have a clue who he was, heck, everyone would have forgoten by now. He mutters a quiet prayer to God that it was so, quietly so none of the other mercanaries heared him. Christianity had fallen out of favor in the modern world, so much the teachings where spat on, and even met with open hostilaty at times.
The final interesting addition to the group was a man sat atop one of the convey vehicles. He was obviously trying to avoid sight, because even with his enhaced nightvision, trained by his time in the jungle, he could only see the outlne.
Neither of these three made any effort to join the group so Scott dismised them quckly. There where other new faces to learn, and he was eager to meet them. Scott felt a connection with many of the rookies, because even though he had been with the company for a year now, the closest he had been to a fight had been the medicl area. He soon learnt the names of the four newcomers at this fire. There was Griff, a youth who had joined up led by a sense of woderlust, Sonya and Frank, two berother who joined up to raise money for there wedding and Chris, the quiet one of the bunch. They where all everyday reasons, and it just turned his thoughs back to the thre strangers. Who where they anyway?

[Antonious]

Sam noticed one of the new additions to the Caravan slink into the shadows, shaking his gentle at the obvious misconception. My son, the great deeds you will do will be twisted, your kind bears the respect of our people and the misunderstanding and hate of those who aren't your flock in the night. It had taken Sampson years to understand the first thing his teacher had told him. Years upon years and non of the other teachers would help him. For some reason he had to solve it alone. In the end the answer came, the Temple of Radiance did not approve of violence, unless needed, nor did it seek to fight on just religious grounds alone. Yet Westonia had long sought to conquer them, they told stories of the temple commiting crimes against christians. It was a clever ploy originally for christianity was still a large religion and more importantly most christians were heavy traders. Soon however Sampson had focused his thoughts back on the task at hand, he thought now he knew were the problem was and so the human switched his sniper scope to infra red and sure enough there was one faint... but very clear... target. Sampson hesitated, the pack leader often recruited assasin type mercs, Sampson was in his on way one of them. Would he be firing on a friend? While keeping his rifle grip firm he removed the grenade from the spring mounted launcher and slipped a small shaped stone into it. Moving it in a circular motion he launched the stone at the shape... His sniper rifle already collapsing into place on his back, one hand was in the process of drawing his pistol and the other fitting a flash bang into the launcher in the event he needed something more powerful. With a mental thought he activated the optical filter and saw a slight decrease in avaliable shield power as the suit recycled that power through a dinemo to power the optical filter that allowed Sampson to see more clearly during the night.

Your move... Assasin.

[Lord Blackstaff]

Syrion continued to watch the surroundings as he pondered the new arrivals and what they represented. He had noticed the man with the crossbow, a strange, archaic weapon that few used and many more underestimated. A client had once asked him to use one in a mission, no doubt to implicate the other side, so he understood fully what sort of power they had.
He scanned the surrounding countryside, a nagging feeling in the back of his head told him something was out there and that natural human phsych was telling him he was being watched.
He saw the object hurtling towards him and the figure who had launched it simultaneously. He reacted instantly, reflexes trained from decades of practice kicked into action. His right arm flashed out as he shunted the tractor full power and locked onto the object while making a short twisting leap through the air and landing silently in a prone position a foot to the left, catching his fall with his left hand and toes.
The tractor beam emitted a loud hum, he was really going to need to check that, and the hurtling object ground to a sudden halt a mere half metre from his current position. He concentrated and flicked his wrist, the object hurtled into the night away from himself and everyone else.
Syrion reached out with his right hand, while watching the figure in the trees, he felt the tractor beam catch onto his sniper rifle and picked it up. He hoped nobody had noticed the faint clatter it had made as it hit the ground. Pulling it towards him, he grabbed it, shuffled into a safer position, and scoped through a ridge in the vehicles roof. He picked up the telltale armour of a Temple of Radiance soldier immediately.
Part of his contract had been to not kill any of the members of the caravan unless absolutely necessary. Otherwise he would have blown a hole in the man's skull right then and there. Instead, he reached out the tractor beam and targeted the sniper on the man's back, picking it up, he rapped the man smartly over the head three times as a warning and dropped it beside him.
He had better be part of the caravan...

[Tassadar]

Miyuki observed the group. A religious man? Here? What brought him to this place was a mystery for her, but he seemed okay. Someone she might be able to get along with.
A faint hum could be heard from her position. It sounded awfully familiar. People would only use half-broken machines if they really needed help; using the machine any further would only break it apart at a faster rate.

Miyuki turned around, towards the trees. Did it come from there? It was too far away. A scraping sound. Wait, it came from over there. Were they fighting?
'Boys,' Miyuki thought, 'can't they just live and let live for once? They hardly know one another, and already decided they cannot stand living with them.' She'd have to leash them sometime in the future... An illusion or two would certainly help to cover up her legs, maybe she could seduce one of them. Miyuki laughed. This would prove to be an enjoyable time.

She would have to make a new invention, to keep one of them safe. One of them was using a high-particle emitting device... It's functions unknown to her, at least from this distance. She could keep both of them at bay by just using illusions, but it would be much more fun to stun them in place. She'd better get working.

[Antonious]

Sampson felt his sniper rifle clip his head, once, twice and thrice. In fact he had been quite amazed at the speed in which the Assassin had reacted to the stone hurtling towards him. Resisting the urge to rub the back of what now felt like a bruised skull Sam ghosted into the forest a little, then in a time tale sign that snipers around the world would recognise, signaled to the Assassin. Here was not really the place to establish dominance in front of all the other pack mates... His professor had told him that most homo sapiens sapiens frowned upon fighting in public... especially the females for some reason.

He was telling the assassin where he had been, that he could have killed him just as the assassin could have killed the temple of radiance soldier. He was effectively offering him a game of 'tag'. Best of three, winner takes all. Any method was allowed short of an actual lethal attack, as such damage was not only possible it was actually quite likely.

It would be nice to have a warrior brother who is not so frail as normal.

[Lord Blackstaff]

Syrion saw the signal, he mentally berated himself for being lax in his attention. He should not have focused so much on single things. He would have to watch this Radiance soldier, it had been very rare for anyone to challenge him to a match such as this. He actually quite enjoyed them, as it was a challenge just not to kill the person.
He noted where the Radiance soldier had moved into the forest and rolled silently off the vehicle. Tractoring his equipment box to him he commanded it to display his equipment while placing his hand over a sensor. It opened quickly and silently, revealing a stasis field holding twin wakazashi, a mask, a pair of knuckle busters and several other objects which he didn't require. He looked down at the tractor beam on his wrist, hestitated then slipped it off, placing it into the box. Honour dictated that he give the oponent a fair chance, this would not do so. He reached into the box and pulled out the mask.
It was cold, and dark grey, its matte coating absorbing light. High cheekbones and a chilly visage looked back at him. It had been a long time since he had put it on. It had established a deadly and fearsome reputation in the criminal underworld and was one of the most feared faces amoung those who knew of it. He had gained it from a challenger... a fitting prize and an appropriate item to wear at this time. He gently pulled out the metal bands stored in the centre and slipped it on, clipping the bands together at the back of his head. It would not fall off now. HIs vision flickered as various imaging systems came online. He switched to infra-red.
He pulled out the twin wakazashi, belted them, and placed his sniper in the box, it floated in the stasis field, silent and black. Checking his knife placements and switch one poisoned one for a clean blade, he commanded the box to close and slipped away silently into the night.
The whole process had taken less than twenty seconds.

[Schmeag]

Coughing and spluttering, Farsikai staggered out from behind the taxi driver, carrying a medium-sized box. Nordopolis' weather hadn't been kind to him--nor had the weather in a myriad of other places. His visor constantly fogged up and his clothes were always too thin--he'd already bought three layers of clothing from a department store in the NPC and he felt jittery all over! He was a born and bred plainsman and while his mind laboured on hidden advances to be discovered (or rediscovered) in modern medicine, his body seemed to be more preoccupied with keeping himself warm. It was a minor inconvenience, he thought irritably, when compared to the honour he would bring his family through his work.

Lowering the box down to take a breather, he wiped his nose with his tunic and spat on the icy ground. The molly tea he'd brewed hadn't been as useful as he'd expected; if anything, he thought as he inspected the ground closely, the phlegm seemed to have taken on a rather yellowish hue. Perhaps he needed something to fire up the humours, he thought, rummaging through his medicine pouch for the right herb. Or perhaps on second thoughts, he just needed more water. All takes on medicine seemed to agree on that at least. Unhooking his canteen from his belt, he took a light swig and screwed the lid back on again.

Taking a deep breath an hoisting the crate against his waist, he shouldered his way through the crowd to the truck, making sure to keep an eye on his belongings on the camel. Quick-marching the last couple of metres, he launched himself against the truck's loading ramp and let his load slide gratingly into the back of the truck. Panting for breath, he let himself lean against the truck's open doors, all the while still keeping an eye on the cabbie, who in turn was helping him keep an eye on his belongings. This loading business was harder than he had originally thought. The crowd was beginning to disperse around the truck, as if he'd just been giving them a show. Praise, he thought, now I can finally order the cabbie nearer to the truck so I don't have to spine adjust myself before the journey's even begun.

He risked taking a glance in the other direction at the rest of the crew. They'd gotten a fire going and Farsikai could see some figures silhouetted against the flames. He felt a little bit apart out and away from the all. Still, the merc leader seemed to be fairly inspiring, even if in the brutish kind of way. He couldn't believe that he'd been allowed to work for the journey. Medical supplies he had plenty of and much of the basics he understood, yet all they'd probably need would be field medics for a journey like this, not a fully-fledged medical practitioner. Perhaps it was Farsikai's Westronian pistol that had managed to convince the man that he'd useful more than as any old medic. However, the only practice he'd had was on shooting ranges, and even then not much of that. This Laertes was a seasoned warrior and would have seen that as a warrior, Farsikai was next to worthless. Still, he couldn't believe his luck anyway. Whoever is out there works in mysterious ways, he thought with a trace of glee.

Beyond the fire, all there was between him and his home was an uneventful journey and a couple of stitches, maybe a few hangovers--he was use to dealing with these and for it, he'd be getting a free ride home and back out to unexplored territory, all in the one ride--and free, at that. Damnable family resourcefulness, he thought proudly. The edges of his mouth twitched slightly as he let his family pride fill him. But it would still be a while before he saw them again.

With a sigh Farsikai turned back to order the cabbie in, but something caught his eye. He didn't know what it was at first. Looking around in a half-bemused way, he finally saw what had caught his attention: a girl with goggles. Nothing strange about that, he thought. No. There was something else to her. Was she looking at him? Maybe he was imagining it. Nearby there was a bike glinting in the firelight. Did it remind him of something? Perhaps the cursed drink was getting to him at last. He licked his lips nervously. How long had she been looking at him? Did she want something? Remembering the luggage, Farsikai furiously waved for the cabbie to drive closer. Caught up in another series of spluttering and coughing, he spat on the ground again. It had gotten more yellow.

"Damn," he muttered in a low voice as he headed towards the girl, "if the Tin aren't a curious bunch, then they're just about as resourceful as an empty mine."

Neela saw the figure begin to approach her, and a faint smile landed on her lips. She hadn't seen her brother in more than two years, that was when he had last visited home. It was a surprise meeting, but she was happy. She hadn't seen any of her family members since she had left to start working, so this was a welcome familiarity. Maybe this caravan wasn't going to be as bad as she had thought.

Farsikai approached this lone figure, smeared in the full glory of oil, dust and soot. She seemed to be eyeing him rather oddly. Something told him that he should know the reason why, but he couldn't place it at all. He hesitated, before ploughing on. "Greetings stranger, my name is Farsikai. Are you on this caravan as well?"

Neela's happy expression vanished for a moment as she heard the word stranger. Did he really not recognise her, or was he just kidding? It wasn't like Farsikai to make jokes like that, he was always the serious one. Besides, they hadn't seen each other in so long, he would surely take it even more seriously than normal, if that was possible. "H... hello," she managed, "I'm..." she paused. She didn't want to say her real name. It was insulting that he failed to recognise her, and she wouldn't let it on until he realised it for himself. If he never did, then that was his problem. But then again, if she used a fake name, he'd never cotton on. "I'm on this caravan too, yeah. I'm the resident mechanic here: i just finished fixing this truck, actually. Should run smooth as anything now."

His brow furrowed at her hesitation. She seemed a shy one. However, although her origins were masked by grime, her Westronian was distinctly marred by that discordant accent--his own. He smiled in recognition. "Well," he said, "beneath that mechanic's attire lies a Quintran at heart." He paused. The strange feeling, which by all rights should be gone--was still loitering at the back of his mind...
Ignoring the feeling, hoping to glean more information later on, he continued, "Real mechanics are hard to come by in Quintras. You must be from the Seri family. They are a family of mechanics. I, however, am Farsikai Ouganashi Heldebrand Yusef Tin, one of the healing families." He bowed very slightly, hand to heart in the Quintran tradition. This was a casual meeting, and formalities were generally inappropriate in such times. In any case, it felt very strange to be engaging in formalities with this particular Quintran. He still couldn't quite place it, but he'd get it...
"Ah, I see," Neela copied his formal bow. "Well I personally am close to a handful of members of the Tin family, so I look forward to finding out more about you. I'm glad to see another Quintran on this caravan, at least there is someone to whom I can relate. Well, as you can see, I still have a few things to do before we leave, and it is approaching dawn," she gestured to the yellow glow that was beginning to become visible over the city to the east. "If you wouldn't mind, I'll take my leave for a while, though I look forward to speaking with you again soon."

Taken slightly off guard, Farsikai only had time to nod in surprise. As she walked off, he frowned in mild concern. This caravan trip would be a strange one. He would have to keep an eye on her--perhaps in doing so, he would ease his doubt.

Neela frowned, had he really not recognised her? Well, only time would tell. As she approached the town gates, thought flitted in her out of her head. There was too much on her mind right now to go into town to find a shower. She'd have to find somewhere to sit and think while they waited to set off. She walked back over to her bike, and wheeled it up the ramp on the back of the truck. Luckily, it was empty of goods - the traders hadn't expcted much of her mechanical abilities, and so hadn't thought it worth loading up the truck. They thought they'd just have to unload it by the time they had to leave when it still hadn't been fixed. Leaning her bike up against a wall, she sat down next to it, pulling a dusty brown sheet out of her saddlebag and laying it over her lap. Why hadn't he recognised her, what was it about her that was different? Had she really changed that much? If Farsikai didn't recognise her, would her parents back home? She yawned, only then realising how tired she was. She had stayed up all night getting this stupid truck working again, and had been up all day doing oddjobs before that. Laying down, she let her mind play with her thoughts again, but before long, she was fast asleep.

(Second half, joint post by Wizwum and Schmeag)

[Antonious]

Despite the bulky armour sam moved quietly, not so fast as some of the more lightly armoured soldiers around but then that was not a concern. Hit hard, Hit unexpectedly, of course that wouldn't be easy in this case... Not at all. Sampson had placed his sniper rifle in a fold down mode on his back, at this range it would be useless and it felt like cheating to use the advanced optical sights it possessed... No this would just be him, his opponent and the world. The way it had been during training.

He had been moving for forty five minutes now, quietly seeking a place of tactical advantage. While both competitors were snipers he suspected his opponents strength lay in penetrating a fortress, while sampsons, well it lay in defending a place of refuge. Finally he found such a place. A rocky outcrop about a fifteen minute run from the city on a hill to the left of the road. The whole feature had a distinctively torish look about it, one side was pretty unclimbable for the rockface had been worn away by the wind and rain over the years, another side provided a gentle sloop inpeaded by numerous small rocks and dips. Very treacherous to climb up, especially under fire. The final side was open terrain, a smooth and gentle hill that molded the two other approaches together. While the final side had occasionall cover the tor itself presented the defenders with an open firing line.

In a word it was pretty perfect had there been three of Sampson. Well nothing was ever perfect. Moving quietly through the night, mindful of his surroundings but careful to leave tracks in the ground for his opponent to follow Sam prepared to set the bait. Scanning the ground once, twice and thrice the large human moved quickly up the hill side. Powerful muscles not featured in homo sapiens sapiens easily pushing him forwards with speed and resilience. With one final glance the warrior priest disapeared into the rocky outcrop. Above them the stars glitered down and not a cloud was to be seen, night deepened and the air cooled. All was still and if one looked carefully the glint of an armoured gaurd could be seen at the tallest section of the tor, a section that allowed the survey of two of the easier methods of approach...

Sampson gently scooped some of the cold water from a puddle in the tor and placed it in his mouth, the freezing liquid soon cooled his own temperature untill no hot air was released when he breathed. His body suit was short, so the warrior human covered his legs in a muddy but effective natural camoflauge scheme. He now only had his pistol on him, his armour and sniper rifle arranged to look like he was gaurding the Tor... He was instead waiting amoungst some of the rocks in the marshy, rocky approach to the side. Waiting with a clear view of all but a line of attack directly in front of the tor... Would the bait work? Would the opponent be so proud as to go for the Melee kill and claim ultimate honour? Sam was counting on it, Sampson was also counting on the stronger body built and fat reserves of his specieces as well as the thicker bone structure to last in the cold. They where a far more physically powerful, fast and capable species of the human race but somewhat more limited in application and this the warrior priest understood in his own limited way...

There was nothing limted about his tactical ability though. The bait was set, the hunter was ready. All that remained was to wait and be mindful of the bait and his surroundings... Afterall, nothing went to plan and even if it did. The shot was long with a pistol given that he couldn't actually shoot his opponent and would instead have to come close enough that it was obvious the shot was intended... For that reason on the armours shoulder was a stone... IF his opponent approached the armour sam would shot the stone off. The armours shields had been powered down and so nothing would stop the shot... A shot that would reveal a lethal ability...

Wait and See, with one eye on the bait and the other on his surroundings the almost invisible human waited. The cold increased and still he replaced the cold water in his mouth, goose bumps appeared on the warriors priests skin and he waited without thought. He was at home... He would hunt and be hunted... Nothing else mattered.

[Gramlin Aletracker]

Isao had heard the woman's question to Laertes about a gun, but Laertes himself had ignored her. He probably hadn't heard, or cared to hear her. Alas, what is to be expected from those who shoot - damned things, those guns at that - before speaking. At least the man wouldn't bother him anymore about that.
The woman now deep in thought, looking at another man then, and at the ground a moment later. Obviously not one for too much talking, but she wasn't afraid to do so if needed.
He now looked at the movement to his left. A man whom he hadn't noticed before jumped off a truck only to disappear instantly into the darkness. But not before Isao noticed the two swords in his hands. Swords he holds, yet he holds two, and they are Wakizashi. Or they looked like it. Isao wasn't impressed at the way swords were treated by outsiders. They never knew which to use when, though he had to admit that they did use them quite well. This man wouldn't have swords without reason. Outsiders considered them weapons of the night, of murder and theft. And that was how they used them.
The wind suddenly changed direction and spun sand in his face. Quickly he closed his cloak to cover his swords, and turned away from the wind. It was still only a breeze, but with sand everywhere, easily annoying. Now he wasn't looking at the mercs anymore, but straight at the men loading the trucks. Lead by example, an expression his kinsmen liked to use, and servants and masters are to one came to mind. He wasn't a master here, no, but helping them wouldn't do anyone any harm. He dropped his hood, allowing the sand to hit the back of his head, sending tied back black hair over his left shoulder. Moving over to the men loading, he offered his help which was accepted, though he was sure the man had frowned.

[Hawkeye]

Logan swore as he dropped the spark plug he was busy cleaning, his fingers were coverd in oil from the servicing he had to do to his bike, having had to ride to Nordopolis on what was basically cooking oil had done the machine no good at all. How many years had it been since he had been shown how to alter engines to work on almost any fuel Logan thought. It didn't matter really just as long as he could maintain his own he would be fine.
"When will i be asked to do a similar job on these hulks?" he grunted to himself. Logan quikly came to the conclusion that he didn't want to waste the time, if they got stuck he would leave them behind, he would leave everyone behind to keep going. Nobody else mattered enough to him since Joebag, well almost nobody, Demon was still his freind but he wasn't sure where he was working anymore or if he was still in charge of the biker gang, not something to be looking into at the moment. Logan didn't think Laertes would tolerate an ex raider scouting for the caravan.
"That's why you said you were an outrider isn't it." he said as he refitted the spark plug. that was the last one of the four he'd had to scrub.
"Good job they have lots of fuel." logan said as he patted his bike "won't be needing to use that crap you were running on for three weeks anymore."
Logan looked around at the men and women packing the trucks with goods trying to take in recognisable faces and guage peoples attitudes. He gave up fairly quickly, to many people who weren't going with them running around trying to sell goods or batter passage. Checking the contents of his bags helped focus his mind. the bike was fully fueled and clean, ready to leave in an instant, the two saddle bags were packed and he'd managed to "find" a spare set of clothes which had been stuffed in to one of them, again he searched for a rifle that was long lost. He put his rucksack next to the rear wheel and lay down next to the bike.
"Nothing to do till morning now." he sighed as he closed his eyes and ears to the rest of the camp.

[Lord Blackstaff]

Syrion moved silently through the forest, his body a mere ghost as he flitted from tree to tree, heading steadily to where he had last seen the Radiance Soldier.
When he arrived, he paused for a long moment, scrutinizing the ground, he saw the heat signature of the soldier hanging in the cool night air and it's colour trail as it wound through the trees. He realised, then, that this also was a dishonourable way to do things. It had to be man against man, without his fancy technology and weapons. He cancelled the infra-red vision of the mask and examined the ground, dropping down into a crouch to get closer to the ground.
His eyes had long ago adjusted to the night and it wasn't hard to see in the moonlight, a faint depression in the ground showed where the soldier had lain and then footsteps led away. Trailing through the soft soil. He was impressed though, for someone carrying something as heavy as the Radiance soldier armour, the man had a light step.

He ghosted through the trees, following the tracks as they wound through the forest until he saw an outcrop of rock ahead. Alarm bells started to ring then. He bent down again, being careful to stay in the shadows and as invisible as possible, and examined the print in front of him. Then examined the area around it.
Soft ground here, dry there. Where a skilled forester or tracker would take the dry ground, this was planted straight into the middle of the soft patch... The man was skilled enough to step lightly, which meant he knew woodcraft fairly well. Therefore, Syrion concluded, with a faint smile, it was a trap.

Slipping through the trees until he got closer to the outcrop and could see it better, he silently shimmied up one of them. Sitting against the trunk, in a little hollow on a larger branch and obscured by leaves, he sat, nearly invisible, and studied the hill.

One side had a sheer face, hard to climb, and the other an obvious point of entry. He didn't doubt that his prey was there. It was an excellent place to defend, with the sheer face providing a safe back and the other one providing good cover to fire down on the person from above, while they climbed laboriously. This would be a difficult nut to crack indeed.
Further examination showed an armoured figure, waiting. Again, Syrion considered. The figure was in the open, where he could be seen; but hidden enough to look as if he was waiting in ambush or defensively, he'd left tracks; which meant he'd wanted to be followed... If he wanted to be seen, then he was trying to make him take a different approach on the mountainside, the logical one, the safest route...

Syrion smiled a cold, cold, smile under his mask. But then, that was what all traps were there for, bait the person, then hit them when they aren't looking. Which was why Syrion wasn't going to fall for it. Which was why he had lived for as long as he had, by being two steps ahead of the game.

His decision made, Syrion slipped down from the tree, his deliberations had taken over an hour, an hour over which the figure had not moved an inch. Another arguement in the direction of a trap, the soldier had either ditched his armour and weapons and hidden somewhere else, or he was made of stone. Since nobody was made of stone, it was an empty piece of armour.
He slipped into the darker regions of the forest and carefully pulled out a pad from his robe, attaching it to his shoes he touched them to a tree and dragged them down experimentally. The pads were still working. Good.
Had someone been standing next to him, they would not have been able to tell where he had gone, so silently and quickly did he vanish into the forest.

If that's how you want to play, soldier, with traps and trickery. Then I'll play your game.

Moving around the hilltop, still in the darker section, Syrion arrived at the part facing the sheer rock surface. He paused for a moment to slip adhesive pads onto the tips of his fingers, then tensed, powerful muscles coiled and bunched. There was an open section through which there would be little that he could do to hide.
Muscles that had been honed by nearly 45 years of use and training exploded and he flashed out of the trees. His feet seeming to skim over the ground, he ran low, a black ghost blurring, his robe flowing out from him like some terrible spectre, as he sprinted flat out at the hilltop. Syrion hit the wall and was almost halfway up it a second later. His momentum and agility carrying him up; up to the top with astonishing speed. The adhesive pads on his fingers and boots allowing him to climb the otherwise almost unscaleable stone; finding crevices to propel him further or just using a combination of his speed and momentum, and a good deal of balance to keep him upright as he almost ran up the wall.
He saw a slight depression in the face to the side, a runoff from previous rains by the look of things. He scuttled across the wall crablike and was up through the drainage point in an instant. He paused crouched at the top, behind a boulder; waiting for his heart rate to slow, keeping his breathing even and silent.

He looked through a cleft between two rocks, slipping closer to see easier, and examined the area. He spotted the armour immediately, noticed the rock, he didn’t know what it was there for, however the suit confirmed his assumption that this was a trap. It had been cleverly concealed and laid out. His prey was a cunning enemy indeed. Which meant that he was nearby, waiting for Syrion to spring his trap.

Two, can play this game...

Syrion ghosted to his left, into a corner that had a rough overhang of rock, it was low and did not have very much room, however it would suit his purposes. A knife appeared in each of his hands, small and weighted for throwing. He crouched, shifted till he would look like a boulder to any observer unless they were very close, and froze.
Examining the area Syrion looked for his quarry. He had placed himself so that, if he had guessed right, he would be able to spot where the other was hiding. The suit would be in view of the soldier, and he was near the suit; with the cliff-face to his back and the armour on his left, he could see over a good deal of the hilltop.
It took a while, the man was hard to find, despite his massive bulk, a Preoliator, then. The soldier was intently watching the area around the suit and the hill. Waiting for Syrion to show himself, obviously.

The first rule of the assassin, paramount above all others, is to never be seen, even when you are.

Syrion glided out of his hole, moving at a low crouch, out of sight. Hiding his daggers he ghosted through the jumble of obstructing boulders. Steadily seeking higher ground; had this been an assassination, he would have killed the man earlier with a dagger, coated in a poison so deadly that the victim died within seconds after it got into the bloodstream, he kept on his person in a hidden sheath always. But this wasn’t an assassination, his opponent had shown him where to go, so he would return the favour. So to speak.
He found a rock that jutted out from the others prominently. Perfect. He placed a hand into a crack and pulled himself up. Climbing almost like a human spider he went straight up the rock face without pause. When he reached the top, he gently eased himself over the top, using drifting cloud shadows to obscure his own. He saw the Preoliator sitting where he had found him before, a throwing knife appeared in his hand. He wouldn’t have long, and this aim would be tricky.

Sampson was freezing, the cold had begun to pierce the veil of his sensory perceptions and his nervous system was beginning to shut down. Then it happened... An almost unheard of case in these competitions. The assassin came from nowhere, flipping to the ground.

In a single fluid move he threw the knife underhanded and stood, leaping from the boulder as the knife left his hand. He landed with a barely audible poff and heard a startled intake of breath.

Sampson tracked him with his pistol and had failed to notice the dagger leaving his hand, an impossible throw, such accuracy and such lethality that it could be nothing but an intended attack.

One point to Syrion.

Now for the next phase of his plan. To use the enemies weapon against him. He ran silently at a crouch, slipping behind the boulders and rocks, steadily moving towards the suit of armour. He rounded a corner and saw it there, standing just as it had before.
He slipped closer, stealthily sliding towards it, towards the sniper that it held. When he reached it he carefully reached around, poking his head out for a second.

Yet even as the dagger sped towards the Preoliator the assassin attempted to take his armour and with one perfectly aimed shot, the rock was blown into splinters, glancing off the collar of the assassin’s robe.

Crack! The sound of a bullet hitting the rock on the shoulder was loud it his ear.

He reacted with instant reflexes; diving out of the way and into the darkness of a nearby rock shadow. So that was what the rock was for.

One point to the Sampson.

Next point. Match point.

A dull throbbing sensation spread through Sam's left leg and the mighty Preoliator looked down and cursed, the assassin had sliced his leg with a throwing dagger. Aware that some non lethal but hindering poison might be used the Radiance soldier removed a thick needle that injected both pure adrenaline and a general anti-toxin. One fluid movement had the several cm's thick needle slamming into his thigh muscle, but the Preoliator didn't even wince with the pain. The adrenaline helped to fight off the cold that he was feeling and would shield him from any toxins... Yet he couldn't help but notice that this assassin was more honourable than some, Sampson smiled at this thought, honour was an overrated word. Sapiens did tend to find excuses to complicate things he thought. Leaping up, the Preoliator ran with long sure strides, dense muscle structure and enhanced reflexes and agility carrying him easily to his armour. It had been left in quick start mode and within 30 heart pounding seconds Sampson was once again in his armour. A mental command slid the plates down and a protective environmental layer slipped up over his head as well. Indicators flashed on his screen and as he holstered his pistol and sniper rifle the Preoliator set off. Quickly identifying his fleeing opponent the warrior leapt up onto one rock and with immense power pushed off. His body hurtling towards the man like a thunderbolt desending to the ground...

Syrion saw and heard the juggernaut of flesh and packed human invention thundering towards him. The man was bloody fast! He was faster though, there were few in the world who could move faster than he could when he needed to, his training, long treks through arid wilderness when the modified APC broke down, and intense assassination missions all contributing to a near perfect form, despite his age.
He leapt onto a rock and dashed around a corner of a huge boulder. The man was close enough that he didn’t have time to slow. As he came round the corner, Syrion drew a Wakazashi and in the same movement slammed it, with the entire muscle bulk of his body behind it, into the chin of the soldier’s helmet.

Crack! Fittings snapped and the helmet went flying.

Syrion spun, intending to get behind the giant and paralyse him quickly with a blow to the spine, just under the brain. He didn’t stand much chance otherwise against this armoured hulk. He only reached halfway before a massive fist slammed into his side. He was flung over several large rocks and hit another solid one several metres away. As soon as he hit he rolled and landed on his feet, skidding a few feet more, minimising the damage.
The man was coming for him again, he dashed around a boulder nearby and stopped. Assessing his options. Chances were, he would need to knock him down. That meant a stealth attack. He lowered himself to the ground and seemed to flow across it. Moving on his toes and fingertips, body parallel to the muddy floor, he moved around the top of the hill, using the crunch of the soldiers footsteps to guide him. He crawled until he was around the opposite side from where he’d been, and moved his eyes to a crack between two stones. The Radiance man was in front of him, his back facing Syrion.

Perfect. Syrion slid silently up behind the boulder and then slowly slipped around to the other side. To the right of the big Preoliator. He carefully used a stone to emulate a faint movement sound, one that he might make. And ran silently at the big boulder facing him as the Preoliator whirled towards the sound, to his left.
Syrion leapt, drew his Wakazashi, and slammed into the boulder, bending his knees to a crouch. Powerful muscles bunched, then exploded upward, sending his body into a controlled flip. He straightened, curled as he reached the apex of his height, then straightened, locking his legs together and forming a spear with his body.
His legs ploughed into upper torso of the Preoliator, just under the collarbone. Both went down, the Preoliator crashing to ground with a near earthshaking thud, and Syrion landing on top. Syrion’s Wakazashi flashed to the big man’s throat, just as a massive fist closed around his. A cold, black metal mask stared into dark brown eyes. He saw a flicker of fear. Syrion knew how deadly the mask looked, especially up close. Yet the fear passed and the fist tightened, he pressed the katana down slightly.

Both said, I can kill you, easily.

Sampson felt the sword at his neck, cold steel against his skin and cold steel on his opponents head, he felt a flicker of fear. Would he die here? He found reassurance the neck encased in his powerful hand. Perhaps he would die; but not before he had snapped the neck like a twig.

As hard as it was to believe, Syrion realised that, for the first time in his life, he had met a man of equal ability. It was with great respect, then, that he carefully sheathed the blade and stood as the Preoliator released his grip. Reaching down, he proffered a hand.

A draw, then.

The Preoliator's opponent offered a hand and Sampson grasped it, the muscles of his opponent where taut, like metal cables, designed for speed, not sheer power, and so different from his own powerful enduring muscles. The Preoliator was never much for words, yet he would have to say something.
"You fought well, exceptionally well. Perhaps though, we should leave discussions until we return to camp? They will have left already, but they only have an hour’s head start. I have a horse that will carry both of us for the time it takes to catch up." Sam paused and continued. "I kept it a little way off from the caravan and they learnt a while ago not to touch my things, so we will have to return to the city first."

Syrion examined the Preoliator as he spoke. His armour spoke of combat, yet his eyes spoke of kindness... A strange combination in such a man. No matter, the sun would be rising soon enough and with the sun, the convoy would leave.
Syrion shook his head and pointed to the moon, which was low in the sky. They still had time to return before morning. He indicated to the Preoliator, as he opened his mouth, that he should go and collect the horse, and set off at a fast lope down the incline of the slope, leaping over rocks and skirting large boulders, on his way to the convoy.

When he arrived the moon had set and the sun beginning to rise. It was still dark however, when, silent as a ghost he slipped into the convoy and returned his things to the equipment box. Slipping his tractor beam on his wrist, he switched the power on and deposited the twin Wakazashi, pulling out the sniper rifle and slinging it over his shoulder as he did so. He made sure that nobody saw him as he returned to his place atop the vehicle he had started on.

Joint post by Lord Blackstaff and Antonious.

[HLY]

Scott leaned back against one of the troop transports, laughing. He'd left the camp fire a while ago, feeling uneasy being in the line of fire for those two macho-heads, and had bumped into a group of new recruits.
Hed spent the next half an hour talking and getting to know them a little. He felt a litttle bit of an outsider with the rest of the company, im joining 'on the road' he hadn't had anyone with the same status in the company, but he could relate to the recruits.
"..and then, I blew its head clean off" boasted Damien, an ex career soldier and also a bit of a romantic, gesturing with the pistol at his side. Damien had been a bit put of by the captains speach, Scott had found that out quickly, but he'd stuck with thecaravan anyway.
"So, if we tell the truth, you probably ran whimpering like a little kid?" laughed Griff, slapping him on the back, much to the ammusement of everyone , even Damien, though his face coloured bright red.
Well, at least some of the new guys had a bit of a sense of humour, and they wheren't too tightly strung. Probably better company than many of the old dogs.