Razgriz

IC: "I knew I should have sunk solids first." a voice grumbled, off to the Onu-Toa's right. "Stick's messed up too."

Youthful and smoky, it carried a tone of befuddled frustration.

For the third time that game, the pool cue was disseminated and reformed with slightly different grain structure from the palm of a simian calloused hand that begged for a sword in its' place.

Emerald eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow, as the vagabond son of the Salvajemono deftly plucked the white orb from his massive pool table's mouth, his preternaturally sharp vision managing to discern its form from the pearly whites it had nestled within.

"Alright, take your reset."

He tossed it above and across the broad chest in front of him.

prepare for raz fall

Name: Jolek

Gender: Male

Species: Toa of Magnetism

Appearance: Masculine and youthful, Jolek is only just past the cusp of true adulthood, seemingly still growing into his lean, diligently conditioned physique. A product of constant martial training and the rigours of survival within the coastal forests of Le-Wahi, the young toa almost feels in turn to be made of steel cable beneath his gunmetal armoring, sharpened to a razor’s edge and carried with a pantherlike, limber surety of movement. The black accents and silver highlights he carried with him since (presumably) his murky childhood, only markings being the thin white line down the right cheekbone of his Pakari: a battle scar earned in the defense of Ta-Koro against waves of wild Rahkshi. His countenance is altogether somewhat handsome, an agreeable mixture of his father’s strong jaw and brow with the sharp lines from his mother— now so much more obvious with the mysteries of his heritage removed. His eyes are golden and carry a certain melancholy that rests likewise in his expression, a sobriety of the Self not being Known.

Kanohi: Kanohi Pakari, the Great Mask of Strength

Powers: Elemental control over Magnetism, a pointedly underdeveloped skill. Only rudimentary knowledge due to self-teaching in a largely wooden environment.

Skills: Hand to hand combat. Even when the mind forgets all except it’s name, the body remembers countless hours of training— now hammered out to a point that could very comfortably be called “expertise” in the countless years spent in the jungle, no other knowledge of life before to speak of. A nak muay par excellence, a competent wrestler and grappler— within this single facet of combat, young Highwind has all but outright made it his life’s mission to chase Mastery. He is knowledgeable, astute, and analytic in regards to the fine details of fistfighting, enough to teach these skills with great insight if so motivated; his only friend in the world before civilization, Tarex, being one such example. This is His Craft.

Additionally, he has by necessity with such upbringing become a skilled survivalist, keeping himself alive in the remote jungles alongside his lone peer. A skilled hunter and trapper, Jolek is familiar with many of the beasts that roam the Le-Wahi forests and coastlines. He can stalk them for hours at a time, moving swiftly and silently, a ghost through the brush. He holds a working understanding of their habits and body language, picking weak Gukko from flocks, reading scratchings of trunks to know when Muaka or Ash Bears have claimed territory— even knows which taste the best, too. On more than one occasion, the two boys needed to learn these things the hard way.

So saying, he’s a pretty good cook and forager as well, having good instincts for smart and dumb ways of doing these things. Beyond that, in the realms of physical characteristics he’s quite strong, has excellent speed and sense of timing, and endurance built for marathons. His eyes and calm under fire only serve to heighten this fighting sense, reacting on a hair trigger after years playing a game of inches and fractions of a second. Tough as you like and fearless as the meanest Muaka in the jungle, he is very hard to put down. Tirelessly honed and constantly growing, his potential still exceeds what he’s accomplished. Only time will tell if it is ever realized.

Equipment: Standard-issue Ta-Koro Guard equipment (sometimes), large and robust survival knife, well-worn rucksack. Not much else.

Alignment: Strong spine

Personality and traits: When the Self is not Known, what sort of man can one be? Jolek, while still very the same fearless, driven, and justice-minded individual he always has been, has begun to find himself turning towards reflection— looking inward for the first time. Though his posture is still confident and assured, and his words still straightforward, even blunt; he has no self-concept, no image of “Jolek Highwind” residing within. For all his skill and experience in survival, he realizes now that he is raw as a person, indefinite and yet unrealized. He is still yet to learn who he is, and with that uncertainty comes an almost tempering sobriety to his outlook, once untamed as the woods in which he was forged.

He is competitive and faultlessly confident of his skill in the respective areas of life he calls his wheelhouse, and still seeks to use his father’s infamous sense of justice as moral guideline, as though seeking to honor where he came from just as much as genuinely aligning upon what is right and what is wrong. He tries to be a helpful force where he can, but oftentimes tries to attack the root of an issue as he understands it, whether such is folly, tactless, or otherwise ill-advised. His reckless streak tends to exacerbate these issues, and the constraints of protocol sometimes feel smothering to him.

While these things brew beneath the surface, in his-day-to-day interactions the young man is a diligent worker with a rough-around-the-edges manner, a holdover of his time as a child of the woods; kind yet direct, and unfailingly loyal to the few friends he has managed to make. Big on integrity, the young man endeavours to continually hold himself to honesty and accountability— in the Jungle, not being reliable was a death sentence. He walks with an agreeable, at times even naive saunter, but the undercurrent of quiet intensity is only growing stronger, readily apparent in the moments where he is seeming to, for the first time, discover a philosophy all his own.

History: His memories start with coughing up saltwater on the sands of Le-Wahi. Jolek’s story began as many of Mata-Nui’s denizens do, emergent from eternally shrouded mists of early childhood, impenetrable fog that locks away the man one was prior permanently. All he had ever kept from the life he had before that (assumed) shipwreck was a name on his tongue, a manner of fighting deep within his body, and a warhammer and knife washed up beside him. He was quickly discovered by Tarex, a vagabond Toa of Crystal roughly his age, that had been making his way towards a spot to fish nearby. A kindred spirit, and one who could luckily teach the young castaway enough of the basics of surviving in the jungle to keep him alive, a fast friendship forming between them as they shared their respective bases of knowledge. Jolek taught Tarex to fight, Tarex taught Jolek to hunt.

It was there that they would spend the entirety of their childhoods, honing these crafts to a razor’s edge as they lived day-to-day as little more than wildmen. Once struggling to survive within the dense brush, by their early adulthood their painstakingly constructed campsite was plain proof of graduation to truly thriving, essentially integrated into the ecosystem. After a chance encounter with a Muaka on the hunt and an inadvertent rescue of an eternally lost Toa, the two boys, now young men, finally struck out from “home”, swinging north from the shores of southeastern Le-Wahi and into the Charred Forest towards the storied fortress town of Ta-Koro.

After a lengthy hike and a short jaunt through the city, the two split, forging a Pact between blood brothers to become stronger by the time their paths crossed again. Each striking off on their lonesome, Jolek swung north, wandering up the coastline as he mindlessly sought adventure. He passed through a few villages, passed by a few other lives, but remained a noncommittal wanderer in spirit— A brief visit to a frigid Academy followed by a brief skirmish at a doomed hospital in that same city of fire, briefly reuniting with his brother by happenstance, but never taking the role of anything more than a bystander, an observer to the grander tale being spun, a faceless fighter whenever a dustup appeared in front of him. The amount of real friendships he’d fostered could be counted on a single hand.

He meandered through his so-called journey aimlessly, culminating in the defense of Ta-Koro from waves of Rahkshi spewing from the depths of The Mangai, distinguishing himself slightly as one of the city’s many defenders. Perhaps more importantly, he reunited with the father of his previous life— Perkahn Highwind, a fell-handed and world-worn Toa of Iron who, overjoyed, welcomed him into his home.

He spent the next year or so hunting and trapping in the Charred Forest, quietly taking in stories from his rediscovered parents of the lives he’d missed, before they slipped away for one last adventure, leaving him Rebellion in their wake. He would partake in his own breed of vigilante justice on occasion afterwards, a spree of thoughtless do-gooding that culminated in the alley front of the Lavapool Inn Offensive against the Chaotic Six. It was in the aftermath of this siege that he found himself interested in joining the Guard for the first time, perhaps struck by the clear devastation surrounding him, perhaps spurred on by the Guardsman he fought alongside, its noble Captain whom he calls a friend, or even the Akiri himself— he doesn’t remember, nor does he really see need to. More than that, he remembered the throbbing at the back of his skull he’d been gifted by the blue one, and the grudge that came with it.

As the weeks passed into months, he found his interest began to wane. It was a stifling environment, something about the procedure simply not clicking with him even if the men and women he was surrounded by were good people… and it was stagnant. He began to remember his Pact to grow, now seeming a distant memory. And when he looked back upon the life he’d lead thus far, especially compared to someone like the father he’d found and lost again…

He found himself wanting. Unworthy of the legacy he carried, both within Rebellion and within his Lineage. What sense was there in keeping up the charade of being like Perkahn when he still didn’t yet know what he WAS like? None. He had none of the stories to tell. None of the life to have lived. He lacked the individuation. The Highwind clan was more than he, a perennial coaster through his own life.

As dawn breaks upon Ta-Koro today, Jolek is still toiling through the system of guardsmanship, not knowing what the day ahead will bring, but quickly tiring of muzzling his instincts for life as one who Protects and Serves. There is so much more he could become. He knows it.

Maybe he’ll even know who he is, at the end of it all.

Weakness(es): Growing up in a heavily wooded environment and not having much access to ferrous metals, Jolek’s elemental control of Magnetism is nascent, rudimentary, and wholly unrefined. His is the most basic of understandings, not well trained in the least. He is reckless, competitive, and a little vengeful, prone to jumping into action and relying on his skills to get him back out in one piece. Additionally, he is still something of a naive young man in spheres outside of his wheelhouse, earnest enough to have been played for a fool before.
 

Name

Dinsmokk;Dii

Species

Skakdi of Ice

Gender

Male

Appearance

Large in frame and muscled to scale mountains by hand, Dinsmokk is an imposing figure even among his Skakdi brethren. Most prominently, morseo than even the karst spines that line his back, is the white protrusion of bone into his skull just above his right eye, covered by a patch of thick leather. The shattered fang of an enraged Tahtorak mother, blown off when the firearm he carried backfired into her jaw. His left arm is mechanical from the elbow down— similarly offered to her in order to free him from death. His natural armoring is a stark white, muted by granite greys and blacks. Like many Skakdi, his large, blocky teeth are often visible, either grinning amongst his people or sneering in cold amusement. His voice is overbearing and heavy, speaking with the gravitas of a cracking glacier.

Powers

Elemental Control of Ice, if used in tandem with another Skakdi. X-Ray Vision, which is constantly active in one eye due to the Tahtorak fang in his skull damaging the optic nerve. Additionally, he has dabbled in the blood magics of the Nakihl, learning to bind a single skeleton to his will, ordering it to mainly do menial tasks or serve as a distraction in combat. Said skeleton is of Bonema:Nii, the disgraced elder son of his clan who had his skull punched clean off by Arms. If used in combat, Bonema:Nii cannot do much more than swing a simple club of wood— but that may yet prove all the difference, and a more fitting legacy than the once-living owner left.

Skills

A seasoned mountaineer, having climbed the Eastern Spur from boyhood and conquering Tahto;Vaa in his Mantling. A toughman that presides over his people, he is proficient in Sarke, utilizing his burly frame and functional muscles to manhandle opponents in grappling. Holds a steady ear for counsel for both the Warlord and the Skakdi People of Khy;Barr, and is in tune with traditions regarding both Zakaz and the Pass itself. Additionally, he is very proficient at the Ria;Vaa, roughly “Song of the Mountain”, a low, rumbling overtone call produced deep in the throat. All Khy;Barr men and women know this technique, using it to signal eachother across peaks and sing praises to their Ancestors and Themselves in equal measure.

Equipment

A cybernetic arm, well-machined steel from his left elbow down. A pair of Ice Picks, serrated and sturdy enough to hold the weight of three Skakdi, and also coincidentally serving as vicious weapons in melee combat. Additionally, he is the owner of a painstakingly crafted Khy;Barr Custom, forged by himself as part of his Mantling. Hidden deep within his furs is a book, taken from Arms’ library, that contains the Words of Nakhil— the teachings that keep Bonema:Nii’s skeletal body bound to his command. (Approved by Tyler)

Other Possessions

An eyepatch of tanned Tahtorak hide, thick leather that counteracts his always-active X-Ray Vision in the left eye. Additionally, he wears thick furs that befit his station and heritage as a mountaineer— even if he may need them less, exposure is still risky.

Affiliation

Khy;Barr, the rocky fort of which houses his tribe and ambitions.

Alignment

Neutral Evil

Personality

Befitting a god-in-waiting forged from stone and frost, Dinsmokk is cold and brutal, unforgiving as the spine-breaking winds that surge at the peaks of Zakaz’s ranges. He does not suffer traitors lightly, knowing firsthand the value of loyalty— his spiteful, foolish elder brother, first son of the clan, serves as a reminder that you do not spite what you cannot defeat, lest you consider yourself long for the world unduly. As such, he takes care to foster it amongst the Skakdi that work in the cliffside and live in the mountainside cottages of the Eastern Spur, presenting himself as an advisor and intermediary with the ruling warlord as well as leading the manufacturing floor with a firm hand, as though training his iron fist for true rule. 

He is fearless of all things, even the Warlord he works aside— never beneath, to say nothing of Tahtorak or those that would challenge the cliffside fortress and settlement of Khy;Barr. The Mountains have made him far harder, and the tooth embedded within his skull is proof of his ambitions. They are numerous as they are far-flung, like taking all of Lesteri;Dak beneath his name, but he sees only worthy challenges for a God Ascendant. Even the rift, which claimed the Grinner’s soul, is not out of reach— only further along the path. A spiritual traditionalist, he sees the bloodline of Nektann:Dii as something to celebrate through song and deed— and to take a seat at the side of when he takes his rightful place in Kino-Ur. He knows that he will, but all will know when he does. For Khy;Barr to expand as he wishes, he knows he must hammer that same courage into his men, even as they hammer barrels into shape.

As with all Skakdi native to Zakaz, his partnership with the minority of Lesterin within Khy;Barr is a begrudging one, borne of enough cunning to recognize the skills of those lesser, the blood of Seprilli. He respects Arms as one does a force of nature, as he does the Tahtorak who marred his ruggedly handsome face with dental shrapnel, as he does the mountains he calls his homeland— not lived under terror, but facts of life to make the most of.

History

Born as the second son of the family that had claimed the Khy;Barr fortress within the Eastern spur as their territory, Dinsmokk spent much of his early life toiling away within the shadow of his elder brother, Bonema, who was being actively groomed by their father for succession. As such, he did bear witness to many of the teachings even if they were not directed to him— and absorbed them far better than his shortsighted fool of a brother could. Where the elder was far too absorbed in his own pride and fate, the younger, a likely advisor, spent his time climbing, training, and fighting. As second son, he was all but undefended by comparison, on a level playing field with the other gods-in-waiting. 

He learned of his culture, of his honored Ancestor, Nektann:Dii, of how to bellow his praises from the peak of the Spurs in overtone song. He learned to partake viciously in Sarke, throwing his weight as he grew into his large frame skillfully. He learned how the fort he occupied produced the guns that bought them power in their region of Zakaz, and how to run the production lines effectively. By the time his Mantling came, he was intimately familiar with all a Khy;Barr man’s many storied talents.

And what a Mantling it was. Not to be outdone by Bonema’s leap into Kvere;Ivi, Dinsmokk and his Mantling party marched far, far west, until they drove themselves upon the far side of Tahto;Vaa— the breeding grounds of the mighty Tahtorak, the fiercest Rahi on Zakaz. It was a feat of courage and cunning to steal away an egg from the mother’s clutch to begin with— but ripping oneself free from her enraged jaws before she brought them to a swift, foolhardy end was unequivocally a proofy of strength. His party had long fled east to their base camp by the time he had pried his head free from her jaws, forced to sacrifice both his left forearm and his Khy:Barr-manufacture pistol, the Najin Powder explosively ripping him— and some of her fang— clear.

They had believed him dead, but as loyal retainers of the sitting Warlord, they afforded his son (even if he was second) twelve hours to either silence the enraged roars of the Tahtorak mother, or proclaim his own victory louder. Ten passed, and they began packing. Upon the stroke of the eleventh, however, thunder rolled down from Tahto;Vaa’s peak. A Khy;Ria;Vaa.

The second son had scaled the mountain, Tahtorak egg in hand, heedless of the bloody stump of his left elbow and singing the praises of his ancestor Nektann:Dii. None could find him unworthy, and the man was shepherded back eastward, to the lands a boy had left.

He served as Bonema’s right hand for a number of years afterwards, eventually witnessing his end. His brother, shortsighted to the end, had run afoul of the brutally strong giant known as “Arms”, a four-armed engine of destruction that he had been using as a personal hurricane against his enemies, speaking out of the side of his mouth in promises he would never keep.

When Arms punched Bonema’s head clean from his shoulders, Tokhann could only muster an icy schadenfreude for him. He had long been working with the people of Khy;Barr as their Crew Chief— he’d had their ears for ages already. A new warlord, one so enormously strong and so content to keep things running smoothly, without vanity projects taking up valuable resources, would be much better to plan Khy;Barr’s conquest beside. This one was so much less caught up in himself, and could be made to understand the potential of their hardy, rugged tribe. If he was beginning to make deals with the Broker to expand their influence, then surely territory would soon follow.

With Dinsmokk as liason, the men of the Eastern Spur would surely fight for it.

Weaknesses

Cybernetic arm, if disabled, leaves him short of a usable limb. Additionally, if his eyepatch is removed, the eye beneath will constantly see with X-Ray vision, causing splitting headaches and loss of depth perception, forcing him to hold said eye shut lest it drain his strength. Finally, he is bold and fearless, always presenting strength— even in the face of something so dangerous as The Crown itself. Additionally, Bonema:Nii is exceptionally fragile— often scattering and needing reanimation after a single well-placed strike.

Next week there's gonna be more fanservice! Don't miss it!

IC: Cipher

...

"Oh, for the love of—"

Who the karz was gonna take me to Kini-Nui now?

hey, that's us!

Love posting with my good friend Artorias in the Perpetual Darkness of the Abyss

as canon as these hands boi

///\\\

Never Die.

help my last active character is being held hostage in a google doc this is me blinking twice to signal that i'm in danger

IC:

The briefest of switches to single-line.

<<Nova Two-One, this is Two-Three, howcopy?>>

And under the guise of establishing comm clarity when both knew they were green, Nikolai could hear the smirk on the Alluvionite's face (and the full weight of his accent, so measured it was for official comms) as he a drew a pair of fingers to his brow in a cheeky "salute".

<<Yo, Buddy. Still alive?>>

Back to team frequency.

IC:

As though prompted, a third TEAMCOM notification appeared upon Nikolai's HUD roughly in time with the frame of yet another Spartan clambering into the barebones "cockpit" of one of the remaining booster frames. As the power systems and HUD linked, his Air Assault helmet feeding him such innocuous details as bearing, velocity, hardpoints, "hull integrity" (for what that was worth when piloting a glorified, 26th century F-104), and other such necessities for spaceflight.

Hmhm. So, the top brass decided to put guys like him and Niko in the same unit as the Elite. Two ODSTs that were born and bred to kill her people, from the moment they left the womb. Well, bureaucracy had never been known for clarity of planning, but this seemed bad enough when he'd received orders day-of-operation to switch posts— to say nothing of throwing a man from a glassed planet into the same unit as the spectres of his past. He was going to need a lot of coffee if this were a sign of things to come.

But, priorities. He had always slept with one eye open, this Covvie would prove no difference in that matter— not for now. In a ship surrounded by "demons" any overt action would only ensure her a swift end at the tip of some 7.62. For now, best worry about the hornet's nest their orders were to kick. Kig-yar always did have a satisfaction element to them, the slimy little weasels...

<<Spartan Miguel Herrera, performing preflight checks. Lo siento, Nova Actual, but orders came in from the top around when our drone operator's did. I caught your briefing, but didn't realize they hadn't informed you I was joining, over.>>

His voice, rich in timbre and melodically accented, carried over the team communications as he lightly tugged at the controls, checking for problems with the thrust vectoring systems, retros, other such minutiae of maneuvering. He'd done well on sims and in training exercises, as avid a learner as a Spartan as he was a Bullfrog or Hellbringer. In some senses, it hearkened back to the atmospheric fighters of the 20th century much more than the Longswords ever could, despite both inheriting the craft designation. Maneuverability was this thing's bread and butter... or more accurately, it's saving grace. If he could not manipulate a frame in the void, he was at best stranded for the ten to twenty minutes MJOLNIR was rated for...

And at worst, an early meeting with mi padre. So, honestly, could be worse.

He hadn't lied, either— he'd walked into the hangar just as she called the huddle, not seeing the need to speak up until she'd neglected to delegate him to one of the squads— and by that point, there was no sense in dragging feet, since everyone was mounting up. A slow Spartan was a dead Spartan. It was regrettable that such additions came at the last minute, yes, and each side of the equation was begrudged by it, but all he could do now was integrate as smoothly as possible.

<<All systems green.>>

Another voice of howling wind joined the growing cacophony within the Madrigal's hangar.

Name: Miguel Herrera

Species: Human

Gender: Son of Toledo Nuevo, y Domingo Herrera, thank you very much.

Age: 30

Appearance: Standing at 6'9 and weighing in at a lean 300 pounds (you know, for a Spartan), Miguel is naturally somewhere close to a foot taller than he was as a Bullfrog, but keeps mostly the same proportions of "athletic and balanced", if on the trimmer side of the equation. To any that knew him prior to his date with ORCHID, this means exactly squat, as the man now looms over them and feels like he's made of stone. But the more things change, the more they stay the same— he still has the same earthy eyes, strong onyx brows, and dashing, daring smile. His features are charmingly robust, accompanied by a close-cropped head of black hair and a serendipitous mustache that are mindful to not get terribly out of hand, though he half-jokingly contends that he should be allowed a "properly suave mane". Can tone his Exoplanetary Spaniard accent down on a mission. Happily refuses to everywhere else. His posture is quite lax for a Spartan, even considering he's a IV, and he'll quite readily chat and joke as though he were still a soldier of more mortal ken. Attributes the small, linear scars on each cheekbone to a near-miss involving a Sangheili energy sword, but the jury's out on whether or not it's as true as the "shaving with one's own combat knife" story.

Rank: Spartan

Personality: That the stereotype of combat soldiers being hardcases has to an extent still survived into the 26th Century is no problem of Herrera's. Like many an ODST among those they recognize as "their kin", he is lighthearted, goofy, and seemingly carefree in interpersonal interactions, a gracious and welcoming host in his quarters and openly approachable outside of them. His lax affectations serve to disguise what they stem from in the first place— a full confidence in his own skill. Miguel may have that distinctly Hispanic flair for bombast, yes, but he has trained long and hard for this life of warfare, and it shows in his constant and consistent readiness for anything. When one rarely sleeps, they tend to find the time to keep themselves sharp everywhere else. Given his history within the UNSC prior to becoming a supersoldier, it is safe enough to say that he has no lack for bravery. Something of a rogueish streak within him rears its head in battle, especially in the face of Covenant forces— underhanded tactics and fighting with some panache are both perfectly acceptable psychological warfare to him, even if military discipline and a "strict code of honor" are sources of pride. Notably hides his darker emotions behind his usual veil of amiability and good humor.

Background: The son of a UNSC factory worker in the city of New Toledo, Miguel was born into a mild spring on September 29th, 2528, on the world of Alluvion. The childhood he enjoyed there was, by all accounts, rather normal— for a Border World with the spectre of War looming over it. It was certainly no coincidence that his father Domingo had a habit of "bringing his work home with him", per se, teaching his young son about the firearms he produced quite far ahead of schedule. But, one must remember, a little rough-and-tumble is to be expected on the colonial frontier. Childhood scuffles before dinner. Adventuring just a bit too high up the many trees and getting yourself stuck. Receiving earfuls from your mother for breaking something when trying to "hammer at the forge" like your father, while he tries to stay stern and angry atop bubbling mirth. Kid Stuff, really. As time went on, the rambunctious child, then preteen, began to seriously wonder where his path in life would lead. He wasn't half the man his father was, an opinion he knew he would always hold, but that pride he held in knowing his family was fighting the good fight, forging weapons to beat back their foes lead to a conflict of desires within the boy. Would he follow in the factory footsteps? Would he take his boundless energy into the front lines? For all he loved his father, he could not say while still so young.

And then 2542 happened, and the Covenant made the choice for him forever. New Toledo and its factories, being key strategic assets to the UNSC, were swiftly attacked by the Fleet of Particular Justice in the initial assault against the major population centers and spaceports. Given as the initial probes the year prior had stirred up a full military response by the UNSC, he had enough time to get out alive— but only barely, on one of the last evacuation vessels to retreat behind allied lines before the support fleet arrived and began to glass the surface of the planet, many millions of lives still succumbing to flames. One such was Domingo Herrera, having taken a solemn, unanimous vow alongside his foreman and fellow floor workers to produce supplies around the clock for the troops securing the escapes of their loved ones. Toledo Nuevo was beaten, yes, but they would never be broken.

Now robbed of the man he worshiped as a hero, the home he loved dearly, and the great majority of his family, Miguel found a gaping wound rent into his heart by fire... and with fire it filled again. It was a shame he were not just a few years younger— he would have made for a very good III. The young man, only 14, turned all of his precocious energy towards the fight with singular focus, that which he had so lacked in his life before. Even within the confines of the ship, before he relocated, he began to train his body— racing down its halls until he dropped. For the next 4 years, this continued without pause, for when a man of Alluvion takes a vow, only an act of God could stop him from seeing it through. Running, calisthenics, even taking up classes with a fencing instructor— all were towards a singular goal. September 29th, 2546 saw the enlistment of one very spirited marine. After psychological screening and, as he tells it, answering the question of "How do you feel about working with open flame?" with "Better than the aliens will.", he graduated boot and was shunted straight into a Hellbringers unit, where he defied the harrowing odds of survival for a full year. At the earnest nudging of one of his COs, he took a stab at ODST. After a year's work carrying a fuel tank on your back and attacking entrenched positions with streams of aerosolized rage, orbital drops didn't seem terribly awful by comparison, you know? The training was otherworldly, asking everything even a man like him had, but he refused to be Returned To Unit. Domingo Herrera did not raise, nor die to save the life of, a quitter.

Full marks.

The overseers of the program took one look at Miguel and slotted him into an additional training regimen, noting his bravery: Bound School. Colloquially, this made him a "tadpole", as it set his future to be within the "Bullfrogs", or ODST Air Assault Unit. He, of course, had no issue with the idea of a volatile backpack. For another two months he was drilled on AA tactics and the usage of the Series 8 Jetpack system in urban warfare,  and then the PFC was off to the races. Serving under an even-handed officer, he was allowed just enough wiggle room for a few peculiarities to slip through in combat, but luckily seemed to understand when he was being reined in. His bravado did not supersede his fellowship with the rest of the fireteam, and he could hang tough with any of them in any situation. His drops took him to vistas such as the Siege of New Alexandria, Manassas, even a stint on Earth, in his ancestral home.

Following war's end, Miguel was one of the many that were more than happy to still take the fight to remnant forces that defied the armistice, blood still running hot at the notion. He continued to serve as a Bullfrog, skirmishing with belligerent forces until Spartan Ops approached him with the prospect of a three-week paid vacation on Mars. Ever the daredevil, the sales pitch hadn't even finished before he'd agreed.

Equipment: Cyclops Armor and an Air Assault helmet make for a sharp ensemble in urban camouflage. Magnum comes standard, as does the combat knife. Everything else... the phrase "Marines make due" has survived for well over 500 years for a reason. Given his experience in the role of Air Assault Jump-Jetting, it's a no-brainer that he'll be wearing the Series 8 if the need arises. He's got the training. The same can be said for the M7057 flamethrower, but these situations tend to be less common than the former.

Skills: Fearless, deft, and startlingly comfortable around most things involving flame, Miguel's main deviations from the general well-rounded Spartan wheelhouse find themselves mainly in his distinct specialization in the realm of Air Assault. A former "Bullfrog", or member of the ODST's Special Purpose Forces Air Assault unit in standard nomenclature, he specializes in the verticality and mobility necessary for urban combat, bounding from rooftop to rooftop via jetpack to secure and hold key firing positions. This naturally necessitated a comfort with CQB tactics as well— no sense in letting the floor below your objective go unattended when a group of Jackals could be nested within. Given that his military career began with a stint in the pyrotechnics division (dubbing themselves the "Hellbringers"), he's quite familiar with the M7057 weapon platform and acting in a small squad role. If you need a man to engage entrenched infantry or quickly take a point over difficult terrain and do either with a maximal score on style, look no further. As for his downtime hobbies, he quite enjoys the historical fencing of his ancestral homeland as well as cooking, finding the both of them therapeutic, even meditative.

Flaws: Has an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. The torching of New Toledo left many scars on its proudest son, and the largest of which was the hole in his heart shaped like his father that he wished to fill with the blood and ashes of the monolithic enemy that took him away. While the peace agreement has forced him, like anyone, to mellow internally, not even his affable air can fully hide his distrust for the races that were just yesterday the bitterest of foes. He's an insomniac, barely skirting the UNSC-mandated 150 minutes of sleep per 48 hour cycle— and his showmanship streak likely doesn't stem from purely clinical idea of "psychological warfare" as he claims. Perhaps seeing demons wreathed in flame while dreaming left him with a few ideas on how to even the score, but we all know the saying of what happens to those who play with fire.

screw it, I'll riot anyway, just to do it

i won't believe in anything until tiragath comes back

See you as GLORY champ in 3 years baby

just let me dust off the "i'm gonna kill this game" bit

OOC: @Unreliable Narrator

IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro Streets 

"It's not bad for a guy who by all accounts picked it up a day ago. You got a feel for it quicker than I'd figured."

Offhanded explanations aside, I openly allowed myself a thoughtful frown as I folded my arms and pondered the actually pertinent question he'd asked. Dorian and I had met here several times before, true, but it always seemed as travelers crossing paths rather than anything else. Ever since Anthyn, we seemed to be content to simply meet when those journeys intersected and part once either respective road led us to. No real rhyme or reason beyond "I tend to show up for the important bits" that I knew. To be honest, this was the first time we'd earnestly promised to meet somewhere specific in recent memory—

That is, if you ignored where his pit stop was gonna be.

Regardless, this meant that I hadn't the most perfect grasp of who he really knew from here— names like Flay, Tuara, Skyra, Onuzek, Stannis, and Cael all passed through my train of thought, but I knew many of them to be scattered to the four winds as we ourselves, and didn't know them near as much as I knew he knew them. Even if we all shared one story, I knew preciously little about even some of my closest allies.

...Well putting it like that makes it sound lonely as all karz. 

Yeesh, Compassrose.

"Can't say." I finally replied, shrugging my shoulders. The bird on my pack seemed to be used enough to the natural sway of my cadence already, so he wasn't overly bothered. "We have a nasty habit of just dropping in and out on eachother. Even a guy like Onuzek, I've only met the once before."

OOC: @Unreliable Narrator

IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro, Gaksi's Bird Store. 

Blankly, I stared over my shoulder at the Matoran's leaving form.

...

A pair of beady black— no, actually dark brown— eyes tried to meet mine, ensconced within a mess of sun-colored plumage. I slide mine down, and find the Screamer nested (somehow) within the crook between my bedroll and the strap of my bag. Right down at the bottom corner of my line of sight.

A soft chirp heralded a nibble at the corner of my kanohi, maybe as some attempt at allopreening. Luckily for the little guy it wasn't under the impression my face was a chew toy. It'd have really soured my notoriously good mood.

But, more importantly, the sensation made everything click into place.

...Alright.

You got me, you little son of a brakas.

I started to follow him through the throng, after giving Kotzu and Gaksi my thanks on the way out.

IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro (Gaksi's Bird Store)

"You sure?" I asked, idly waving away a beak from behind me as it tugged curiously on something it wasn't supposed to. "I've got time if you need it. Believe me, these things like to work out either way."

OOC: @Unreliable Narrator

IC: Cipher - Ga-Koro

I smirked, touching my knuckles to the lively Ko-Matoran's.

"Got a mean left hook on him. Good to meet you."

My fist practically dwarfed hers in frame alone, through the natural difference in build between us as Matoran and Toa. Factoring in that hers was (to my knowledge) so much less conditioned than mine on top of that... Must have felt a little weird for both of us. I've thrown a lot of punches in my life, and I won't call all of 'em smart; my first two knuckles were a touch more pronounced than anyone else in the building's.

Probably felt like fistbumping a rock on Kotzu's end.

Pulling away, I made sure to mind the ceiling— Ga-Koro housing, being on a lilypad as it was, was a bit smaller than other villages by necessity of light weight. Not to the point where I myself was squeezed, but there wasn't much extra headway left for, say, a halberd made to Toa scale— polearms are generally accepted to be taller than their wielders by a noticeable margin, after all. I'd held it in my off hand at a bit of an angle as we entered to minimize the chance of dragging a spearhead through Gaksi's roof.

This was all to say nothing about carrying camp on my back through this mess of caged avians. I wouldn't have been surprised if a few of the more adventurous ones didn't try to grab a flap of a pocket, or maybe my hastily stuffed duster within one, through the bars. I never knew much about owning them, but experiencing them in the wild taught one more than enough about how they played when they saw something they could get their beaks around.

Deal with that when it came. For now, I'd let my friend and his friend catch up quietly.

you've been added to the list

we stan sparky

OOC: @Vezok's Friend @Unreliable Narrator @Tyler Durden

IC: Cipher - The Great Takea

Cool and refreshing, I downed a healthy swig of the cactus water. Took a fair bit of rummaging around behind that cabinet of hers to retrieve it... well, all I'll say is that I appreciated the note of florality and how smoothly it went down. I've never really kept track of the economics regarding cactus water shipment, so I didn't know how much of a windfall this really was— but all the same, it was fresh as advertised. 

Bottle she used looked fancy enough. I'd feel pretty safe in guessing the Skakdi— Rhow, I'd heard in passing— had treated us to a good one.

"Obliged." I replied, raising the mug for a moment in thanks before my smile shifted to a smirk. "And it was my pleasure. I like this place, y'know?"

As Rhow then made her way over to Arero, so did my attention. He'd managed to suss out the second marine's accent fairly well now, and had been giving a brief rundown on the idividual he was looking for... a "Kotzu". Sold tea, pale Akaku-shaped mask, Ko-Matoran...

In spite of myself, I'd begun to run through my admittedly short list of names and faces to try and peg a match while I savored the slightly bittersweet water. Couldn't tell you why. Ko-Koro was a rare stop for me most of the time— I've probably wandered the drifts more. Even though I always make sure to at least look for civilization, within all that whiteness that was easier said than done.

Nothing came. I had a vague recollection about passing a birdseller one of my visits to Ga-Koro, at least, but it certainly wasn't a solid one. Never patronized one of those in my life, thankfully. Taking an animal into my life would be cruel and unusual to the poor thing, for sure. I got into too much trouble.

Not that I'm gonna say it to his or his friends' faces, but it'd probably get eaten.

Ah, he was walking back over. Guess things finished up.

"Ready when you are, pal." I replied with an easy grin, setting the empty mug down onto the table as I scooped up my halberd from the depths of the booth. "You've got a friend waiting."

"...That way we'll probably meet in Ga."

Clock's ticking, D.

I just done the best I could with what I had. — Joe Louis

No plot movement here, just one part a tribute and one part self-indulgence.

This kinda work is long overdue for my boy. Can't wait to get started with him next arc.

IC: Jolek Highwind - Ta-Koro

Rebellion.

A double-bitted battleaxe of largely standard, but sturdy make. 

In looks, it really wasn't anything special. Well-kept, weighty and long, the Stormbringer wasn't one for striking imagery when he could simply strike. He was... like that. He was like that about a lot more than just how he had his weaponry crafted. It ran through his blood. Nothing put to waste. Not one bit more than necessary.

With the quartet of would-be adventurers having long departed in search of some new trouble to get into, Jolek Highwind quickly excused himself from his superior(s) in turn, a haphazard yet exact pile of widgets in his wake. There was a lot about city life he still didn't get, but "not owing things" wasn't amongst the number— that much even a jungle boy knew how to extrapolate easily. Warrant Officer Soter and Private Elly were pretty generous in letting him tag along, sure, but he wasn't ready to have any hard debts to them. The latter was definitely the type to hold it over his head some time down the road, and if "Taku Wash" were any indication...

I'll get taken advantage of for a laugh.

Pass.

Not my thing.

...It was a much safer investment. A little cash to take the place of a lot more energy and temper.

"I'm gonna head out. You guys have a good one."

He'd heard such values— that frugality and lack of needless frills— were passed down in their family from man to man. Duibhne Highwind. Diarmuid Highwind. Perkahn Highwind. Jolek Highwind. Fathers to sons, keeping their unlucky, unsung clan from getting their heads too big. "As if," the weatered Fe-Toa had said with a sardonic laugh, "life hadn't done it enough."

Jolek felt a hand creep towards the lengthy pommel that peeked over his shoulder as he walked. It was still a very unfamiliar weight upon his back to simply move around with, let alone contemplate. Nothing approaching crushing, not when you'd carried around something resembling a sledgehammer of similar proportions— but it felt weird in comparison. That, he supposed, made it seem far heavier than it should be.

He gripped it firmly for a moment.

Or maybe it's because this thing's family, too.

He lifted.

Perkahn Highwind and Arianna Highwind knew these things— the weight of a good battleaxe, the misfortune of their line, and how to take pride in both. They knew far better than he ever could, if he had to guess. Wherever they were.

His mother and father had left it to him without a word. They'd left... Everything. The house, the axe, the histories of both. That long-sought freedom that they'd built with their own two hands, enduring years of struggle and injustice. Criminal branding. Loss of those loved. Stuff he could scarcely comprehend— their stories were a lot bigger than his. He felt, even now, like an outsider looking in. Just some lunkhead from the humid forest to the south, barely knowing himself.

Let alone the weights they had shouldered.

He traced a familiar path across the flat of the head, where an old fight had once left the scar of warping. The eldest surviving Highwind had removed it himself, after another Toa of Iron (Kree, or some name like that) tried to be cute and turn his cutting edge elastic in a barfight. Perkahn had molded it into a greatsword for the next couple of minutes the tussle lasted. He'd liked telling that story. Always said that it was much more entertaining than the others that had scars still attached. The burns on his right hand, the map of weathering on his Kakama, those didn't have half the funny factor of "My opponent actually thought I yielded when I asked her to. Could you imagine?" 

A finger floated up to trace the white line on his cheekbone while he rounded a familiar corner. It made sense in hindsight, but Jolek had never realized just how sharp Rahkshi staffs truly were until one had sliced him open— and gotten its head lopped off for the trouble. Sharp as the wits of their master Makuta, but not sharper than Rebellion. 

That was how he'd describe it. If each scar had a story, then he had so many fewer than the man who had once taught him so much— before that siege, his slate had been wiped clean. He'd missed a lot of stories. There were a lot of memories, a lot of weight, a lot of meaning attached to all he'd been left. While he was spending simple days in Le-Wahi, that man had built the house he now stood before himself, piece by piece, wasting nothing. He had rubbed shoulders with warriors, leaders, men of all stripes and creeds. He had fought, raged, cried, and laughed as he wrested his name itself out of the mud, seeking justice. Jolek had gleaned little bits of it over their time together, just enough to know that each mark the years had left upon Perkahn's Kanohi carried a whole lot of hard life with it.

Compared to that, he was just a wisp. A ghostly, uncertain figure within that epic saga. One thin line, right at the end.

The porch was getting a little dusty.

Shields adorned the short hall inward, as they did seemingly every wall in the entire house. He hadn't known any man of the Highwind family to ever use one, actually— not that he was told. Rather, it was just...

"A collection, dear." Arianna Highwind had once told her curious boy, now a young man in his own right. Her voice was so unlike her husband's, soft, gentle, and always thoughtful. He'd always guessed that his ability to teach came more from her than Perkahn. She was a healer who had spent lonely days waiting with faith and grace beyond imagining, helping the village however she could. Even with a husband maligned, even with her flesh and blood missing or dead. "Your Father liked taking the crests, back when we were your age."

The countless months that she had spent tending this place on her own must have been like that too. Surrounded by shields with stories all their own, each a trophy from some victory, combative or otherwise. Tale after tale adorning those spotless, immaculate walls, while she lived out her own. How many were here when they had first built this place? How long did it take for them to begin to truly cover them? How many were won in a fight, how many were looted, how many were bargained for? He didn't doubt that she knew what each one meant.

Karz, he'd seen the woman's skill with her blade and her lightning— he wouldn't even be surprised if a few were hers, pacifist or otherwise. The elegant Vo-Toa lacked the scars Perkahn had, but hers wasn't an easy road either. Jol wasn't a very emotionally smart guy, that much he could freely admit. He was one of a pair of dudes who only really knew eachother when they came to this town, and were more busy making sure they were alive than really learning anything of the soul.

But even he knew that nobody cried like that seeing someone's face unless they had been hurting for a long, long time.

The martial artist dipped his head forward, peeking around a corner to observe the kitchen. Spotless. Untouched. Empty.

It had been for a good while now, hadn't it? Right when he was getting used to coming home from a hunt or trapping spree to a bowl of salad and feta. It had seemed like she was always there, until she just wasn't. Until neither of his parents were.

Given that he didn't have the heart to tell her just how out-of-place he felt sometimes, even in the face of their earnest efforts to welcome their returned son into their life... It was a small blessing that they had decided to go on one more adventure. He felt pretty selfish thinking that. No, he was definitely selfish. Accountability was irreplaceable, so to run from it was foolishness. Jungle Law. Be real.

"...Like I know what's real, huh?"

But that was the problem.

What was real for him? Everything his parents remembered, from the time before some great storm had taken him from them? He couldn't disregard it. Not to them, after they'd worked so hard for his sake, after he had miraculously came back into their lives. Their reality definitely included that, and their memory of him definitely included that too.

But his memory started after he'd coughed up seawater, far away from their home and this family. All he knew then was his name, how to fight, and he was staring at the Jungle before him. That was his world for every part of the childhood he'd lived, everything he could ever recall unclouded by a thick veil of inky fog. To deny that it was the foundation for who he considered himself to be would be more than wrong, more than painful. It'd just be stupid.

So. 

A weapon was reserved for somebody with the assuredness to use it. You didn't give dangerous things to those who didn't understand them, that much was really simple stuff anybody with half a brain could get.

Did he have the right, then, to hold Rebellion?

Simply made or not, the battleaxe was more than just a weapon, wasn't it? It wasn't something quite like what he could walk down to a local forge and get made for him within a week, it had a history.

It had a memory.

It had a story.

It had a weight.

One I don't know the half of. I'm sure you meant well, Old Man. I think I know you well enough to say that much.

But I don't think I deserve this yet. Not until I know me well enough to.

Honesty.

Honor.

Confidence.

Respect.

Discipline.

Self-Control.

Courage.

The principles of a martial artist. Things one aspired to be for their whole lives. He wasn't perfect at all of them— he probably wasn't even perfect at any of them, truthfully. But he knew that they were the things he had to be during times of real importance. If he wasn't, he'd falter as a man. He would fail his teachings, more than he had already in forgetting who they came from.

This was one of those times, wasn't it?

...Yeah.

The fireplace's humble stone, just as the house leaned against the walls of the fortress city, found Rebellion leaning against it once more.

Just as it had been left. 

He owed such a sanctified, venerable thing that much, at least.

After all, when Perkahn Highwind returned, he'd want to know where to find that tool for freedom. The weight upon his back that he knew best. Something that had shared the scars, seen him through the memories, and written the tale of his life through fire and blood.

The front door quietly closed, and two stories of wood, iron, stone, and history were once again left in solitude, standing silently vigil over the outskirts of the rebuilding cityscape.

Until that time came, Jolek Highwind would write a few of his own.

He had no doubt in his heart that they were both out there, same as his brother in all but blood from The Jungle.

They were a strong bunch, the people that were important to him. He knew better than to worry about anyone he could feasibly call his kin. Rather than that, a weird little thought struck him.

"Hey, Dad?"

He'd promised one that they would meet again and compare their growth, once upon a time...

He glanced back over his shoulder—

"...When you see me next, I'll be sure to have a couple stories for you to hear."

—And began to walk forward.

Not one more word was necessary.