Though the drizzle of rain washed away at the blood of lives lost and bodies dumped, the battlefield always seemed to remain the same - or so a once young man realised. Though having truly wandered to the front lines of seemingly constant conflict only months prior, there was a nostalgia to it. The sight of the dead, with their bloated bellies and bulging, belligerent, broken poses, caked in marshland mud; it was almost nostalgic, but not the sight.
No, it was instead the scent. The scent of death, of a cadaver having been freshly carved open. Be it by scalpel or sword, the scent was always the same.
Whispers of months past told of a certain man with exceptional skill and tactical insight traveling amongst the ready to die and eager to fight droves of mercenaries circling the Regalian Colonies in search of their next coinpurse - though it is neither his skill nor his insight that accredits him to these whispers so. Rather, it is the consistently helmed nature of this character that catches the eye of his peers, alongside his sullied, tarnished garments - hosting an all too dreaded and familiar crimson shade. That of the now fallen Banshee Queen.
Regarded as a deserter and often unmatched as a practitioner of the all too familiar Turall style of combat amidst his fellow Sellswords, those who have spotted the elusive, wayfaring figure described him as ordinary at best - hosting dull brown eyes and bleak black hair, he seemed to be little more than a trained soldier, ready to strike at a moment's notice. One familiar to warfare on a strategic level, leaving almost surgically stricken foes in his wake. Ended quickly, through either the strike itself or the onset of poison that would follow.
These whispers would fail to reflect of his absence, however, as rumour often leaves out the truth of such matters - exaggerating the reality into some moralising tune of a masked hero. No, the deserter now marched home with little more than the cloth on his back and the soup warming his stomach. Despite his stoic, calm nature, he was nothing if not a generous tipper to those that housed and fed him. Following the rise of the Emperor's Armies and their conquest to maintain order in the Realm, the deserter once called Lo returned to his home - not as a result of his journey's end, but simply its postponed nature, and the circumstance of loyalty to his remaining flesh and blood.
This day a lone deserter, seldom confused yet aware of his duty, returned home feeling a shred more akin to the Dragon's mantle that his family held waiting. Though he did so with much-disgruntled demeanour.
For he knew his beloved Sister would scream his ear off soon enough.
OOC Note: This is nothing serious or foreboding, but more so an hour's worth of work because I had an hour to kill and I thought to indulge a 5am idea. If any character happened to be performing mercenary work in the past few months and were familiar with Regalian Nobility, I guess they'd know Philip Kade was parading himself as a Mercenary in a merry band, around the Regalian Colonies with no destination in mind. No, it was instead the scent. The scent of death, of a cadaver having been freshly carved open. Be it by scalpel or sword, the scent was always the same.
Whispers of months past told of a certain man with exceptional skill and tactical insight traveling amongst the ready to die and eager to fight droves of mercenaries circling the Regalian Colonies in search of their next coinpurse - though it is neither his skill nor his insight that accredits him to these whispers so. Rather, it is the consistently helmed nature of this character that catches the eye of his peers, alongside his sullied, tarnished garments - hosting an all too dreaded and familiar crimson shade. That of the now fallen Banshee Queen.
Regarded as a deserter and often unmatched as a practitioner of the all too familiar Turall style of combat amidst his fellow Sellswords, those who have spotted the elusive, wayfaring figure described him as ordinary at best - hosting dull brown eyes and bleak black hair, he seemed to be little more than a trained soldier, ready to strike at a moment's notice. One familiar to warfare on a strategic level, leaving almost surgically stricken foes in his wake. Ended quickly, through either the strike itself or the onset of poison that would follow.
These whispers would fail to reflect of his absence, however, as rumour often leaves out the truth of such matters - exaggerating the reality into some moralising tune of a masked hero. No, the deserter now marched home with little more than the cloth on his back and the soup warming his stomach. Despite his stoic, calm nature, he was nothing if not a generous tipper to those that housed and fed him. Following the rise of the Emperor's Armies and their conquest to maintain order in the Realm, the deserter once called Lo returned to his home - not as a result of his journey's end, but simply its postponed nature, and the circumstance of loyalty to his remaining flesh and blood.
This day a lone deserter, seldom confused yet aware of his duty, returned home feeling a shred more akin to the Dragon's mantle that his family held waiting. Though he did so with much-disgruntled demeanour.
For he knew his beloved Sister would scream his ear off soon enough.
