Wrath Engine

[Rayse Valentino]

Closed to Less Careful, Dissinger, and BlackAndBlueEyes.

The low rumble was hard to get used to. A constant, low buzzing in your ears, reminding you that you're on a lifeless machine. It was high noon that day, the sun pouring through the windows of the caboose. The train had only freight cars in front, so the other option was waiting in the engine room. This idea did not appeal to Mitrofan, who was one of the mercenaries hired to protect the engine. His ears were quite sensitive to the clickety-clack of the wheels below, so he stayed on one of the crew's cots in the back. He wore an arrangement of tight-fitting leather armor, with a large sword leaning against the wall nearby. The back of his wrists were covered in magical Fallieni runes, although he was from Salvar himself, indicated by his tan skin and emerald eyes. His head was shaved, and his ears sported silver earrings.

The other mercenaries were all in the first car, with nothing to sit on but the cold wooden floor. Mitrofan snuck off early on to come here, much to the chagrin of the crew members. The job was simple enough, but he spent the entire eight hours feeling sick. He hoped this would be the last time he would be on a train.

(( potentially incomplete. ))

[Dissinger]

Boots crunched over snow as a man stood in the cold wastes of Salvar. Grey eyes studied the scene before him, as a train wound its way out of the pass and into the valley proper, where it became clear a tree had been felled across the way. Immediately the squeal of brakes forced the train to slow it's movement to a halt, barely stopping in time to not derail, even as the grey eyed figure moved forward. He didn't even stop to consider the train might derail, merely that it was safe and proceeded accordingly. Worn boots, covered in the dust of dozens of countries made their way through the snow, even as the group with him scrambled to catch up.

“Let's show them why Magic is so bad, give us a smokescreen,” The man barked. His face was hidden, except for the eyes, behind a red bandanna, marked with a yellow circle containing a triangle upon it. The others were also similarly garbed hiding their faces from those that might identify them, even while they moved as one onto the train. One of them stood back and carefully closed her eyes, breathing becoming steady in a meditative trance.

Fog, slowly yet surely began to cling to the country side, even the occasional wind could not dispel it as men rushed into the fray, protected from ranged fire by the cloud forming. Soon, the entire front half of the train was enclosed in the mighty fog and the man nodded before he shouted out, “Either incapacitate or kill, no more no less. I want this done cleanly, no one runs from the site. Penn, or whatever the hell we're calling you today, take a few to the carts and start offloading, I don't see them having anything worth worrying about.”

Doors opened, only to see the men pulled from the train carts and attacked while down. The fog moving into the carts now and further clogging the visibility from anyone trying to gain a ranged advantage of the fight. The man moved forward, looking over the carnage he was creating, catching glimpses of his men fighting and prevailing, using the smokescreen to great effect. It was until he heard the cracking sound of wood that a smile lit up the man's face, there was some fight in the guards.

Perhaps this wouldn't be a boring fight after all.

[Less Careful]

It was the job.

Hired by a local group of cutpurses, Penn led a band of the thieves through the fog and the fray. They slipped around the archers' volleys, under the cover of the mage's spell. Easy, quiet, and impersonal. Filtering past the tracks, between cars, and ghosting up the far sides and through the windows, a handful of the thieves followed him into the empty passenger carriage. The rest stayed behind, to man the carts and carry off whatever got tossed their way. His fingers itched and twitched at the hilt of his knife, aching for something more than this larceny. Theft was a passionless affair, and it suited the man ill. But it was the job.

He waved the thieves off down the train, away from the fighting, as they clambered in, glancing toward the lead carriage's door with a nervous hunger. As the last of his charges filtered in, he stalked to the door, past the closed compartments. He laid his ear to the coarse wood, drawing a long, thin knife from his hip.

Just barely audible against the din of battle outside, a pair of boots could be heard clanging on the metal just beyond the door, muffled by the oaken frame. Nervous breaths, too fast and too short, heralded the coward, and Penn could hear his hand shaking the handle as he tried to turn it. As the door opened, he stepped aside and behind it, wedging himself against the wall. His grip tightened on the blade, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he kicked the carriage door shut with a slam, and lunged for the retreating soldier.

The knife bit into the man's arm as Penn's weight carried them both to the floor, and he twisted it in the wound. A scream escaped his quarry's mouth, and Penn could almost taste his fear as much as he smelled the acrid scent of his piss and sweat. "Don't do that," he chided softly, driving his knee into the soldier's free arm at the elbow, where he reached awkwardly for the blade at his hip. He nipped at the man's exposed ear, and buried his nose in the blond's closely cropped hair. "We're going to have a lot of fun," he promised. "But only if you do what I want."

He withdrew his bloodied blade from the youth's shoulder, eliciting strangled groans of pain, and turned the blade over in his hand, pointing it against his prisoner's throat, and tickling the bare fuzz of his chin. "I have orders to kill anyone I find, you know." The blond's eyes widened, and he could feel the warmth of a new wave of terror escaping his bladder into already-soaked trousers.

"It's too bad for you I've never been very good with orders."

[Rayse Valentino]

"What in the Goddess' name is going on up there?" asked Mitrofan. He didn't expect a reply, but he deserved one.

The train crew that were so critical of him earlier were now hiding in every available corner, sheepishly pointing the mercenary toward the front door. How quickly their demeanor changes. He grabbed his sword, opened the door, and was immediately assaulted by a fast-growing cloud of fog. He muttered under his breath and hopped off the train from the open area between the cars, boots gently imprinting on the snow below. The runes on the back of his hands glowed a deep blue color. Cold air grew around him, crystals of light solidifying in the air and clearing away the fog in a five meter radius around him.

Out here, he could hear the screams more clearly, and he pieced together what was going on. He was warned of an attack like this, which meant that The Company was about to get its money's worth. The mercenary broke into a sprint, running alongside the train, his magic clearing the fog around him, although it reformed after it left his immediate area. He suddenly stopped when a chill ran down his spine, a foreboding sense of doom that he couldn't shake. The door to the nearby train car was open so he jumped in, putting him in the same room as Penn. With no intention to ask any questions, Mitrofan held up his right hand and the runes glowed once more, creating a suit of icy armor around his entire body, including his sword. He charged at Penn with no regard for his hostage. Unlike this raider, his orders to kill were absolute.