This is all from IC interactions, though some will be added on since monologue/thought role play isn't exactly the most exciting to do in-game. Any context is not known by anyone else that are not in Fort Kronau (depending on content and scene), and of course most, if not all, thoughts are not known by anyone - save for possibly one or two other people. No meta-gaming and the like.
The Northerne brute of a woman kept herself seated among the peerage of those around her in the small width of the Commander's Tent. She could not help but allow her mind to drift from the babbling and whining each displayed in some form; the Rootling, a mess; the d'Eluise, torn; the Coens, perhaps even more sympathetic; Royland Blackwater, ever cut-off; the sole Heinrich, quiet.
Yet the sole Santorski remained silent, busied with her thoughts - albeit a hasty process with herself. She was, admittedly, running through processes and plans over and over in her head; what to do, when to do it, how to do it. It was no secret among the other Commanders -- perhaps even for some of the Fort goers -- that there was difficulty pinpointing down a seemingly solid plan. With William's able bodied ways of presenting confidence, maybe that sustained the overall image of the leadership. Yet, it was anything but stable.
What was the point of it all? Why were they all stuck here; why was each plan failing more or less? Where was the fault in their stars?
Ania clenched a fist against her frame. She had nearly forgotten her arms were crossed over her chest, at this rate pressing tightly against her bodice. With a bit of stern nipping, she aimed her statements to the currently stomping Rootling.
"If you cannot do it, I will send someone else. Can you handle it, Niantha," she said. The woman's eyes delivered a steely look to the plant. It seemed her original statement went unheard by the tantrum-throwing, bothered little plant, so after a half moment did Ania's covered hand slam palm-first onto the mahogany table, accompanied with a barking tone. "Can you handle it, Niantha?!"
"Yes!" the Rootling Niantha told Ania, forcing a determined tone behind all the whining, "Yes I can f*cking handle it!"
The tent was in a bit of disarray. She spoke over a few of the other voices as they went on -- Blackwater busy with Willard, Freya Heinrich's quiet add-ons to the situation with Niantha. Ania straightened up, looking towards the black eyes of the Rootling. "Then quit fussing. We are at war against our foes. There is no time for childish tantrums." The woman's lips further pursed. "Gather yourself and prepare for your departure."
The rest of the conversation held in the Tent drew little feedback from Ania after that. The images of war, of battle, ran through her head; the blood, the sounds of steel on steel; shield bashing against shield; the cries of men and women. Yet this was no war that was of the norm.
With a quiet departure, she left for one of the walls. Doing nothing more noticeable other than looking outward, she gazed from the snow-covered ground to the star-kissed sky.
Father,
You were a wise man, always were. You guided this family in ways many could not perceive; many wronged you - your own blood; I find myself yearning for you to live in this Realm again. Our family has lost much, but you never gave in to all that opposed us. Your hand kept us sane. You kept Mother happy, you inspired me to go farther than I thought I ever could.
I need your guidance. This resistance needs leaders who will not fail them. Bashturr has not given me any sort of message. I feel lost, Father. Our stakes are high, and our men grow weary. Torunn is here, by the luck she's had ever since we claimed her under our wings - thank the Gods she is safe, at least - but what is our cause, now?
Where do we go? How do we sustain? How do we fight?
. . .
Do not think little of me for being afraid, Father. I only wish to hear your voice again. You are with Julla, now, no longer a being in this Realm. Guide me, no matter where you are. Guide me.
Bashturr, guide me.
Commander tags: @BillyTheScroofy @D3RPOSAURUS @Eccetra @Walrusaur_ @Ryria @Femma @Film_Noir @IriCrescent @SirVicViper @Eyrok @Woodwork @Ragnio
The Northerne brute of a woman kept herself seated among the peerage of those around her in the small width of the Commander's Tent. She could not help but allow her mind to drift from the babbling and whining each displayed in some form; the Rootling, a mess; the d'Eluise, torn; the Coens, perhaps even more sympathetic; Royland Blackwater, ever cut-off; the sole Heinrich, quiet.
Yet the sole Santorski remained silent, busied with her thoughts - albeit a hasty process with herself. She was, admittedly, running through processes and plans over and over in her head; what to do, when to do it, how to do it. It was no secret among the other Commanders -- perhaps even for some of the Fort goers -- that there was difficulty pinpointing down a seemingly solid plan. With William's able bodied ways of presenting confidence, maybe that sustained the overall image of the leadership. Yet, it was anything but stable.
What was the point of it all? Why were they all stuck here; why was each plan failing more or less? Where was the fault in their stars?
Ania clenched a fist against her frame. She had nearly forgotten her arms were crossed over her chest, at this rate pressing tightly against her bodice. With a bit of stern nipping, she aimed her statements to the currently stomping Rootling.
"If you cannot do it, I will send someone else. Can you handle it, Niantha," she said. The woman's eyes delivered a steely look to the plant. It seemed her original statement went unheard by the tantrum-throwing, bothered little plant, so after a half moment did Ania's covered hand slam palm-first onto the mahogany table, accompanied with a barking tone. "Can you handle it, Niantha?!"
"Yes!" the Rootling Niantha told Ania, forcing a determined tone behind all the whining, "Yes I can f*cking handle it!"
The tent was in a bit of disarray. She spoke over a few of the other voices as they went on -- Blackwater busy with Willard, Freya Heinrich's quiet add-ons to the situation with Niantha. Ania straightened up, looking towards the black eyes of the Rootling. "Then quit fussing. We are at war against our foes. There is no time for childish tantrums." The woman's lips further pursed. "Gather yourself and prepare for your departure."
The rest of the conversation held in the Tent drew little feedback from Ania after that. The images of war, of battle, ran through her head; the blood, the sounds of steel on steel; shield bashing against shield; the cries of men and women. Yet this was no war that was of the norm.
With a quiet departure, she left for one of the walls. Doing nothing more noticeable other than looking outward, she gazed from the snow-covered ground to the star-kissed sky.
Father,
You were a wise man, always were. You guided this family in ways many could not perceive; many wronged you - your own blood; I find myself yearning for you to live in this Realm again. Our family has lost much, but you never gave in to all that opposed us. Your hand kept us sane. You kept Mother happy, you inspired me to go farther than I thought I ever could.
I need your guidance. This resistance needs leaders who will not fail them. Bashturr has not given me any sort of message. I feel lost, Father. Our stakes are high, and our men grow weary. Torunn is here, by the luck she's had ever since we claimed her under our wings - thank the Gods she is safe, at least - but what is our cause, now?
Where do we go? How do we sustain? How do we fight?
. . .
Do not think little of me for being afraid, Father. I only wish to hear your voice again. You are with Julla, now, no longer a being in this Realm. Guide me, no matter where you are. Guide me.
Bashturr, guide me.
Commander tags: @BillyTheScroofy @D3RPOSAURUS @Eccetra @Walrusaur_ @Ryria @Femma @Film_Noir @IriCrescent @SirVicViper @Eyrok @Woodwork @Ragnio
