#technicaltactical

If there’s one thing that Vesci hated the most about these long missions, it was the camping. Huddled around a fire with total strangers - strangers who has undoubtedly seen her at her worst, already - and hoping against hope that nothing come out of the festering tunnels around them to strike while they slept. To hope against hope that your companions wouldn’t think to strike, while you slept.

She did not know what to make of these people. 

One in particular, stood out. The man with the lantern; what was she to address him as? What did he do? He seemed not quite a warrior, not like the Hellions or Crusaders that made the Hamlet their stomping grounds, that would slam their gold in her palm if she told them a stone would give them the strength of a lion. 

(One she explained what a lion was, at least.)

But the man was also not the quiet Occultists, not the contemplative damned, not the sly highwaymen and robbers that slipped by in the unholy hours. She supposed he was none other than himself, which made him dangerous. She could not create a plan to speak with him, she could not decipher how to best bond with him to prevent his wrath. Not that she could, much, to move still sent fire up her arm from the surely festering cuts long her limbs.

The swinefolk had no sympathy for the inexperienced.

“... Er, sir,” she begins, wrapping up her own cuts. “Do you want me to... dress your wounds? This endeavor is going somewhat poorly, so it is important to... keep our health up, even in the little ways.” She does not say she believes it is going poorly because of her shaking hand, only worse since her chance in the ruins.

She probably doesn’t have to.

Maybe it shouldn’t be as puzzling at it was, but something about the other’s tactics seemed a little...off. She had one her wars using guerilla tactics and hunting skills, getting in and out before the enemy knew what was going on. So the idea of using explosives, especially in the type of attack that they were training for, was just kind of weird. 

So after they finished their training, he met up with her while she was doing inventory on all the explosives she had, as well as she seemed to be making new ones. So she simply sat down next to her, trying to spark some sort of conversation.

@technicaltactical

It wasn’t often that Toustain went to the blacksmith. But the Heir had sent her word that her armor and mace both needed to be set to the man's flame, and she, too meek to even ask any questions, had done as told.

She had dressed in her vestal's robes, not wanting to be mistook as anything but what she was. It was nervewracking in a way to visit these places, the bellows pumping hot air, the atmosphere stinging with heat. She had plans to visit the Guild as well, and then even the market, if she had time, but her day was going to be busy going to and from the buildings. She thinks of the abbey above, unattended, and worry flares in her stomach. God.

@technicaltactical

Toustain doesn’t spend a lot of time at the guild, but she thinks that she should more often. She needed to become as strong as she could - she didn’t want to be a liability to her team. An asset had to be tough, and while she knew no one was expecting her to be a front liner, she had to get stronger. But it was hard to get herself there - everyone else was bigger than her, stronger. She was just as serious, and just as devoted, she just... had a hard time looking the part.

But there were some, she knew, that would always take her seriously. Or even, maybe. Have fun with her. If she was lucky. Across the floor from her was a familiar figure, tall and solid. Someone who others wouldn’t doubt belonged here. And right now, she was getting ready to go head to head with him. Would it end well? She didn’t think so. She looks over Luther again. No, she knows so. But... maybe she could manage some humor.

Sparring! WITH FRIENDS!

@technicaltactical​

It’s been over a month since she’s seen the arsonist. Usually that wouldn’t bother her- sometimes the mercenaries of the Estate wander off for months at a time. But the man had seemed a bit of a loner, and he hadn’t wandered back, as so many of them were wont to do. They all eventually came out of the wilds and back to the Estate. The comforts of the Tavern or the Brothel call them home. Or… to this place that many of them have come to think of as some strange iteration of home.

She took some torches and a bag of food, set on searching the outreaches of the Weald. She heard from a few in town that the Arsonist – Luther, if her memory serves – was prone to camping out there. So, it’s that way she goes.

It takes a day, pushing through the dense underbrush. It’s strange to spend the night alone at a campfire. Toustain is hit with the eerie and very real fear that this could happen when they were out on a mission. That someday… no.  No, she won’t think about that.During the daytime, when the light is good, the forest is nearly welcoming. There’s a sickly cast to the sky, and the trees are somehow not right, red moss growing on their flesh, creatures with yellowed teeth peering at her from long grasses in the odd clearing, but… it’s tolerable. It’s much preferable to some of the other sights she’s witnessed in the wilds around the Estate.

Toustain comes across a stream, and drinks from it, hand dipping into the clear water and bringing it to her lips. It isn’t brackish, the river’s current much stronger downstream as it gained ground.  Here it was calm. She stabs at the fish until she manages to spear one, and cooks it over a small fire, turning it, watching its glassy eyes. The meat is serviceable but she thinks she’s overcooked it, and the bones scrape at her tongue. She moves downstream at a serviceable pace, and as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, she sees it- smoke in the distance. Where there is smoke, there is fire. And where there is fire, most likely, there’s an Arsonist.

She picks up the pace, vestal’s robes feeling a bit heavy on her frame by the time she stumbles into his campsite. The fire, of course, is the centerpiece of it all. But she doesn’t see him – no, she. She does?She sees a man. Or a man’s back, specifically. Luther, she assumes, is bent down near the river, doing… something. Toustain narrows her eyes, stepping closer. The crackling of the fire covers her footsteps as she approaches, chin jutting forward as she tries to decipher what exactly is going on with his skin.