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Fenrir looks like a squad of anime fans, while our squad looks like a group of hardcore gamers.
Be strong. Believe
Arandor
Posts from Reima’s Shards
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Arandor
Ment
Граф Орлов
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The man with a patch over his left eye curled his lips into a smile. In rare moments, this expression could be seen on his stern face, and undoubtedly, today was an occasion. It was a day of beginning and a day of end, a day of triumph and a day of defeat—and on that day, he was among the victors. An unusual feeling took hold of his mind—a sense of deep satisfaction from a job well done. Not long ago, clad in a burgundy cloak with sword drawn, he had whirled in a nocturnal dance of death upon the streets of own Reima, seeking new victims; only a few weeks prior, he had stood bewildered before the doors of an estate, holding the key to the empire's fate in his hands. Barely more than a month had passed since he and his comrades arrived in the capital for the purpose of making some money and having some fun...
«Hah,» the man thought, catching himself as his thoughts drifted in a completely strange direction. «How long ago that was.»
The one-eyed man scanned the people gathered in the palace square, expecting to see admiration and awe on their faces, but found only bewilderment and fear. His gaze turned toward a slender brunette being led by soldiers to the stocks standing in the middle of the square. He had seen her in person only once before—but even so, he could not fail to notice how much the former empress had changed, confusion and turmoil now clearly written on her haggard face.
«And Tiarii is something else! Our kind of man, no doubt about it.»
It cannot be said that the man disliked the emperor's plan or that it came as a surprise to him—on the contrary, upon first hearing how Tiarii intended to deal with the usurper, he was nearly the only one who fully supported the emperor's desire and regretted only that such a brilliant idea had not occurred to him himself; yet, until the very end, he doubted that words would turn into action. The one-eyed man continued to watch. The emperor had already begun threatening those who wavered with death, and it seemed he was not joking at all.
«Why are they hesitating? Sonatta is quite a catch, the sovereign wouldn't suggest anything bad,» meanwhile, the emperor was disemboweling some unlucky citizen. «And why am I hesitating? It won't be as good later. *I love the Sonattist regime, I'll fuck her too!»
-- Let me through, comrade, -- the man pushed through the ranks of the "Front" and with a brisk step headed to join the queue for the ex-empress.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Esmond Martin woke with the first rays of the sun. Throwing on a robe, he descended into his home's living room and critically surveyed the interior. The bad impression left by cheap furniture with a pathetic claim to extravagance and equally repulsive colorful wallpaper was topped off by the low ceiling and general crampedness of the room. In Esmond's opinion, the previous owner deserved death simply for the fact that he now had to live in such uncomfortable surroundings. He would clear it all out, or better yet—change his place of residence, but work did not allow him to deal with the housing issue seriously.
Hardly had Esmond sat at the table and lit a cigarette when a blonde girl of about twenty to twenty-five entered the room, holding a tray with coffee.
-- Just in time, - the man took the cup, took a small sip, and suddenly, distorting his face in a grimace of disgust, sharply splashed the drink directly onto the maid. – Leona, may a demon take you, useless girl! Why did you forget the sugar? Do you want me to sell you to "Sonatta"? Fix this, quickly! And bring me the latest issue of the "Chronicles".
-- Forgive me, milord, -- Leona whispered, suppressing tears of pain from the burn. What had she been thinking when she agreed to the one-eyed man's offer to work as his maid? Probably that she had no means of subsistence and no relatives left, and about this man's extensive hints that he should not be refused anything. And now she thought only that things could have been much worse for her.
-- Better already, -- Esmond Martin sipped the coffee again and this time, indeed, found it quite satisfactory. Then he pushed aside a fold of his robe and gestured toward his groin. – Go on, get to it.
The maid obeyed. Now that all conditions for an ideal start to the day had been met, Esmond lounged back in his chair and opened the issue of "Chronicles". Tiarii's reign turned out even better than in his wildest expectations. Not long ago, the Emperor offered him the position of captain of the secret police—an offer difficult to refuse. Yesterday he executed enemies of the Empire and entertained himself in the best brothel in the world, and today there would be a chance to prove himself in a grand tournament. His friends respected him, his enemies feared him, business was booming; with every new victim, he became wealthier. Life was beautiful—and he deserved it.
The tournament semifinals were being prepared. Having suffered defeat in the previous round, Esmond Martin sat in the stands and, having nothing better to do, let his gaze slide over the crowd. Most of those gathered merged into a single grayish mass, and against that mass, Esmond's gaze caught Sehelis S. Favela. The elderly baron, dressed in an impeccably white suit, seemed to catch the secret police captain's gaze and responded with a heavy, hostile look, but Esmond didn't care about him. Rather, it was the baron himself who should be worried about what a man capable of ordering his execution as a traitor to the crown at any moment thought of him. However, right now Martin cared nothing for the old man; far greater interest was presented by the young woman in black sitting beside the baron.
-- Hmm, I don't remember seeing her before. As I recall, Sehelis is not married, -- Esmond pondered something and addressed one of his subordinates. – Harrin, find me information on her by morning.
-- It shall be done, sir.
-- Oh, the next fight has been announced! Place your bets, gentlemen. Five thousand on Halmeldir!
The following morning.
-- What did you find, Harrin?
-- About yesterday, sir? Well... Cynthia S. Favela, only daughter of Baron Sehelis S. Favela, twenty-five years old. Unmarried, was engaged to Ramerius Lex, if you remember him.
-- I recall. Got screwed a couple of weeks ago?
-- Exactly. She herself wasn't involved in anything illegal, but like her daddy, she doesn't show much sympathy for us.
-- And what about the girl, is she cute, by the way?
-- Uh, well, yeah, not bad at all.
-- Excellent. That's enough. -- Esmond approached a decanter with a clear drink standing on the table, poured himself half a glass and drained it in one go, grimacing slightly. – Scribble a letter to the baron saying I'll stop by to talk this evening.
-- It shall be done. Sir, perhaps you shouldn't abuse it so much? – Harrin glanced at the newly filled glass in his boss's hand.
-- Don't lecture me here. Once I drink "Starfall", I immediately feel alive and my head is clearer, -- the captain grumbled and poured another gulp into himself. -- Alright, time to get to work.
-- One more thing, sir. His Majesty wishes to see you at the council today. Something about Girion Vorstrenshat... Vorestrash... Vor... Anyway, be at the palace by noon.
In the evening, Esmond, accompanied by two subordinates, headed toward the S. Favela mansion. His thoughts were occupied with planning a slave trade network, and he paid no attention to the dark figure in the shadow of the houses clutching a pistol in its hand. The flash of a shot cut through the evening gloom, and Esmond felt a hot bullet embed itself in his back. He turned and saw an old man in whose eyes hatred was rapidly being replaced by bewilderment. He shot again, and again, and once more; he shot until he ran out of cartridges, but Esmond Martin only laughed and with one blow of his fist knocked the shooter to the ground.
-- Pitiful fool, -- Esmond laughed again and waved a hand in the air with an enhancer on the wrist. – And why is every one of the many dozens of people who tried to kill me convinced that they are the one who will succeed?
The old man answered nothing. In his mind, inflamed by experienced losses and fear, the emperor's servant appeared as an immortal demon in the flesh whose single eye relentlessly pursued him. And he ran. He ran and screamed, screaming about the kingdom of the devil and its one-eyed servant, about the end of Reima and inevitable doom. He ran across the entire continent, but he ran only in his head. In reality, as soon as he jumped to his feet and screamed, his life was cut short by a single shot to the head.
-- Damn psycho, -- Esmond returned "Justice"—which, given the history of this weapon, he now owned by right—to its holster. – Take the pistol from him and let's move on.
The trio finally reached their destination, and the leader stopped, critically examining the exterior of the S. Favela residence. Built several centuries ago away from the center of the capital near Lake Hegon, this squat mansion with massive dark-gray walls looked stern and imposing; however, behind the external brutality, a sophisticated person would certainly have discerned the architect's masterful design, attention to detail, and expensive finish. But the special services captain was not a sophisticated man and only nodded approvingly at the sight of the large building. He approached the door and knocked loudly. The owner came out personally to meet him.
-- Good evening, Baron. I assume you received the note about my visit? – without waiting for an invitation, Esmond entered the hall of the mansion and gave his coat to the butler. Two thugs stepped silently behind him. – These gentlemen are with me.
-- Welcome, Mr. Martin, -- Sehelis spoke calmly and with dignity, but this calmness cost him great effort. The baron's attempts to save face despite the fear and dislike he felt amused the guest. – Please, come into the living room.
Walking through a wide corridor, they found themselves in a spacious room with a fireplace. Without waiting for an invitation, Esmond flopped heavily into the chair opposite the fire. Obviously, he felt at home, which was not surprising for a man with such powers.
-- You have a wonderful mansion, Sehelis, -- Esmond Martin pronounced this phrase with a strange intonation, emphasizing the word "you".
-- Thank you. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger? – the baron remained standing, staring intently at the visitor's face, wondering what was on this man's mind.
-- I'll pass, I think. Let's not beat around the bush any longer: I came to talk about your daughter.
-- My daughter?
-- Exactly. I intend to marry her and am asking for your consent.
Sehelis seemed almost to choke. His face took on a sickly hue and veins appeared, but the baron still pulled himself together.
-- I believe... You should ask her opinion first.
-- And she agrees, -- with this simple phrase, Esmond again confounded his interlocutor. – We only need to settle various formalities. I think you won't argue that it's hard to imagine a more suitable match for your daughter, so let's move straight to one simple condition...
-- And if I do not give my consent? -- the baron, having gathered his courage, suddenly interrupted.
-- Then what always happens to those who try to cross me will happen to you. I assume you know perfectly well exactly what that is. And moreover—the same will happen to your daughter, rest assured.
How Sehelis S. Favela wanted to kill this man who dared threaten a Reiman baron in his own home! The aristocrat breathed heavily from the powerless rage filling him, while Esmond Martin only laughed at his helplessness. His evil eye stared at Sehelis with the expression usually reserved for beggars lying in the mud—a mixture of contempt and cruel mockery.
-- So, my condition is as follows: after the marriage is concluded, you will rewrite your will and appoint me heir to all your property, and most importantly—the title.
-- You not only want to take my daughter from me but also force me to sign my own death warrant? – the baron understood perfectly how long he would live with such a will. — Scoundrel!
-- You can poke yourself in the eye with a fork! – Esmond raised his voice but remained calm. – And you will address me as "sir". But you've grasped the essence of the choice. Choose who dies—only you, or both of you.
The next few minutes passed in silence. As obvious as the answer was, so difficult it was to say aloud. Sehelis stared at the fire raging in the fireplace, unconsciously seeking warmth and protection in it, but saw in the flames only a predator whose fiery tongues greedily, insatiably devoured the logs until the once-living wood turned into white ash. The night darkness thickened outside, and the living room sank into semi-darkness. Only the guest sitting before the fireplace was illuminated by the light of fiery flashes, as if even the flame had submitted to his will and recognized him as the master of the fates of all inhabitants of this house. The baron could not see his face, but was ready to swear that a predatory smile was playing on it now. This man knew his answer before he even crossed the threshold of the mansion, and now only awaited the moment of another triumph.
-- I will do everything. Just do not harm her, -- the baron answered in a hollow voice. – But know, one-eyed demon, the day of reckoning for your atrocities will come. All tyrants share one fate...
-- Yeah, comfort yourself however you want. I'll write to you when I decide on the wedding date, -- with these words Esmond Martin rose from the chair. – Stay happy, Baron. Don't do anything stupid.
He didn't have to wait long. A week later, without any particular ceremony, the marriage of Esmond Martin and Cynthia S. Favela was concluded, and on the same day Baron Sehelis S. Favela announced that his son-in-law—a "man of the highest moral and personal qualities, undoubtedly more worthy of this than any of Sehelis's direct relatives"—would become the heir to his title and multi-million fortune, greatly amusing Esmond's subordinates and some people who had previously been in the "Imperial Liberation Front" with this statement. A day later, Esmond appeared again on the threshold of the mansion, this time in the full company of his retinue: two thugs with revolvers on their belts, a pretty young girl with sad eyes, and three other men—pioneers of slavery in Reima. Two were carrying a painting—a full-length portrait of Tiarii Reima.
-- Hang it in the living room, -- Esmond ordered the slaves and slowly followed them. The old baron, strangely enough, was nowhere to be seen; however, he was no longer needed by anyone now. For the sake of propriety, wait half a month, and then send the old man to feed the worms...
The next morning Cynthia S. Favela woke up early. A terrible fatigue was felt in her body, and her mind remained in a half-asleep state. The past week had been like a nightmare... Or perhaps it was one? Having dressed somehow, she descended into the living room in the hope that a cup of coffee would help put her thoughts in order.
Esmond was found at the table in the living room, shattering Cynthia's timid hopes that the past events were just a bad dream. Under the table was the maid who had arrived yesterday, currently, to put it politely, occupied with satisfying the master's sexual needs orally.
-- How... How dare you?!
-- What? Since you're awake, make me some coffee. Leona is a bit busy, as you can see, and where that old geezer who serves as butler here is now, I don't even know.
Finding no answer, Cynthia went to the kitchen. At the very least, she needed coffee herself. She looked out the window. The morning sun illuminated the beautiful garden of the mansion and... her father's body on a gallows.
-- Aaaaaa!
-- What are you screaming about? See your old man? You'll be surprised, but I have nothing to do with this. He seems to have felt like the master of his own fate and decided that he wouldn't let me kill him... What about the coffee?
Her nightmare was only beginning.
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The following three years were the golden time of his life. A year after his marriage, his spouse finally bore him an heir. Esmond named the son Jack—after a comrade who had died several years ago. Lands and title, slaves and concubines, untold wealth, the right to kill—the dream of any man, paradise on earth. He never dreamed of castles in the air—but now one of them had turned into flesh, cracked at the foundation, and now threatened to collapse, burying him as well under the debris.
Throughout all these years, whether being one of thousands in the "liberation front", whether taking a place among Tiarii's advisors, or accepting the post of special services captain, he had not failed the emperor once. But now a single mistake could be fatal for everything achieved over long seven years. He looked at the portrait of Tiarii hanging on the wall. The Emperor looked at him with a cold, self-assured gaze—with exactly those eyes he met them when they came to report the loss of the "Heavenly Tower" and the "Treasury of Evil Spirits". Left without shield or sword, the capital stood tall and prepared to meet the enemy, clenching its fists tight. Right now, while the baron stood motionless before the portrait in vain attempts to understand where he could have made such a fatal mistake, nearly one hundred and fifty soldiers behind him were preparing for battle. Most of them were very young men who had not passed Jael Helsward's strict selection on his special training program. It seemed they were even glad about the upcoming open war—finally there was a chance to show the rats from the coalition what an Emperor's soldier is worth in a fair fight! Esmond S. Favela could only envy their overconfidence. Ah, if he were younger, if he also didn't know the real numerical advantage of the Coalition forces before them... It was time to gather.
He girded himself with "The Exile", reloaded "Justice" and threw a burgundy cloak over his shoulders—all just like that night when the "Liberation Front" finally consumed Reima. Esmond bid a restrained farewell to his wife, and much more warmly—to his son. Had he been another man, perhaps he would have wondered what it was like for those who lost their lives on that ill-fated night over three years ago and those who survived, but the baron wasn't called the one-eyed demon just for his looks—at that moment he thought only of how to feed alive to the rats those who dared stand against Tiarii. A slave brought Esmond his horse; with a movement strikingly light for his age, the baron leaped into the saddle and surveyed his battalion. Not one of the one hundred and forty men in burgundy cloaks showed any sign of fear or doubt on their face; if anything, psychological training among Tiarii's supporters was always at the highest level.
-- March at step! – the baron barked and turned his horse west. The orderly ranks of soldiers moved after him, with slaves loaded with supplies trailing in the rear. They marched through the capital, flowing like a bloody river through its streets, and the commoners prayed to their gods that these people would never return.
But they returned. Though far from all of them. The Coalition pushed the imperial troops back to the very capital. The smell of blood and death hung in the air—no one cared anymore about such trifles as burying corpses, and the bodies of the dead lay in heaps on the streets, attracting flocks of crows. But neither the stench of corpses, nor the cawing of birds, nor the fire gradually breaking out in the city worried Tiarii Reima and his commanders, whose attention was entirely fixed on the Coalition armies spreading like a black stain somewhere near the horizon.
-- It's time, -- the emperor said briefly, and the generals joined their detachments. They had a few more minutes before the battle began. He needed to say a couple of words to the soldiers.
-- We'll slaughter them like cattle! – Baron S. Favela began with the first phrase that came to mind, not having had time to properly think through his speech.
-- We'll fuck their wives! – came a shout from some soldier in the rear ranks.
-- And their sisters! – added another.
-- For the glory of the Emperor! – someone's booming voice finished the farce that had started among the nervous soldiers.
-- FOR THE GLORY OF THE EMPEROR!!! – the cry of thousands of people echoed over the capital.
And the battle began, and chaos began, and death arrived. Heads flew from shoulders, severed by Japanese katanas; exploded buildings buried soldiers under debris; sounds of shots and the clang of steel merged into a single cacophony, but for him everything was simple and clear. There were no longer Tiarii or the coalition; there was only he, his blade, and those who must die. He whirled in a vortex of death, laughing silently, cutting short the life of every new opponent. He sobered up only when soldiers dragged him out of the meat grinder, half-dead, with a hacked face, broken ribs, and a rifle bullet in his side. His clothes had turned from black to crimson; only by the absence of the left eye could Baron S. Favela be identified. They threw him into the arms of a healer and rushed back into battle, not yet knowing that the war was lost.
When Esmond S. Favela was finally able to return to the fight, there was no one left to fight. Both victors and vanquished were leaving the dead city. From heaps of dead bodies, those who were lucky—or perhaps more accurately unlucky—to survive rose from time to time. Some of the nominal victors of this battle prowled through the ruins of the city in search of easy prey, killed friends, or living enemies. One such person spotted a half-dead Esmond and intended to finish him off, but underestimated his opponent and joined the dead himself, hacked by blows of "The Exile". Without realizing what he was doing, Esmond S. Favela headed through the ruins toward his mansion with mechanical steps. Being far from the epicenter, the building survived that day. Esmond stepped over what remained of the broken door and with slow steps, like a walking dead man, headed to the living room. His son lay on the table: apparently, an unskilled executioner had wanted to crucify the boy, attempting to nail his hands to the table, but having no experience in such matters, only pierced the palm with a nail without managing to pin it to the table, and finished him with a pistol shot. The word "Retribution" was painted on the wall in blood. He certainly had never sunk to such vulgarity. Nor did he spoil works of art: the portrait of the Emperor had been torn to shreds. Probably, according to the plan of the wretched avenger, S. Favela... What Baron S. Favela? Baron Esmond S. Favela died yesterday along with Tiarii Reima. Only the One-eyed remained. The One-eyed, if he had survived the battle, should have screamed in rage and put a bullet in his own head, but the former baron was too tired for emotions. Letting out a heavy sigh from his broken chest, he went to look for his wife, but found her body nowhere, meeting only several dead servants on his way. He descended into the living room again and sank helplessly to the floor, leaning against the wall. Everything comes to an end. Then why is he still alive?
Other walking dead who were not so lucky as to return anywhere, other than a heap of ruins, began to fill their chief's and commander's living room. They settled around him, and no one knew what to say. The One-eyed himself took the floor. He straightened up to his full height, and a grim determination appeared on his finally disfigured face.
-- We will avenge them. We will return. For the Emperor!
-- We will return. For the Emperor! -- they echoed, as did many other surviving supporters of Tiarii who repeated those same words after their commanders at that very moment.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The Order of the Last Emperor—a loud name for a gathering of losers refusing to acknowledge the obvious. Many said this—but none of them thought about it when a group of powerful and agile assassins with empty, desperate eyes burst into their own home. No matter what anyone says about demons, there is no more cruel and perfect killer than a man who has nothing to lose. The One-eyed and his comrades were such people. In essence, they had long been dead, but as promised, they returned from the depths of hell and brought hell with them. Murders and terror did not make them happier—a person in principle cannot feel happiness from routine work—but this was what they were used to doing and the only thing they could do. Each pursued their own goals—but the essence always came down to one thing. Some achieved success under Tiarii's reign but lost everything after the defeat. Some believed in a great ruler, but after Tiarii's death there was nothing left to believe in. Some found no place for themselves in the new world—whereas before Tiarii's defeat, everyone who was ready to lay down their head for the true sovereign had a place. Everything came back to Tiarii, but a second Tiarii was not found, and the "order" remained just the most crazed gang on the continent.
-- What a fine day, – said the One-eyed, looking out the window and listening to rolls of thunder. Rain drummed on the flimsy roof of the shack, and water gradually leaked inside, turning the dirty floor into a slush. – Just an excellent day for a few more murders.
The atmosphere in the building was painfully familiar: dirt, crampedness, a torn chair in the corner. Dirty men—his subordinates and only friends—lay some on the floor, some on straw, and three of them were consuming alcohol. Perhaps his own bad influence had taken its toll, but for some reason he didn't think so.
-- In such weather a good host... Maybe not today, eh?
-- On the other hand, cops don't like rain either and tracks get washed away.
-- In Accervald there were no cops as a class. Commander, why did we even head to Larian? Here people have attentive cops and mean guns.
-- Larian allows itself too much and lives too well. Little remains of Accervald anyway. Not to mention that this is a matter of revenge. If not for Larian, we would have crushed the rebels like bugs and the Emperor would be alive.
The One-eyed tried to stand up from the chair, but an ache in his joints stopped him. After all, he was nearly sixty...
-- Ugh. I'm not in the mood today. Perhaps murders are canceled for today.
-- I don't think so, -- a loud voice sounded from the door. The terrorists barely had time to grab their weapons before six men in police uniforms burst into the hovel and shot everyone except their commander. While the One-eyed, held at gunpoint by six cops, blinked his eyes trying to comprehend what happened, a seventh lawman entered the residence; judging by the insignia—an officer. A man of about thirty looked contemptuously around the dwelling and approached the One-eyed.
-- You certainly don't remember me. But I remember you perfectly. You raped my mother. You killed my parents, cutting off their legs and locking them in a burning barn, burning them alive. Remember?
-- Oh, there were so many... -- The One-eyed had hoped for a long monologue, but the lawman did not meet those hopes. He drew a revolver from his holster, aimed it at his enemy and emptied the entire cylinder into his chest, bullet after bullet.
He survived, of course. Six shots at point-blank range—a good claim to success, but not in the case of the One-eyed. For three days he lay in the shack among decaying dead, picking pieces of quartz out of his body and reflecting on his current situation. Once again he remained alive when he should have died, once again lost a few friends, once again life took a sharp turn and threw him down. He would have to climb back up—or die. No matter what he did, the empire would not rise from the debris, Tiarii would not be resurrected, and wealth and power would not return—a simple thought that came about ten years too late. It was time to leave the meaningless path he had set upon in the distant year 769, especially since nothing held him here, and meaningless murders had long since bored him. It was time to move on.
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For a year he wandered aimlessly through the world, seeking some kind of purpose. Twenty years spent in the Order of the Last Emperor were no different from twenty years in a coma. The world had changed, but the One-eyed himself seemed to have remained in the year 769. He visited many corners of the world but found neither a cause nor a refuge.
On a cold autumn evening of the year 790, a man in a burgundy cloak with a hood pulled over his eyes headed toward a city called Orion in search of lodging and rest. Catching suspicious glances, the traveler stepped through the dark streets of the city, but suddenly stopped upon seeing a familiar face in the crowd.
-- Jonas!
-- Huh? What? – the man called Jonas, a solidly built man of about forty-five, looked at the hooded person. The voice seemed familiar to him.
-- Jonas, you damn deserter, here you are! – the traveler threw back his hood, revealing a scar-covered face and a patch over the left eye. Despite his angry tone, he was obviously not hostile.
-- Boss, is it really you? – Jonas, in his short time as a member of the Order, had served under the One-eyed. – Now with us?
-- With whom "us"?
-- Uh, we're in Orion, what kind of question is that? Alright, let's go have a drink and I'll tell you everything.
-- So what is this place? Who's the boss here? -- asked the One-eyed, taking a sip of beer.
-- Orion. The only serious organization among all the scum that make up the local gangs. Cassi runs everything, remember her? Well, Cassandra Docire.
-- Not really.
-- Yeah, you probably don't remember. Twenty years have passed already. Listen, don't you want to join us? Many people come from the Order; it's much better here. I first thought you had switched over to us, but as it turns out...
-- Hmm... Why not. Do they pay normally?
-- They pay well, and a good bunch of guys have gathered, and the work is just right. You'll like it.
-- Well-well. Alright, I agree.
Origin: Order of the Last Emperor
Additional perk;
Additional attack;
+50% to final health;
+3 to movement speed;
+25% to critical damage chance.
Characteristics:
Strength -- 50
Intelligence -- 25
Will -- 30
Agility -- 65
Perception -- 55
Wisdom -- 20
Charisma -- 10
Skills:
One-handed weapon (type 1)
— Parrying
1. Character can parry opponent's attacks (accuracy) (2 SP)
— Movement speed
1. +1 additional attack (1 SP)
2. +1 additional attack (2 SP)
3. +1 to accuracy for each unit of perception (3 SP)
— Enhancers
Minimum intelligence: 20
— Basic training
1. Character can use enhancers (1 SP)
Persuasion:
Perks:
Item:
Equipment:
"The Exile", "Justice", cartridges, enhancer, burgundy cloak.
«Hah,» the man thought, catching himself as his thoughts drifted in a completely strange direction. «How long ago that was.»
The one-eyed man scanned the people gathered in the palace square, expecting to see admiration and awe on their faces, but found only bewilderment and fear. His gaze turned toward a slender brunette being led by soldiers to the stocks standing in the middle of the square. He had seen her in person only once before—but even so, he could not fail to notice how much the former empress had changed, confusion and turmoil now clearly written on her haggard face.
«And Tiarii is something else! Our kind of man, no doubt about it.»
It cannot be said that the man disliked the emperor's plan or that it came as a surprise to him—on the contrary, upon first hearing how Tiarii intended to deal with the usurper, he was nearly the only one who fully supported the emperor's desire and regretted only that such a brilliant idea had not occurred to him himself; yet, until the very end, he doubted that words would turn into action. The one-eyed man continued to watch. The emperor had already begun threatening those who wavered with death, and it seemed he was not joking at all.
«Why are they hesitating? Sonatta is quite a catch, the sovereign wouldn't suggest anything bad,» meanwhile, the emperor was disemboweling some unlucky citizen. «And why am I hesitating? It won't be as good later. *I love the Sonattist regime, I'll fuck her too!»
-- Let me through, comrade, -- the man pushed through the ranks of the "Front" and with a brisk step headed to join the queue for the ex-empress.
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Esmond Martin woke with the first rays of the sun. Throwing on a robe, he descended into his home's living room and critically surveyed the interior. The bad impression left by cheap furniture with a pathetic claim to extravagance and equally repulsive colorful wallpaper was topped off by the low ceiling and general crampedness of the room. In Esmond's opinion, the previous owner deserved death simply for the fact that he now had to live in such uncomfortable surroundings. He would clear it all out, or better yet—change his place of residence, but work did not allow him to deal with the housing issue seriously.
Hardly had Esmond sat at the table and lit a cigarette when a blonde girl of about twenty to twenty-five entered the room, holding a tray with coffee.
-- Just in time, - the man took the cup, took a small sip, and suddenly, distorting his face in a grimace of disgust, sharply splashed the drink directly onto the maid. – Leona, may a demon take you, useless girl! Why did you forget the sugar? Do you want me to sell you to "Sonatta"? Fix this, quickly! And bring me the latest issue of the "Chronicles".
-- Forgive me, milord, -- Leona whispered, suppressing tears of pain from the burn. What had she been thinking when she agreed to the one-eyed man's offer to work as his maid? Probably that she had no means of subsistence and no relatives left, and about this man's extensive hints that he should not be refused anything. And now she thought only that things could have been much worse for her.
-- Better already, -- Esmond Martin sipped the coffee again and this time, indeed, found it quite satisfactory. Then he pushed aside a fold of his robe and gestured toward his groin. – Go on, get to it.
The maid obeyed. Now that all conditions for an ideal start to the day had been met, Esmond lounged back in his chair and opened the issue of "Chronicles". Tiarii's reign turned out even better than in his wildest expectations. Not long ago, the Emperor offered him the position of captain of the secret police—an offer difficult to refuse. Yesterday he executed enemies of the Empire and entertained himself in the best brothel in the world, and today there would be a chance to prove himself in a grand tournament. His friends respected him, his enemies feared him, business was booming; with every new victim, he became wealthier. Life was beautiful—and he deserved it.
The tournament semifinals were being prepared. Having suffered defeat in the previous round, Esmond Martin sat in the stands and, having nothing better to do, let his gaze slide over the crowd. Most of those gathered merged into a single grayish mass, and against that mass, Esmond's gaze caught Sehelis S. Favela. The elderly baron, dressed in an impeccably white suit, seemed to catch the secret police captain's gaze and responded with a heavy, hostile look, but Esmond didn't care about him. Rather, it was the baron himself who should be worried about what a man capable of ordering his execution as a traitor to the crown at any moment thought of him. However, right now Martin cared nothing for the old man; far greater interest was presented by the young woman in black sitting beside the baron.
-- Hmm, I don't remember seeing her before. As I recall, Sehelis is not married, -- Esmond pondered something and addressed one of his subordinates. – Harrin, find me information on her by morning.
-- It shall be done, sir.
-- Oh, the next fight has been announced! Place your bets, gentlemen. Five thousand on Halmeldir!
The following morning.
-- What did you find, Harrin?
-- About yesterday, sir? Well... Cynthia S. Favela, only daughter of Baron Sehelis S. Favela, twenty-five years old. Unmarried, was engaged to Ramerius Lex, if you remember him.
-- I recall. Got screwed a couple of weeks ago?
-- Exactly. She herself wasn't involved in anything illegal, but like her daddy, she doesn't show much sympathy for us.
-- And what about the girl, is she cute, by the way?
-- Uh, well, yeah, not bad at all.
-- Excellent. That's enough. -- Esmond approached a decanter with a clear drink standing on the table, poured himself half a glass and drained it in one go, grimacing slightly. – Scribble a letter to the baron saying I'll stop by to talk this evening.
-- It shall be done. Sir, perhaps you shouldn't abuse it so much? – Harrin glanced at the newly filled glass in his boss's hand.
-- Don't lecture me here. Once I drink "Starfall", I immediately feel alive and my head is clearer, -- the captain grumbled and poured another gulp into himself. -- Alright, time to get to work.
-- One more thing, sir. His Majesty wishes to see you at the council today. Something about Girion Vorstrenshat... Vorestrash... Vor... Anyway, be at the palace by noon.
In the evening, Esmond, accompanied by two subordinates, headed toward the S. Favela mansion. His thoughts were occupied with planning a slave trade network, and he paid no attention to the dark figure in the shadow of the houses clutching a pistol in its hand. The flash of a shot cut through the evening gloom, and Esmond felt a hot bullet embed itself in his back. He turned and saw an old man in whose eyes hatred was rapidly being replaced by bewilderment. He shot again, and again, and once more; he shot until he ran out of cartridges, but Esmond Martin only laughed and with one blow of his fist knocked the shooter to the ground.
-- Pitiful fool, -- Esmond laughed again and waved a hand in the air with an enhancer on the wrist. – And why is every one of the many dozens of people who tried to kill me convinced that they are the one who will succeed?
The old man answered nothing. In his mind, inflamed by experienced losses and fear, the emperor's servant appeared as an immortal demon in the flesh whose single eye relentlessly pursued him. And he ran. He ran and screamed, screaming about the kingdom of the devil and its one-eyed servant, about the end of Reima and inevitable doom. He ran across the entire continent, but he ran only in his head. In reality, as soon as he jumped to his feet and screamed, his life was cut short by a single shot to the head.
-- Damn psycho, -- Esmond returned "Justice"—which, given the history of this weapon, he now owned by right—to its holster. – Take the pistol from him and let's move on.
The trio finally reached their destination, and the leader stopped, critically examining the exterior of the S. Favela residence. Built several centuries ago away from the center of the capital near Lake Hegon, this squat mansion with massive dark-gray walls looked stern and imposing; however, behind the external brutality, a sophisticated person would certainly have discerned the architect's masterful design, attention to detail, and expensive finish. But the special services captain was not a sophisticated man and only nodded approvingly at the sight of the large building. He approached the door and knocked loudly. The owner came out personally to meet him.
-- Good evening, Baron. I assume you received the note about my visit? – without waiting for an invitation, Esmond entered the hall of the mansion and gave his coat to the butler. Two thugs stepped silently behind him. – These gentlemen are with me.
-- Welcome, Mr. Martin, -- Sehelis spoke calmly and with dignity, but this calmness cost him great effort. The baron's attempts to save face despite the fear and dislike he felt amused the guest. – Please, come into the living room.
Walking through a wide corridor, they found themselves in a spacious room with a fireplace. Without waiting for an invitation, Esmond flopped heavily into the chair opposite the fire. Obviously, he felt at home, which was not surprising for a man with such powers.
-- You have a wonderful mansion, Sehelis, -- Esmond Martin pronounced this phrase with a strange intonation, emphasizing the word "you".
-- Thank you. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger? – the baron remained standing, staring intently at the visitor's face, wondering what was on this man's mind.
-- I'll pass, I think. Let's not beat around the bush any longer: I came to talk about your daughter.
-- My daughter?
-- Exactly. I intend to marry her and am asking for your consent.
Sehelis seemed almost to choke. His face took on a sickly hue and veins appeared, but the baron still pulled himself together.
-- I believe... You should ask her opinion first.
-- And she agrees, -- with this simple phrase, Esmond again confounded his interlocutor. – We only need to settle various formalities. I think you won't argue that it's hard to imagine a more suitable match for your daughter, so let's move straight to one simple condition...
-- And if I do not give my consent? -- the baron, having gathered his courage, suddenly interrupted.
-- Then what always happens to those who try to cross me will happen to you. I assume you know perfectly well exactly what that is. And moreover—the same will happen to your daughter, rest assured.
How Sehelis S. Favela wanted to kill this man who dared threaten a Reiman baron in his own home! The aristocrat breathed heavily from the powerless rage filling him, while Esmond Martin only laughed at his helplessness. His evil eye stared at Sehelis with the expression usually reserved for beggars lying in the mud—a mixture of contempt and cruel mockery.
-- So, my condition is as follows: after the marriage is concluded, you will rewrite your will and appoint me heir to all your property, and most importantly—the title.
-- You not only want to take my daughter from me but also force me to sign my own death warrant? – the baron understood perfectly how long he would live with such a will. — Scoundrel!
-- You can poke yourself in the eye with a fork! – Esmond raised his voice but remained calm. – And you will address me as "sir". But you've grasped the essence of the choice. Choose who dies—only you, or both of you.
The next few minutes passed in silence. As obvious as the answer was, so difficult it was to say aloud. Sehelis stared at the fire raging in the fireplace, unconsciously seeking warmth and protection in it, but saw in the flames only a predator whose fiery tongues greedily, insatiably devoured the logs until the once-living wood turned into white ash. The night darkness thickened outside, and the living room sank into semi-darkness. Only the guest sitting before the fireplace was illuminated by the light of fiery flashes, as if even the flame had submitted to his will and recognized him as the master of the fates of all inhabitants of this house. The baron could not see his face, but was ready to swear that a predatory smile was playing on it now. This man knew his answer before he even crossed the threshold of the mansion, and now only awaited the moment of another triumph.
-- I will do everything. Just do not harm her, -- the baron answered in a hollow voice. – But know, one-eyed demon, the day of reckoning for your atrocities will come. All tyrants share one fate...
-- Yeah, comfort yourself however you want. I'll write to you when I decide on the wedding date, -- with these words Esmond Martin rose from the chair. – Stay happy, Baron. Don't do anything stupid.
He didn't have to wait long. A week later, without any particular ceremony, the marriage of Esmond Martin and Cynthia S. Favela was concluded, and on the same day Baron Sehelis S. Favela announced that his son-in-law—a "man of the highest moral and personal qualities, undoubtedly more worthy of this than any of Sehelis's direct relatives"—would become the heir to his title and multi-million fortune, greatly amusing Esmond's subordinates and some people who had previously been in the "Imperial Liberation Front" with this statement. A day later, Esmond appeared again on the threshold of the mansion, this time in the full company of his retinue: two thugs with revolvers on their belts, a pretty young girl with sad eyes, and three other men—pioneers of slavery in Reima. Two were carrying a painting—a full-length portrait of Tiarii Reima.
-- Hang it in the living room, -- Esmond ordered the slaves and slowly followed them. The old baron, strangely enough, was nowhere to be seen; however, he was no longer needed by anyone now. For the sake of propriety, wait half a month, and then send the old man to feed the worms...
The next morning Cynthia S. Favela woke up early. A terrible fatigue was felt in her body, and her mind remained in a half-asleep state. The past week had been like a nightmare... Or perhaps it was one? Having dressed somehow, she descended into the living room in the hope that a cup of coffee would help put her thoughts in order.
Esmond was found at the table in the living room, shattering Cynthia's timid hopes that the past events were just a bad dream. Under the table was the maid who had arrived yesterday, currently, to put it politely, occupied with satisfying the master's sexual needs orally.
-- How... How dare you?!
-- What? Since you're awake, make me some coffee. Leona is a bit busy, as you can see, and where that old geezer who serves as butler here is now, I don't even know.
Finding no answer, Cynthia went to the kitchen. At the very least, she needed coffee herself. She looked out the window. The morning sun illuminated the beautiful garden of the mansion and... her father's body on a gallows.
-- Aaaaaa!
-- What are you screaming about? See your old man? You'll be surprised, but I have nothing to do with this. He seems to have felt like the master of his own fate and decided that he wouldn't let me kill him... What about the coffee?
Her nightmare was only beginning.
____________________________________________________________________________________
The following three years were the golden time of his life. A year after his marriage, his spouse finally bore him an heir. Esmond named the son Jack—after a comrade who had died several years ago. Lands and title, slaves and concubines, untold wealth, the right to kill—the dream of any man, paradise on earth. He never dreamed of castles in the air—but now one of them had turned into flesh, cracked at the foundation, and now threatened to collapse, burying him as well under the debris.
Throughout all these years, whether being one of thousands in the "liberation front", whether taking a place among Tiarii's advisors, or accepting the post of special services captain, he had not failed the emperor once. But now a single mistake could be fatal for everything achieved over long seven years. He looked at the portrait of Tiarii hanging on the wall. The Emperor looked at him with a cold, self-assured gaze—with exactly those eyes he met them when they came to report the loss of the "Heavenly Tower" and the "Treasury of Evil Spirits". Left without shield or sword, the capital stood tall and prepared to meet the enemy, clenching its fists tight. Right now, while the baron stood motionless before the portrait in vain attempts to understand where he could have made such a fatal mistake, nearly one hundred and fifty soldiers behind him were preparing for battle. Most of them were very young men who had not passed Jael Helsward's strict selection on his special training program. It seemed they were even glad about the upcoming open war—finally there was a chance to show the rats from the coalition what an Emperor's soldier is worth in a fair fight! Esmond S. Favela could only envy their overconfidence. Ah, if he were younger, if he also didn't know the real numerical advantage of the Coalition forces before them... It was time to gather.
He girded himself with "The Exile", reloaded "Justice" and threw a burgundy cloak over his shoulders—all just like that night when the "Liberation Front" finally consumed Reima. Esmond bid a restrained farewell to his wife, and much more warmly—to his son. Had he been another man, perhaps he would have wondered what it was like for those who lost their lives on that ill-fated night over three years ago and those who survived, but the baron wasn't called the one-eyed demon just for his looks—at that moment he thought only of how to feed alive to the rats those who dared stand against Tiarii. A slave brought Esmond his horse; with a movement strikingly light for his age, the baron leaped into the saddle and surveyed his battalion. Not one of the one hundred and forty men in burgundy cloaks showed any sign of fear or doubt on their face; if anything, psychological training among Tiarii's supporters was always at the highest level.
-- March at step! – the baron barked and turned his horse west. The orderly ranks of soldiers moved after him, with slaves loaded with supplies trailing in the rear. They marched through the capital, flowing like a bloody river through its streets, and the commoners prayed to their gods that these people would never return.
But they returned. Though far from all of them. The Coalition pushed the imperial troops back to the very capital. The smell of blood and death hung in the air—no one cared anymore about such trifles as burying corpses, and the bodies of the dead lay in heaps on the streets, attracting flocks of crows. But neither the stench of corpses, nor the cawing of birds, nor the fire gradually breaking out in the city worried Tiarii Reima and his commanders, whose attention was entirely fixed on the Coalition armies spreading like a black stain somewhere near the horizon.
-- It's time, -- the emperor said briefly, and the generals joined their detachments. They had a few more minutes before the battle began. He needed to say a couple of words to the soldiers.
-- We'll slaughter them like cattle! – Baron S. Favela began with the first phrase that came to mind, not having had time to properly think through his speech.
-- We'll fuck their wives! – came a shout from some soldier in the rear ranks.
-- And their sisters! – added another.
-- For the glory of the Emperor! – someone's booming voice finished the farce that had started among the nervous soldiers.
-- FOR THE GLORY OF THE EMPEROR!!! – the cry of thousands of people echoed over the capital.
And the battle began, and chaos began, and death arrived. Heads flew from shoulders, severed by Japanese katanas; exploded buildings buried soldiers under debris; sounds of shots and the clang of steel merged into a single cacophony, but for him everything was simple and clear. There were no longer Tiarii or the coalition; there was only he, his blade, and those who must die. He whirled in a vortex of death, laughing silently, cutting short the life of every new opponent. He sobered up only when soldiers dragged him out of the meat grinder, half-dead, with a hacked face, broken ribs, and a rifle bullet in his side. His clothes had turned from black to crimson; only by the absence of the left eye could Baron S. Favela be identified. They threw him into the arms of a healer and rushed back into battle, not yet knowing that the war was lost.
When Esmond S. Favela was finally able to return to the fight, there was no one left to fight. Both victors and vanquished were leaving the dead city. From heaps of dead bodies, those who were lucky—or perhaps more accurately unlucky—to survive rose from time to time. Some of the nominal victors of this battle prowled through the ruins of the city in search of easy prey, killed friends, or living enemies. One such person spotted a half-dead Esmond and intended to finish him off, but underestimated his opponent and joined the dead himself, hacked by blows of "The Exile". Without realizing what he was doing, Esmond S. Favela headed through the ruins toward his mansion with mechanical steps. Being far from the epicenter, the building survived that day. Esmond stepped over what remained of the broken door and with slow steps, like a walking dead man, headed to the living room. His son lay on the table: apparently, an unskilled executioner had wanted to crucify the boy, attempting to nail his hands to the table, but having no experience in such matters, only pierced the palm with a nail without managing to pin it to the table, and finished him with a pistol shot. The word "Retribution" was painted on the wall in blood. He certainly had never sunk to such vulgarity. Nor did he spoil works of art: the portrait of the Emperor had been torn to shreds. Probably, according to the plan of the wretched avenger, S. Favela... What Baron S. Favela? Baron Esmond S. Favela died yesterday along with Tiarii Reima. Only the One-eyed remained. The One-eyed, if he had survived the battle, should have screamed in rage and put a bullet in his own head, but the former baron was too tired for emotions. Letting out a heavy sigh from his broken chest, he went to look for his wife, but found her body nowhere, meeting only several dead servants on his way. He descended into the living room again and sank helplessly to the floor, leaning against the wall. Everything comes to an end. Then why is he still alive?
Other walking dead who were not so lucky as to return anywhere, other than a heap of ruins, began to fill their chief's and commander's living room. They settled around him, and no one knew what to say. The One-eyed himself took the floor. He straightened up to his full height, and a grim determination appeared on his finally disfigured face.
-- We will avenge them. We will return. For the Emperor!
-- We will return. For the Emperor! -- they echoed, as did many other surviving supporters of Tiarii who repeated those same words after their commanders at that very moment.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The Order of the Last Emperor—a loud name for a gathering of losers refusing to acknowledge the obvious. Many said this—but none of them thought about it when a group of powerful and agile assassins with empty, desperate eyes burst into their own home. No matter what anyone says about demons, there is no more cruel and perfect killer than a man who has nothing to lose. The One-eyed and his comrades were such people. In essence, they had long been dead, but as promised, they returned from the depths of hell and brought hell with them. Murders and terror did not make them happier—a person in principle cannot feel happiness from routine work—but this was what they were used to doing and the only thing they could do. Each pursued their own goals—but the essence always came down to one thing. Some achieved success under Tiarii's reign but lost everything after the defeat. Some believed in a great ruler, but after Tiarii's death there was nothing left to believe in. Some found no place for themselves in the new world—whereas before Tiarii's defeat, everyone who was ready to lay down their head for the true sovereign had a place. Everything came back to Tiarii, but a second Tiarii was not found, and the "order" remained just the most crazed gang on the continent.
-- What a fine day, – said the One-eyed, looking out the window and listening to rolls of thunder. Rain drummed on the flimsy roof of the shack, and water gradually leaked inside, turning the dirty floor into a slush. – Just an excellent day for a few more murders.
The atmosphere in the building was painfully familiar: dirt, crampedness, a torn chair in the corner. Dirty men—his subordinates and only friends—lay some on the floor, some on straw, and three of them were consuming alcohol. Perhaps his own bad influence had taken its toll, but for some reason he didn't think so.
-- In such weather a good host... Maybe not today, eh?
-- On the other hand, cops don't like rain either and tracks get washed away.
-- In Accervald there were no cops as a class. Commander, why did we even head to Larian? Here people have attentive cops and mean guns.
-- Larian allows itself too much and lives too well. Little remains of Accervald anyway. Not to mention that this is a matter of revenge. If not for Larian, we would have crushed the rebels like bugs and the Emperor would be alive.
The One-eyed tried to stand up from the chair, but an ache in his joints stopped him. After all, he was nearly sixty...
-- Ugh. I'm not in the mood today. Perhaps murders are canceled for today.
-- I don't think so, -- a loud voice sounded from the door. The terrorists barely had time to grab their weapons before six men in police uniforms burst into the hovel and shot everyone except their commander. While the One-eyed, held at gunpoint by six cops, blinked his eyes trying to comprehend what happened, a seventh lawman entered the residence; judging by the insignia—an officer. A man of about thirty looked contemptuously around the dwelling and approached the One-eyed.
-- You certainly don't remember me. But I remember you perfectly. You raped my mother. You killed my parents, cutting off their legs and locking them in a burning barn, burning them alive. Remember?
-- Oh, there were so many... -- The One-eyed had hoped for a long monologue, but the lawman did not meet those hopes. He drew a revolver from his holster, aimed it at his enemy and emptied the entire cylinder into his chest, bullet after bullet.
He survived, of course. Six shots at point-blank range—a good claim to success, but not in the case of the One-eyed. For three days he lay in the shack among decaying dead, picking pieces of quartz out of his body and reflecting on his current situation. Once again he remained alive when he should have died, once again lost a few friends, once again life took a sharp turn and threw him down. He would have to climb back up—or die. No matter what he did, the empire would not rise from the debris, Tiarii would not be resurrected, and wealth and power would not return—a simple thought that came about ten years too late. It was time to leave the meaningless path he had set upon in the distant year 769, especially since nothing held him here, and meaningless murders had long since bored him. It was time to move on.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
For a year he wandered aimlessly through the world, seeking some kind of purpose. Twenty years spent in the Order of the Last Emperor were no different from twenty years in a coma. The world had changed, but the One-eyed himself seemed to have remained in the year 769. He visited many corners of the world but found neither a cause nor a refuge.
On a cold autumn evening of the year 790, a man in a burgundy cloak with a hood pulled over his eyes headed toward a city called Orion in search of lodging and rest. Catching suspicious glances, the traveler stepped through the dark streets of the city, but suddenly stopped upon seeing a familiar face in the crowd.
-- Jonas!
-- Huh? What? – the man called Jonas, a solidly built man of about forty-five, looked at the hooded person. The voice seemed familiar to him.
-- Jonas, you damn deserter, here you are! – the traveler threw back his hood, revealing a scar-covered face and a patch over the left eye. Despite his angry tone, he was obviously not hostile.
-- Boss, is it really you? – Jonas, in his short time as a member of the Order, had served under the One-eyed. – Now with us?
-- With whom "us"?
-- Uh, we're in Orion, what kind of question is that? Alright, let's go have a drink and I'll tell you everything.
-- So what is this place? Who's the boss here? -- asked the One-eyed, taking a sip of beer.
-- Orion. The only serious organization among all the scum that make up the local gangs. Cassi runs everything, remember her? Well, Cassandra Docire.
-- Not really.
-- Yeah, you probably don't remember. Twenty years have passed already. Listen, don't you want to join us? Many people come from the Order; it's much better here. I first thought you had switched over to us, but as it turns out...
-- Hmm... Why not. Do they pay normally?
-- They pay well, and a good bunch of guys have gathered, and the work is just right. You'll like it.
-- Well-well. Alright, I agree.
Additional perk;
Additional attack;
+50% to final health;
+3 to movement speed;
+25% to critical damage chance.
Characteristics:
Strength -- 50
Intelligence -- 25
Will -- 30
Agility -- 65
Perception -- 55
Wisdom -- 20
Charisma -- 10
Skills:
One-handed weapon (type 1)
— Parrying
1. Character can parry opponent's attacks (accuracy) (2 SP)
— Movement speed
1. +1 additional attack (1 SP)
2. +1 additional attack (2 SP)
3. +1 to accuracy for each unit of perception (3 SP)
— Enhancers
Minimum intelligence: 20
— Basic training
1. Character can use enhancers (1 SP)
Persuasion:
Perks:
Item:
Equipment:
"The Exile", "Justice", cartridges, enhancer, burgundy cloak.
E si sui vius, er mi grans benananza,
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers
Ple-Sen
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Well, now One-Eyed has a name. =/
Нэйко
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Gilza. She used to be part of Orion's 2nd division but was transferred to "Fenrir" at her own request. A sadist and nymphomaniac, she enjoys torturing prisoners.
Added 5 minutes later
It's possible after the groups are assigned. O:-)
Heroist
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you didn't waste your time with the Quentars, guys :smile20:
Whatever
Нэйко
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I glanced at it briefly, but it seems like these "terminators" are about as useful as a fifth leg to a dog.
Since Ment might still be offended, let me explain my point – the goal wasn't to insult or offend, demean, or show disrespect. I'm just not interested in arguing with you (or reading a 10-page wall of text) about whether or not it's worthwhile to go on the first quest. If you want to go, go ahead; no one has the right to stop you.
And besides, the first quest has some kind of complicated map, so I'm even less inclined to go there.
Siverfale
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Well, now One-Eye has a name. =/
Where do we go?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Ment
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/ Yes, it wasn't us, the cheaters, who were named by our parents in the cradle. /
Arandor
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Revan, are you by any chance keeping track of the damage I deal, etc., for unlocking the Ikigai skills?)
Be strong. Believe
kcfgogbfalgfl
Ple-Sen
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I suggest the following:
Eldir and Knichad at the edge of the map, at the bottom. Not quite at the very bottom, so that they can be reached by magic.
Siv closer to the center, so that anyone can steal souls from him.
Illurin at the bottom right passage leading to the center.
Tylen at the top right passage leading to the center.
Alaria at the bottom left passage.
Lysander at the top left passage.
(It could also be the other way around, but I would prefer to have a more protected rear).
One-Eyed either near Alaria, given that neither of them has AoE, or near Lysander (as the weaker member of the group).
But I'm open to other suggestions.
Eldir and Knichad at the edge of the map, at the bottom. Not quite at the very bottom, so that they can be reached by magic.
Siv closer to the center, so that anyone can steal souls from him.
Illurin at the bottom right passage leading to the center.
Tylen at the top right passage leading to the center.
Alaria at the bottom left passage.
Lysander at the top left passage.
(It could also be the other way around, but I would prefer to have a more protected rear).
One-Eyed either near Alaria, given that neither of them has AoE, or near Lysander (as the weaker member of the group).
But I'm open to other suggestions.
Siverfale
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No objections.
Where do we go?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Where do we end up when we save the world?
Arandor
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I need to attack enemies and take damage.
Be strong. Believe
Ple-Sen
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Well, then the top position is better for you.
Added after 36 seconds
— You're probably from "Ikigai," aren't you? You look like someone who's used to both giving and taking hits.
Added after 36 seconds
— You're probably from "Ikigai," aren't you? You look like someone who's used to both giving and taking hits.