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[Journal] Letters home.

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Hammersmith Hammersmith Find all posts by this user Bynn the Breaker Posts:506 Joined:Apr 2015 Character:Flameson Hammersmith Server:Balmung Reputation: 172 RE: [Journal] Letters home. | #16 08-13-2015, 10:38 PM (This post was last modified: 08-14-2015, 08:48 AM by Hammersmith.) Show Content Thematic: The Heavy- Can't Play Dead[youtube]L3FfSyzXM44[/youtube] In the shadow of someone else's house, Hammersmith smoked and watched. One monk.  One refugee Ala Mhigan.  Both speaking the old ways of a city long since left behind. When was the last time he'd heard that farewell? Walk with the destroyer.... Oh. Right. Lihta. ----------------------------------------- The siege of the Destroyer Temple had begun. And two old friends were celebrating an anniversary in it's basement. It was far underground but even down here in the foundation the shudder and shake of weaponry hitting the walls of the fortified temple shook dust loose and rattled stones.  This had been, at one point, a training room.  All the students that should have been down here were up on the walls now.  Helping to shore up the few entrances into the place and dropping oil oil, boiling tar, and, sometimes, blasts of energy down on the lines of the Corpse Brigade hitting the walls and pummeling the fortification with rocks, fire, and patience. Two old friends talked as the world they knew began to unravel. "Every gods damn year." The female Roe.  Large.  Wirey.  So toned and lithe that her musculature, even when handing over a bottle, looked like steel strands under tension, dozens of cuts winding over the weave of power under the skin.  The yellow wraps of a Destroyer Monk draped over the limbs. "Same day.  The day they hung Henk.  Yeah." A large male roe.  Red eyes.  Shirtless.  Covered in dirt. No twisting burn scars yet but plenty of long keloid cuts on the flesh running through folds and rolling fields of heavy muscle.  We know that one.  The voice isn't toned by several decades of drink yet but we know it, even without the coat of scars and an eye that was destined to leave his skull at some point in the future.  He was wearing some sort of red kilt with brass tassels and bells on it.  Mostly he was wearing dirt. "And every year we beat on eachother."  She took a hard pull from the bottle before passing it to the giant. "One thinking the other's gonna learn they're wrong." Muttered the giant before taking his share of whatever had been in the glass. "You regret letting Henk go out that night Mad Eye?" muttered Lihta. "I'm incapable of regret."  Boasted Hammer, setting the bottle said.  "You and me both know he was going to go off one night or another with or without us." "Yeah yeah. Short rope for Henk.  So what do we do this year?" muttered the monk in return. "Been years at this.  I think we're both kinda afraid to break tradition at this point." nodded Hammer. "Tunneling under a wall in the middle of a siege just to fight me goes above and beyond tradition Hammer.."  She pointed at the edge of the basement wall.  There was a hole there alright.  Small.  You'd think too small for someone Hammer's size but.  Well.  He was here wasn't he? Being on the sapper squad taught you a lot about tunnels and dirty fighting. "Only way isn't it?  Besides.  YOUR fucking Monkey Order sent me off to the Sapper corp all them years ago.  Only fitting I show up using the craft they made me learn."  Hammer pushed to his feet to join Lighta "...you brought the entire siege corp with you Mad Eye." she said "...yer point?" he said. "My point is the last time we're going to dance.  You remember what we said after they handed us Henk's stuff?"  The female roe's movements were liquid. Smooth.  So much sine wave motion in a figure full of wires tensing and relaxing in unison. "Yeah.  Yeah I do.  Time to see who was right about it eh?" Where as Hammers musculature writhed and quivered with every reluctant shift of weight. "Yeah.  They'd toss me out for this.  Which is why the deal was 'when there's no other choice' I guess.  All that just for once rancid kill."  She held out a hand, smiling. Hammer frowned. "Don't call me rancid.  I ain't dead yet." Lihta laughed. "One fat ugly kill." The giant slapped his midsection in response "I ain't fat either." Lihta sunk a finger into it in response.  "Seige Corp is feeding you too good Hammer." "Fuck you Dancer.  Besides.  They tossed me out of here for less than something like this.  Sooner or later our game was going to piss off the temple.  The temple just pissed off the king first."  The softness in the giant's muscles flowed away, like oil off a piston. "Be fair.  You earned that trip to the tunnel rat squad." The liquid wave of Lihta froze, hand out. It seemed like an eternity before Hammer shook it. "That smug fucker earned getting his arm broken in five places.  Worth it."   "And it never healed right because you pulled a piece of the break out while he was still screaming." She motioned to the basement room.  "So what now?"   "We dance one last dance and we see who drinks the hardest of violence.  White or black.  Devil Dog Dervish"  The giant thumped his chest. "Or the Wisdom of the Path."  Lihta bowed. As she strode to the other end of the training room she called back. "What...did you do to him anyway?" "Same thing you showed me."  Accused Hammer as he rolled his shoulders and crackled his joints. "I didn't teach you that.  Open the gate I said.  See what happens I said."  The female accused back. "You know me Dancer."  Hammer took a stance     "Yeah." muttered Lihta.  "Never do anything by halves." Hammer's wiki. Leave rumors. Leave. Lots. Of Rumors.

Hammersmith Hammersmith Find all posts by this user Bynn the Breaker Posts:506 Joined:Apr 2015 Character:Flameson Hammersmith Server:Balmung Reputation: 172 RE: [Journal] Letters home. | #17 09-03-2015, 03:29 PM Show Content Thematic: Dorothy- Gun in My Hand[youtube]8SGVRcJARxQ[/youtube] "Can you really be too old for that?"  She said. Hammersmith wasn't a fan of talking about love with other people.  They wanted complicated answers when really the answers were simple, and answers they wouldn't like or understand until later. And later they still wouldn't like them.  Hell.  He'd kept going at it for how long?   The infirmary was quiet at this time of night.  Just the nearly dead trying to keep their lungs moving while the rest of the Company slept. The giant sloshed the coffee around in his hand.  Stirring an old memory, beloved memory, from it's own slumber. ------------------------------------------- Coming down off the Spine is cold work.  The ones coming down off it with carts, trade goods, and people, have everything to lose and the mountain?   The Mountain didn't care. It even had the audacity to block out the sun's attempts to fight the chill.  Even here in the middle of the morning it hadn't managed to crest the Spine completely, leaving the small basecame in the Shadow of the Spine to continue shivering in the callous cling of winter.  There were fires scattered around the camp and, on the edges a cart mounted forge was leaking smoke into the stark, crystal blue sky.  There was another cart propped up off it's axle near it, the cause of the caravan's delay.  Repairs took time.  Repairs slowed everything. It's the fire near the forge that we're interested in.  Four bodies.  Four Roe.  We've met all of the, one way or another.   One broad shouldered, deathly pale, white haired red eyed kid in smithing gear. There were brass and iron charms hanging off several of the fittings in his work gear.   One tall and wiry, wrapped in bindings and furs.  Even before their apprenticeships they was still androgynous.  Years in the Destroyer order wouldn't change that, just build it into a wire-wound fury. One squatting too close to the fire, wearing brigantine armor and a wild mane of unkempt hair over their back and shoulders.  They were small, but broad, powerful, and visibly impatient. One with an open book on their knees, writing, frowning under a hooded coat with brass sigils set into the buttons and fittings. We know these four. "Can we get this going?  The longer that cart's off it's wheel the longer we're here in the frozen asshole of the world." Muttered the red eyed smith. "We wouldn't be taking this long if you didn't do things the old fashioned way Shaman." Grumbled the short lion maned maniac by the fire. The one with the quill chimed in.  "Just because you're impatient doesn't mean the rest of us don't consider what we're doing." "It's an oath circle.  We all know what we're doing and how it goes."  Shrugged the wire framed ghoul. "Tell why you got thrown out.  Listen to the others.  Decide if they're the kind of people you can rely on to do right by you now AND later.  Bleed if they are.  Not hard." The smith had produced a knife to punctuate the point. "Then you start, loudmouth bastard."  The Lion in Winter sat back on their haunches, staring at the smith with dull, black eyes.  The other two followed suite. "Squeaky wheel gets the kick is it?  Right.  I earned that fir bothering to give a fuck."  The smith reached into the fire with a pair of tongs and pulled a coffee pot out from the embers and flames. "I'm out here in the fucking cold because my brother and I were the only kids and Shamans always throw one out the nest.  Brother died.  Early.  Turns out they weren't too keen on keeping me around as a reminder of that." The giant lowered his red eyes to the coffee as he started to pour. "Why m'here at this fire?  Other than this sort of thing doesn't work without a Spark Shaman and the words?  Because I think you three are worth it.  Even you Fartlord of Shit Mountain."  Hammer toasted his coffee towards the Lion, who flashed a point-toothed grin.  "But the real reason is that when I'm dead I'd rather have a bunch of idiots who cared around my grave than two shitty old assholes who won't throw m'ashes in the right direction after I die.  Well.  That n'pull m'head off if I do something -really- stupid." The wire ghoul opened their mouth to say something but the smith cut her off. "No.  No fucking questions.  That's the ritual.  State.  State Why.  Judge.  Circle. Blood. Name.  Then you're stuck with us.  You judge now or never.  New start.  New Family." The group nodded and turned their collective gaze to the Lion, who stared back with an incredulous loathing at the fact they'd been put on the spot. "M'here because I've got four siblings and all of them call me runt."  The short lion scowled. "I'm the oldest and I'm the Runt.  I stay home -all- of them are going to end up dead.  I'm out here because everyone else figured that out before I got a chance.  I'm here with you cunts because I think you might be able to keep me held down and out of trouble long enough to get something that makes that Runt thing not matter." "What? No 'That's a Tall order.' ?  I can see you thinking it.  But at least you got the decency to keep it quiet when it counts.  No one else back home does."  The self proclaimed runt looked around, frowning.  "Who's next?" The two males stared at the two remaining bodies around the fire.  The Ghoul was the one who picked up the thread and spoke next. "I'm here because they're afraid.  Afraid I'll eat them out of house and home this winter.  Or the next winter.  Or the winter after that.  Worried I won't help, that I talk back too much.  That I don't care."  The brown eyes in the furs stared out at the group.   "I'm here at this pity party because I think you all will keep me honest on that.  Even if it's just to spite them, I could be more than all that crap they were shoveling.  Even if it means pulling his head off."  She pointed at the smith, who nodded sagely. Three pairs of eyes settled on the Scribe.  Who smiled. "I'm here because I want to be.  You tragic fools need at least someone stupid enough to think going out into the world on their own power is worth the trouble.  Besides.  I want stories.  I want something to bring home when I'm old and grey."  She looked around the group.  "Which is why I'm here with you.  I think you're all going to make a great, long, good story." The three pairs of eyes looked at each other.  Then at the Scribe.   Then the smith spoke up. "I think yer full of shit." "Aye."  Echoed the lion. "Yep."  Nodded the ghoul. The scribe scowled. "Then you get to see just how full of it I am.  Take it or leave it." The three all nodded.   "Honest enough."  Grinned the smith. "No more stupid what I've been doing until now." Snickered the lion. "Maybe we can dig the shit out of your skull along the way." Said the ghoul, offering a hand out to pat the scribe's thin shoulders.  The smith did some work with a knife while they talked and argued.  Exchanging stories.  Upbringings.  All of it freely given.  None of it asked for.  That first tenuous bond among friends.  That first link in a long chain.  The smith's coffee cup was empty.  Filling it's bottom with blood from his palm didn't take much work.  He passed it around to the lion, who did the same, then to the Scribe, who ran the edge over the hand she didn't use for writing, and then to the Ghoul, who passed the thing full circle back to the Smith. "Alright.  This is where we agree we're all leaving.  Maybe we'll come back.  Not as the one who started the trip.  Probably won't even recognize yourself the next time you come up this mountain."  The giant looked one last time at the Spine, grinning.  "So we shed the old names.  Bury the true ones.  Pick something out nice for the trip. Circle of family, made here and now until we're all dead." "We're here around a fire.  You're gonna pour that bloodcup into it.  I say start Flameson for the group end of the name.  Where it all starts.  Us and a fire"  Muttered the lion before the Scribe interjected.  "Flamesdotter. Unless you already forgot there's more than just your sack around this fire." The smith and the ghoul shared a grin before nodding.  "Fine.  Now pick yer own personal end of it." "Henkerbiel for me."  The group gave the newly christened Henk a side eye as he protested. "It's the word for the axe I have.  The one they threw me out with.  Might as well wear it as a brand.  Besides.  Rolls of the tounge.  Flameson Henkerbiel."  Henk grinned proudly.  Eagerly.  "Like it.  Has some weight." "Minerva.  Heard it from a trader years ago.  Always wanted to steal the name.  Might as well take the chance while I have it, hm?"  Nodded the Min formerly known as scribe.  "Flamesdotter Minerva.  Sounds good for a story." The Ghoul shrugged, and crossed their arms to lean close to the fire before nodding. "Lihta.  Sounds like fire.  Has some warmth in it.  Hard sound, light sound.  Fast sound.  Good for people like us.  Flamesdotter Lihta.  Why not.  Easy name to keep."  The ghoul's face split into the first smile seen so far on their face. "My name." And that left the smith.  "Simple fir me.  Got a passion. Got no problem being known by that."  The smith's arm reached out over the fire to pour the tin coffee cup with the mixed blood of the four into the fire. "Call me Flameson...." ----------- Somewhere in the infirmary Hammersmith rubbed his remaining eye and muttered a protest against consciousness. Hammer's wiki. Leave rumors. Leave. Lots. Of Rumors.

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