The Legacy of Jahandar Hassanzadeh

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

The Legacy of Jahandar Hassanzadeh

Post by Kent » August 27th, 2022, 1:38 pm

Erich Maria Remarque, 1929 wrote: A little soldier and a clear voice, and if anyone were to caress him he would hardly understand, this soldier with the big boots and the shut heart, who marches because he is wearing big boots, and has forgotten all else but marching.

Beyond the sky-line is a country with flowers, lying so still that he would like to weep. There are sights there that he has not forgotten, because he never possessed them--perplexing, yet lost to him. Are not his twenty summers there?
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Jahandar Hassanzadeh
Full Name: Jahandar Hassanzadeh
Birthdate: 11th of Icereign, 1318 A.S.
Birthplace: Kobos, Prodai Province
Birthsign: The Archbishop

Physical Description

A narrow nose dominates the countenance of this man's face, flanked by large ears. His black hair has something akin to a sheen to it. His slender frame is stoutly covered in the evidence of his excesses though this does not stop him from moving with substantial grace. The skin on his hands is clean and well-moisturized and his mannerisms cause them to most often be seen interlaced at his waist.

A swath of diffuse scar-tissue constitutes the outer portion of his left thigh and the trained eye would be able to discern these markings as indicative of dozens of small puncture wounds of the same age & time, if visible.

General Health

Of middling constitution, plagued with numerous non-combat service injuries especially to the knees and lower back. Frequently presents with post-nasal drip secondary to seasonal allergies when in temperate climates.

Professional History
The Venerated Legion of Decus [INDUCTED 1334 AS, DISCHARGED OF SERVICE 1345 AS],

Legitimate Businessman [1345 AS - PRESENT, VARIOUS TRADES INC. LAPIDARY]


Personal History
Jahandar was born in a hamlet on the outskirts of Kobos to parents Hassan and Nahid, the oldest of five children on a subsistence farm of meager acreage. By the time of his prepubescence his father was employed as an assistant to the local Foundry magistrate. By the time of the "fall" of Prodai and the republic withdrawal from the province, Hassan and Nahid were forced to flee with the Republic forces due to his father's notorious reputation as a collaborator.

During the flight the Magistrate who Hassan was servant to disavowed him and Nahid soon after took ill and passed away. Hassan lead his shattered family on first east, then north. They were turned away at every place they went as were many of the refugees of that time. Finally they arrived in a camp on the outskirts of Redholme and they could be turned away no further. Through the trials of their exodus only Jahandar and Hassan remained.

In the camps, they lived together poorly for a time and Jahandar became resentful towards his father. One frosty day his father disappeared in the camps, his body being discovered months later as the camp thawed in spring. Jahandar entered a life of scrapping along with others his age and younger in the camp, begging for scraps and more often than not stealing to maintain a state of only significant -- not fatal, malnourishment.

After many years in the camps the life only life he had ever fully known came to an abrupt end. In the struggles of the Redholme aristocracy, a Parish had sent a pressgang of loyal servants to the camps to come up with their requisite contribution to the rolls to ensure placement of one of their progeny to command of the mustering LXXIX Legion. When the pressgang came upon the tent he and his adoptive family occupied, many were taken for service. Jahandar stepped forward to ensure that one closest to him was not taken in his stead.

The LXXIX Legion was an unforgiving place for a young man. Having been re-activated as the spiritual successor to a legion that had not existed since the Reckoning it was in essence an entirely new command. The Centuria's were composed of mostly conscripted soldiers and they were drilled harshly for two months before immediately beginning a march westwards to join the frontier campaign.

The Western Campaign's end coincided with the tumultuous reign of Archbishop Karl Anslem. The LXXIX Legion was engaged in bitter fighting for months prior to withdrawing easternly to a midlands posting where their principal duties were quelling unrest in centuria-sized "Sweep and Wipe" patrols and roadblocking garrison duties on the western fringes of the Midlands. Records will demonstrate a Jahandar rostered with the LXXIX, discharged as a Decanus in 1345 in Dwindain, Yultac Province.

The journey back to his closest approximation of 'home' was a perilous one and the homecoming would prove to be no great pleasure. A treacherous sea journey to Redholme consumed the majority of his discharge pay and when he returned he spent weeks searching for his old compatriots. The search revealed that most of them were either dead by the hand of the state or citizens, still conscripted, or "Guests of the Republic" as one so delicately put it.

Having found at least his closest compatriot alive, if far removed from the innocence he still remained so emblematic of in Jahandar's eyes, he soon took up with criminal elements on the streets of Redholme. Rising in status with a fierce reputation he jockeyed for position on an organized expedition to the First Province with a group of picked comrades.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Re: The Legacy of Jahandar Hassanzadeh

Post by Kent » September 3rd, 2022, 11:14 pm

1334, Redholme Province. The Rustwood

Jahandar's legs ached and so too did his hands. The itchy wool of his issued tunic felt as though it were threatening to grind away the very surface of his skin and leave him a pulpy mess but he found it only bothered him when he was resting. The elder legionnaires had a peculiar way of working the lumber detail his contubernium had been assigned: they would pick one of the younger trees as they had been instructed to -- the hand tools they had been issued would not even big to make a dent in the much larger old-growth trees -- and, then they would set about hacking away at the base of it. They would work at this for a few minutes and then call up one of the younger recruits and ask them to take over 'for a minute'.

Sure enough they'd be off in a circle with the other older men while the other young soldiers hacked away. Speaking up about this practice had occurred to Jahandar, but as the blisters worked their way onto his hands he decided against it. Those fellows had been a part of other legions; they'd been out THERE, they'd faced the afflicted and resolvists and any other sort of thing he could think of, and the total sum of his experience was a few brawls in the camps where blood was spilled but he had never known anyone to have died from it.

Though he boasted in hushed tones to the other youths in the contubernium around the fire at night, he had never actually taken a life. The other youths all had something in common; they were the unwanted consequences of some tryst between one prelacy parish and some civilian who had made themselves a few coins richer. By spinning a little yarn, twisting the truth ever-so-slightly here and smoothing over some details there, he had made himself a curiosity and something of an idol to them. The older soldiers in the contubernium universally rejected all of the youths and if you tried to tell them your name, they'd hush you. They must have figured they wouldn't last long. But among the outcasts, Jahandar was beginning to make something of himself. No one else from the camps was here, at least not in this Centuria, and his stories opened their eyes to a foreign and alien world. And in that world, Jahandar was always the victor, always just a little bit faster than the other boy, a little wittier and a little stronger.

After the day's work in the 'training camp' was done, whether it was kitchen fatiigue or lumber duty or on the rare occasion a day of actual sparring, Jahandar found he could earn himself a few of the treats and niceties from the other youths in exchange for a "true story" from the camps. He lived well enough like this but the older soldiers still paid him no heed.

Soon enough he had gathered enough liqour-ration chips --- he couldn't stomach the rotgut they were allowed at supper -- to pay another one of the youths to start teaching him to form letters. She practiced with him on rocks during their free hours and though the charcoal nubs felt awkward in his hand by the time they were preparing to march out he could form most of the letters of Common Decusian passably. Payroll had been delivered and they had only a week left to collect themselves before marching out. All duties except KItchen Fatigue were done away with and in this time Jahandar made a little investment.

Striding up towards one of the good-hawkers that shadowed and encamped around the Centuria's tenting ground, he made purchase of what -- he was told -- was one of the greatest innovations of modern times. A self-contained quill, referred to as a "pen". He also purchased a small rather poorly bound blank book of parchment.

On the eve before their departure, he began a new adventure for himself; writing. Every stroke of the pen was a cautious one, and he sounded out the words almost silently on his lips. Ripping the parchment from the binding--an alarmingly easy feat, he folded it in half so that it would be protected from the elements, tucking it away in his tunic before bedding down in the communal tent of his Contubernium.

On that fated day, that feared day, the day of the march he did not sleep much at all. He was a slave to his nerves no matter how much he wished it was otherwise. Rising before the roll was called that morning he dashed across the quiet camp to the battered wagon just outside the tenting ground which bore the insignia of the Foundry. He pounded upon the door of the rickety wagoon and was soon greeted by the irritated visage of a red-clothed woman not much older than he. Sweaty palms fumbled through his tunic and he produced the parchment and though he stumbled over his words he made doubly sure the woman knew where to send it, passing to her enough coins to cover the postage as well as enough, he hoped, to ensure it actually arrived.


IkhashEvv

HopE you arE EatEn good

LEgion not to bad wE do alot of work and thEn wE wolk alot

and wE play fight to practice for thE war wE havE not lEft yet but wE lEave on sun up

I do not kno whErE wE go but whEn wE get there I will right to you

ByE

J



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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Re: The Legacy of Jahandar Hassanzadeh

Post by Kent » November 24th, 2022, 9:35 pm

1347, First Coast Province. Fort Praesidium


Ignoring the burning in his lungs, Jahandar propelled himself further and further in the blind sprint down the grassy incline. It was a pain he had forgotten, after all these years, and now the old friend had come home to rest and feast. Endurance training was never his favorite aspect of being a Legionnaire, but now he was thankful for those long-past experiences. Now, older and wiser, he could ignore the burning. Ignore the pain. Keep moving.

Things had rapidly circled the proverbial drain, each day becoming worse than the last. An attempt on his life one day, the next a criminal accusation...it was terrible to bear it all, and in his heart of hearts he recognized he was rapidly approaching his limitations. But were they truly limitations? No. He would channel this new feeling and rise above it -- it was his purpose. His reason for being. Now as the bell tolls upon the hour of answers, Jahandar knew he could not back down. The girl was right. Inaction is not an option, nor is running from fear. Now is the time of confrontation. Now is the time of the second reckoning.

Standing at the end of the knoll and catching his breath, he shuddered as he came to self-realization as to the severity of things. The severity of his thinking. Turning towards the dirt path running along the northern end of the Fort, Jahandar once again put himself towards running. A jog, it was called in the service. He would do this. He had to do this. Soon his hands, just as he had put the dirt of war behind him, the horrors behind him...it came time to face them again.

It was an inescapable destiny for him, he reckoned. From birth itself, calamity was a constant presence in the life of Jahandar, and this he knew well. His hyper-awareness of it beckoned him to drink to excess each and every night but he cast that impulse away, too, and refuted it. Refuted its legitimacy. Now he was around the bend---around the corner, and the Meddler's Risk was in sight. Every part of his legs ached and cried and pleaded for relief but Jahandar denied them again and again.

This was the worst part of it all. Ever since he got out of the Legion, it was the same every day....the quiet was bad. The despised thoughts came with the quiet. The images came with the quiet. He had decided, in his Civilian life, he did not care for quiet. Not one bit. That was one of the drivers---though he would never admit it from self-shame, for returning to Redholme at all after getting out. His overwhelming love for Ikashev was the main one, but he was afraid to visit---the letters had stopped over a year past and nothing was heard. But, there Ikashev was. There Ikashev was, healthy---surrounded by peddlers and knaves. He had to get him out of that environment, he knew that. He had seen that look in the distant gaze of many veteran soldiers...their minds and bodies being lost and destroyed under the treatment of apothecary peddlers and scientists.

That was no look for a brother of his--and thus they went, with a few select friends....Bea was on board, naturally, because she had heard a relative of hers had passed and left a large fortune in the province. He could not bear to speak the words for his coming; he was not strong enough to evoke that. Perhaps one day.

Now, feet pounding upon the drawbridge into Old-Town, Jahandar nodded politely at the gatesman above after slowing down to a reasonable speed---much to the elation of the watchman. The property was just around the corner---another little nightmare to pack away. Another heartache to ignore for the betterment of others. The hope that one day his burden would be lifted was perhaps one of the few things keeping him together. Like a house of cards, he felt his very personhood swelling to burst free from the confines of the person he made himself to others.... The person he is to Ikashev, the person he is to the Council...there was fleetingly little time to be himself

Climbing the stairs onto the building's stoop, Jahandar fumbled with the keys a few times. He needed a damned key-ring and couldn't even bring that to pass. Great. Once inside, still out of breath, he collapsed onto the nearby ocean of pillows, sinking into their silken depths to the great relief of his screeching and screaming muscles. This was good. This felt good. This felt right. To do what he had to do, he would need to get in shape. That much was plain.

The tugging hands of sleep came quickly to Jahandar, and he dreamt of regiments and soldiery marching --- marching, always marching. The marching was a part of him now; it did not even bother him. Not as it once did, those long and haunted years under campaign in the midlands, during the worst of the afflicted crisis.

When he awoke, it was in chills, a whole body pain about him. It was the same as every morning; he was thankful that no one was there to witness his sleep for it must have been so wretched of a thing to see from the outside. That, though, he knew, was only a taste of the horrors inside. He'd need to see a man about a pair of boots, though, he thought and shared a quiet laugh with himself before trudging on to see Holly.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

The worst of it.

Post by Kent » November 24th, 2022, 9:47 pm

1347, First Coast Province. Fort Praesidium, The Backstage Bistro.

"They took our tools, half of the liqour, and most of the equipment." Holly said. It was not something Jahandar wanted to hear. His anger was paramount, and it took every ounce of his social energy to maintain his placid facade. This boy, with his lofty ideals, had undertaken a ruinous step. It was an understandable mistake. Jahandar himself would've done the very same thing---and perhaps that was what was so frustrating. He saw so much of himself in Constantine, perhaps the best parts of himself. A more righteous version of himself---the person he wished he could be.

He had only ever felt a brotherly love for Constantine, and one quite rapidly. Speaking to Constantine brought him back to the early days of his time in the legion---the good old days, chatting it up with fellow replacements before being sent up the line. He instantly felt a love for him---but also a cautious, poking thing in his chest. He knew Constantine's motives...they were the same as his, ultimately. That was what made everything so bleedingly difficult.

When a male lion meets another male lion on the border of their respective territories---the general outcome usually isn't the lions coming to terms and ...undertake patroling the pride together. But that was the very thing he sought to do. It was what he must do. It would be wonderful. A master stroke in counter attack. A huge boon to his physical forces---and his mental constitution. He was the only one of the players on the board who was truly dangerous--atleast by his reckoning before his great self-imposed exile. That nightmare within a nightmare was behind him---and he would never allow it to occur again.

Things were too serious for that now. The fiendish knave and general dog-water, Naum, was poised to seize control of the entire Republic. And he feared no one else realized that but him---for when you act in a play, it is so easy to lose yourself in your role. Dark tidings, indeed. And he would need to be more than just physically readied for it. This would call for mental fortitude in unimaginable quantities...to dance so nearly and dearly to death itself, for that is surely what opposition will be some day.

Shuddering at the thought, he blinked. Suddenly realizing he had been staring a hole into Holly's face for atleast a full minute, he blurted an apology and offered a meek plan to use profits from the new store to cover losses at the Bistro so that they could open. There was one man he'd have to talk to before that could ever occur---and it was a conversation he dreaded immensely. The matter was so personal, so evocative, that he feared the emotions might boil over in both of them. It had not yet; both were masterfully maintaining their mask. And so the dance continued.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Avoidance.

Post by Kent » November 24th, 2022, 10:02 pm

1347, First Coast Province. Fort Praesidium, General Store Area

But that wouldn't be the case, not right now--not tonight. Instead, he would indulge himself in a little trip to his business venture. Importing things into the province was not as unattainable as many would think---not with his connections in Redholme, atleast, but for now it was a good cover. Such an absurd sales tactic---import?? Ha-ha.

The money had started coming in immediately. He had judged the market correctly, in spite of those in his circle who scorned the idea, and the dividends had flooded in. Reinvesting them back into the Bistro, he felt confident financially. If only he could not have to concern himself with a knife in the back. That would come, he was certain. For now, though, it would please him plenty to sit and judge art in the quaint wagon. Elynor, his new business partner, was smart---he really knew how to market towards the Prelacy.

He considered the painting that had first been sold--to whom, he did not know. But it had been his masterpiece. Ever since that cold damp night, that first of dozens, when the imagery flowed from his hands onto the canvas it was as though his muse had left. The music had died somehow, that night, fleeing for their lives out of their very home. The home he had promised Ikashev, as he would like to make it. Damn them all. Lord above, raze the villains out of THEIR very home. Raze it unto the foundations.

There was so much time for thinking now, he saw that. Before it felt as though there could never be enough but now that the dam had broken, the cards were on the table, and lines were being drawn he realized there was always enough time. He had weathered worse than this.

Leaning a painting against the canvas tent, he viewed it as a whole -- a little dusty, but it was a fine painting of a grassy field with trees upon it. There was a certain unmistakable charm to it---so innocent, so sweet. A reminder of that which can be good---a fine thing to have in your office adjacent to a pile of humans being incinerated. He erupted in laughter, a deep belly laugh that was far more bitter than sweet. He picked the painting up and tucked it under his arms, parting from Elynor.

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Kent
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Character: Requiescat In Pace

The Bitter Night

Post by Kent » November 30th, 2022, 1:03 am

Image
1347, Old-Town Bridge.
Looking down into the churning depths below, Jahandar noticed he felt a striking call of the void. Everything in his life was accelerating at a dangerous rate, and he was slower than ever before: He could feel the slowness in his every movement. The constant revolving door of alcohol and pills---after his injury---were taking their toll on him. In a moment of stillness in the waterway, he saw a reflection of himself. Dark circles dominated his eyes now. Where was Jahandar? Where was the little boy who had left Redholme, so proud and sure. It was true after all.

The boy was dead. He died, so that the man could live. But there upon that bridge, Jahandar could hardly recognize himself. Everything was falling apart around him. The emotional turmoil twisted his insides like an auger. He had tried to turn to faith; they who once spoke to him were quiet now. All he had was the bleeding reality of his situation, and woeful it was. He had weeped earlier in the day. He had hoped Constantine hadn't noticed. All he had to do was keep moving. Keep up the front, keep up the mask; the face is all that people see, in truth. No man looks beyond the surface, for they may find that they dislike that below.

Strolling home, a wintery breeze cut through his leather tailcoat. He reaches into the pocket for his bottle of painkillers and debated going to the Hospital. Go to the hospital, and ask for more pills. They were for pain, alright, but not the kind on the label. It was as though his entire soul was aching. Daily prayer did little to help. The Gods were so quiet now. In the cavern, they were screaming. They screamed for weeks, and he knew his purpose. But was he strong enough of a man to follow through with that which he had begun? Could he face the horrors of war, the yelps of dying young boys once more, even if it was a just and good cause?

He talked a big game. He winced at his own behavior, in hindsight---he just needed those pills to level him off, then everything was fine. He was such a big, proud, manly man. Yet here he was staring at the tired wood adorned doors to the Backstage Bistro. Keep the mask up. Keep moving.

Image

Letting himself in, he offered a nod to Mahsid. He was a good soldier. Plopping onto the ocean of pillows, he reached for the bottle of Meddler's Muse. Finally alone. Out of the public eye again, away from Constantine's chastising. Here, he had nothing to prove to anyone. He might read a book, he considered. No time. The burning fire of the Vodka washed the thought away. He yearned for the feeling of numbness the pills had offered him earlier. Another gulp of vodka, and he was done with it. Replacing the cap on the bottle of Meddler's Muse, he felt around for a cigarette in the mesh of varied pillows.

Lighting his Foundry Select, he stared ponderously at the large grand-father Clock. A true piece of modern artwork, the intricacy of the clock fascinated him. Dismissing the thoughts as fanciful but unrealistic, Jahandar unbuttoned his tailcoat. The never ending headache was merely a part of the background of his existence. Atleast he was able to help Drusilla, he thought. His heart twisted in agony at that thought, too. What a strange day he had. Surely he could be allowed to relax a little. He soon found the bottle coming back to his hands, another burning gulp soon following.

Feeling a chill, he pulled a velvety throw onto himself for warmth. It was so expensive to heat the building during this part of the year, but it was well worth it. This would be a great boon to himself, and all of old-town when it came to fruition. Atleast there was that. Reaching into his coat pocket again, he slipped himself another painkiller. Now he was feeling well about himself again.


Slipping into the silken embrace of the pillows, he smiled faintly to himself. Things had improved; certainly. And maybe they would continue to. He was too tired to think about it now. He had no more space for such fanciful thoughts; instead he would remember fondly the more pleasant highlights of the day. Eyes blurring, he slipped into sleep.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

The Cycle of Routine

Post by Kent » November 30th, 2022, 11:56 am

Jahandar rolled out of his bed, a deep scowl coming about his features. Sometimes, he thought rather bitterly, the waking nightmare truly was worse than the sleeping one. If it could be called that; sleep. It was more of a black period of inky nothingness that acted as the period to his day's sentence.

Throwing on his crumpled leather coat and hat, he started making his way out of the bistro for the day. Reaching into that alarmingly familiar coat pocket, he swallowed two pain killers without a second thought. Strolling out the door he was shocked to wakefulness by the bitter winter winds sweeping down off of the fort's wall. The park would be as good a place as any, he figured after only a moments hesitation.

Image

Lighting a cigarette, he pondered the patchy grass field that made up the park. Perhaps originally this had been a garden for the owner of the attached villa. He could not begin to guess. The arena constituted a far more personal symbolism for Jahandar, however. It was the sight of his greatest defeat; the beginning of his months of exodus.

Considering that thought for a moment and turning over the cigarette in his fingers and inspecting it inquisitively, as though it was the very first one he had ever seen if viewed from the outside. But none were viewing him; the park was desolate, the workers of Old-Town had long since walked off to their varied jobs and worksites. Only a man like him could find time to sit peaceably in a park in this wretched province.

Like a spent draft animal, he sat there with his posture almost slouched. Memories flashed back to him and he quickly dismissed them. Knowing he had the power to hurl them back into the void was a small comfort. Like an actor upon a finely polished Redholme stage, the kind Ikashev and he used to sneak into, he would keep playing through the pain.

The little escape of the bottle was his greatest and only relief. It was difficult to maintain, but worth every moment of it. The peace and relaxation he felt after each handful of pills was without care, though it did come with his compromises. Almost like a trap hidden beneath leaves on a forest trail, he worried about the future. The warnings of Constantine tugged at the strings of his fearful heart.

But it was almost time for the play to begin. Tossing the smouldering cigarette button towards the city street, he chuckled in a low and almost guttural way, to the express notice of no one but himself. Now was the time of propriety, and keeping it together. Now was the time of little horrors. Reaching for the pill bottle and popping an extra dose into his dry and discomforted mouth, swallowing it without aides and with an almost familiarized sensation that remains in his throat.

Standing swiftly, he trod towards the Meddler's Risk. These were the moments that counted, after all, in a man's life.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Scramble.

Post by Kent » December 2nd, 2022, 1:15 am

JAHANDAR laid more than sat upon the pillows as he digested in the Belly of the Bistro. The thought made him grin, though that was swiftly replaced by a frown a moment after. He truly was digesting; being swallowed by stress and the bottle. But, he was managing it well. A place for everything and everything in its place. Still in control. Atleast that's how he felt, and he anticipated the conclusion being truthful for atleast another week.

Then there was a rapping upon the door. His stomach sank; the hour was strange. Who would call at this hour, except for the bearer of some bad news, some new heart-ache to rend him from the inside. Whatever this was, he wasn't going to like it. With another tinge of guilt, he patted down his jacket pocket for the small, capped glass bottle of painkillers that seemed to be a constant companion second only to the handgun. Popping the cap off in a practiced and experienced way, he poured two pills onto his free hand's palm, shoving the pill back into the hole it was hidden in.

Staring down at the pills, he pondered them. In truth, his leg hadn't hurt at all today. Or the day before that. He wasn't sure when that line blurred, but it was completely homogenous on this day and this hour. But he never lied to any soul about it, not even his own. He was taking them for pain, simply not the pain they thought. Giving the grip of the revolver a pleasant pat, he closed his vestments.

Rising from the pillows was an unexpected challenge for Jahandar. The upward motion had been too fast---and it made his head swim. The thought approached him that he knew very well why his head was swimming, but he dismissed it. Striding towards the door and offering Mahsid a wink, the cracking open of the door revealed an unexpected guest. The guest ended up being no guest at all--but a customer. An equally unexpected customer, but one most welcomed.

Parting with his wheelgun didn't make him feel very safe, but it was an important customer, and one that would likely be an asset for life if things worked out in their favor. After a short exchange, the door was closed once more. Considering the possibilities and ramifications of the trade exchange, and the possible "exclusion" of them being a future customer was distressing. Then Leonard walked in the far entrance.



LEONARD was not an un-handsome man, standing at about average height with a respectable build connotating a life full of manual labor and a face that was not displeasing to look at. Leonard was, like many of the residents of Old-Town, a half-blood. East and West met inside Leonard, and that was just fine by Jahandar. His skin was a pleasant brown sawdust-like tint. Normally, atleast. As he entered the door Jahandar could see he was white as a sheet.

Leonard and Jahandar met in the center of the Great Room, and Leonard immediately began stumbling through his story. He spoke of his walk home from his employment as a Foundry Dockhand, and how as he was leaving for the day after unloading a prelacy-owned commerical vessel he witnessed a great ill-tiding. Skeptical at first, Jahandar nearly struck the man; thinking to make him come to his wits.

But Leonard, steadying himself, finished relaying his message. The Venerated Inquisition had begun occupying the fort with atleast a platoon sized force. Leonard bracketed his warning with a 'but no more than a Company' which did little to sooth the upset that had seized Jahandar's stomach. To make matters worse, one of Jahandar's 'un-domiciled' friends entered soon after Leonard, informing him that a party of Inquisition Dragoons had been identified east of the Fort, possibly moving to seize the battlements or other strategic places in the Fort.

The big day had come; and damn if it hadn't been faster than he had predicted. Business, it seemed, was changing. That presumed any business would be left to undertake, of course. And at the going rate, that looked unlikely. Knowing that a battle and possible mass extermination was probable if not likely was a new panging source of anxiety. Having participated in many such manuevers during his time in the Legion, he knew that for this to be done there had to be a serious threat. It was rare to see one inquisitor in the Fort during his year and one half dwelling there. This was an unprecedented manuever by Alexandrov, and Jahandar knew he had to riposte.

And Riposte he did. Dismissing everyone except Mahsid and Hailey, he began packing for his departure. In his bunkroom he freed his tired looking but trusty rucksack. Throwing a few outfits into the ruck, he bolted to the storeroom and plucked a rifle-musket from the wall. The piece was well made and surprisingly short. The rifling was big and coarse on it; it was an older gun and was built before advancements in Rifling.

This gun had originally belonged to some fart-sniffing Parish member, Jahandar realized, likely built as little more than a toy. Having purchased it in Ghaethgrand in the first and perhaps major show of privilege in his time as a Citizen---he had never before been capable of buying a weapon in the light of day. The birchwood stock shone in the warm gaslight of the storeroom, and he inspected the cap-lock for any deficiency. His curiosity about the long-gun satiated, he took the old and loose leather sling and swung it onto his shoulder. Patting his chest, he winced when he felt the holster deflate in his jacket.

OFFERING a sincere prayer to the good fortune of his customer as he slung the rucksack on his chest, he examined the nearby shelves. Taking a box of lead balls and a bountiful powder horn and shoving them into the rucksack, he ventured down the hall. Jogging down the stairs, he offered a last few words and orders to Hailey and Mahsid. Stepping out the back entrance, he peering over to the wall. No movement west, other than the occasional wind gust disturbing the powdery snow. Treading slowly and methodically he navigated to the catwalks.

As he slunk through the theatre he considered the great irony that he was about to...enjoy a business trip that had been scheduled for weeks when he had done no ill to anyone. And that was a first in his life, surprising even him. Exiting the theatre he quickly found himself ducking into an alley and waiting for a white-cloak to pass. Treading down the various streetpaths out of the fort, he chuckled considering what was happening. These men did not want him, for they would have stopped him. He hoped they weren't looking for who he feared most for, but she was rather resourceful.

Making it past the guards who looked quite exhausted and tapped out themselves, after waiting to pass from their gaze and into the shadows he sprung into action. Firing the musket into the air and running at a crouch to the next knoll he figured it would have to do as a distraction. With any luck, atleast a handful of the inquistion's ground forces in the Fort Praesidium area would have to respond. If he was REALLY lucky, Naum's Dragoons would have heard it as well, and been delayed in search for an enemy picket. Being well aware of the protocols of soldiery, he was thankful to be free from restrictions.

Remaining off the path, he made his way towards his picked spot. Having had planned for this exact event, he appreciated the Cabin from the outside. It was a several mile walk from the road. Covering his tracks with a technique he had learned from one of the Old Master's of the Satrapy in Redholme and disposing of the evidence, he jumped up the stairs and onto the porch. The door was open, which was concerning, but other than that it looked perfectly undisturbed.

Discarding the simple black canvas that had been cut to purpose for use as a disguising poncho he entered the cabin without incident.

Image

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Fear and Loathing in Fort Praesidium

Post by Kent » December 3rd, 2022, 6:10 pm

1347, The Backstage Bistro. Fort Praesidium

Calves screaming, Jahandar examined the firearm laid before him. An hour of running around the dirt-paths of the fort had taken its tole on his reserves of pain tolerance, and he considered taking a painkiller. Turning away from Hailey, he allowed his features to relax and a deep sense of sadness seemed to almost ensconce him in its dimness. Swiftly reaching into the familiar pocket, before he knew it the thing was travelling down his esophagus.

One in time is worth nine. An old adage from the apothecaries when he was in the service. Best to think of it like that, and not the other way, the way he might ascribe the behavior if he saw it in another. Those thoughts were of ill-consequence and served no purpose, no matter what way you looked at it. Best to focus on something else, Jahandar determined. Now turning to his right, he offered an apologetic smile to Hailey and mumbled a greeting.

The last few days were a blur of crisis and medication. The arrival of the Venerated Inquisition Corps was disturbing. Even though he had done nothing to gain their ire, the immense power they represented was an incontrovertible sign of the times. A herald of the trials to come, he witnessed alot of new behaviors in the Fort's denizens. There was avoidance of public gatherings, a general suppression on the Market, and most importantly alot of fear. It effected even him. Speaking of, it was time to collect himself.

Reaching into his jacket again, he fished free a pack of Foundry-Select cigarettes, this one half-full, and of the four cigarettes visible in the small hole on the top of the paper-wrap pack, he fished out a very specific one. A fine blend of Gleamgrass and Tobacco, of his own making. He had returned to his mundane studies of alchemical and biological chemicals and their effect. This little treat was the first of his creations in this new era of self-progress.

Drawing the cigarette to the candle and puffing on it, it came alight with a puff of acrid smoke. Fixing his posture upright, he took a long drag from the cigarette and simply closed his eyes, relishing the sense of peace that was setting his lungs alight. Passing the smouldering smokable to Hailey, he began to rub an oil rag along the length of the rifle's stock, the natural oils soaking into the wood material a fraction at a time.

Engaging in a small, meaningless conversation with Hailey -- the humdrum topic of recent weather. The conversation was carried on as though there was not a squad of heavily armed and armored Inquisition Infantry down the block, bored out of their minds as Jahandar well knew from his own service--and given writ to do whatever they felt. A strange glance, an instinctual glare...that would be all that was needed to sanctify a holy ass-beating at the hands of those boys upon some unsuspecting daytaler.


FIXING his gaze on the painting, he studied it intensely.

Image

Taking another mouthful of sweet smoke into his lungs, he appreciated the black obelisk. Darker than coal, and rising to the highest heights. Clearly a representation of Naum's Republic. The rule of the Warbishop was coming, and it had arrived at the very doorsteps of even this remote set of hovels. He could only imagine the tension in barracks across the Republic. Many were incensed against Alexandrov, but would they have the courage to put their money where their mouth is?

There was no point in dwelling on that any further. He could not control it, therefore he had resolved to put it away from his mind. To focus on himself--strengthening his body and mind for the trials to come. The trials that Ikashev had forsaw, and that Jahandar himself had read about in ancient scripture, were setting upon them even in this instant.

His lower lip quavering for a moment, he curled his free hand into a fist at his side, dropping the oil rag which he had threatened to remove material from the Rifle with. Calm yourself. Calm yourself. Do not panic. There is no need to cry. This is the waking world in which we live. Cruelty and uncertainty are the counter-signs at your post, soldier.

Drawing in a deep breath and grounding himself upon a foundation of self-talk, he turned his gaze to the looming obelisk once more. Perhaps it could be true, what some said. That the abyss is darkest before it recedes. He certainly hoped so. His heart ached terribly as he considered those missing from his life at this very moment. What he wouldn't give to pull back the curtains and see Ikashev and Drusilla chattering away on the sea of pillows in the adjoining room.

But, things would not change until he manifested that change. That much was clear. He had to bring his family back together or he threatened to lose it all. Even Ikashev. This was his moment to shine; internal strength was needed. He believed absolutely in his own power and will to surpass this. He thought back to all the struggles and triumphs in his life; the struggles far outweighing the triumphs.

Every charging opponent, every document he signed and processed. All the documentation required for the long deployment in the quiet sectors. Every person he shackled, threw before a magistrate, and resigned to their fate. They all haunted him, but in their own way they were a rallying cry in the recesses of his mind. He had done great things, things that had helped people, and the terrible things he had done, he survived.

In a warzone, survival is the only metric that counts. He had only been surviving; but was it even worth it, surviving to be here in this moment, in this place, agonized by memories? The people he had killed. He was no killer---atleast he told himself that. He just killed people for a living. And his mistakes as an officer towards the end---things were getting quite bad with the apothecaries then, too---haunted him. He never knew of any person under his command to have been killed as a direct consequence of his decisions, but he could never know.

The late nights of what-ifing the day's deeds. Should they have asked for grenades to clear that defilade? Perhaps Karlov would not have ended up with three feet of pike sticking out of his back. Perhaps Karlov's mother would have had her son for another winter. Even if it was just one winter--or one day, or one minute...Karlov's mother would have done anything to have her child to savor the sweet air of life, but he had done his duty. He had given all that he had, even the very air in his lungs.

Jahandar thanked God he was no infidel or heretic. He knew he would meet with Karlov again some day, far from this place. Yonder where the water is sweet and the weather warm, they would meet again like comrades. His stomach turned at the thought of seeing any of his old comrades at this moment. He did not know if there ever WOULD be a moment he could face them. They had been brothers in arms. They had fought and died side by side through the worst imaginable conditions. Those conditions, and that time, haunted him so much he did not know if he could face a living reminder of what Hel must surely be like.

And now, as his reward....ta-dah! Instead of being strong and dextrous, his body had begun to fail him---many injuries during the course of his service had, he now considered, been mismanaged by the Apothecaries. The apothecaries on the front lines were all so young---so young, and unknowing, unprepared for the horrors of war. Even less prepared for the horrors of undeath. How do you bandage a man whose flesh has been clawed from his ribs? No amount of education or learning could prepare you for such things. Thus, he did not blame them. No more than he blamed himself---less, actually.

But, he was gaining his body back. He only feared he was losing his mind in the process. The long isolation during the autumnal months had brought him back to life from the brink of a living-death, but his heart and soul still ached. The anguish of not knowing if Ikashev was safe. Not being there for him. Not looking over him. He had failed his goal. He had failed his task, and in those days he felt utterly worthless. In hindsight, he could tell to himself that he had saved his life through his actions, but that salve upon his aching emotional wound was a little under-powered.

With salves, pain, and medicine now on his brain, he resolved to take another two painkillers. He needed to relax, and more importantly---he needed to feel good. The world was so dim now, hardly anything brought him pleasure. Nothing, it seems, could make him feel good. Even interacting with his loved ones---it only brought him grief that he could not be that much stronger for them.

And the other man---the man who had threatened his family? His blood boiled. He had to see his blood to be a man, he knew that for sure. But he could be patient. Years of service in the infantry had leant him an infinite capacity for waiting. And so he would wait. He would gather his strength, in body and mind. He would tend to his faith, and bring holy-water to his brothers in arms of THIS screaming moment in his life. He would become good enough. He would overcome this, and in his heart of hearts he knew that he was meant to be here.

The painkillers threatened to catch in his throat. Reaching for the nearby bottle of vodka, he loomed and walked sluggishly towards the pillows. He was starting to feel tired. That was a good feeling---a strange one, in this modern day. In the camps with Ikashev, he slept like a baby. He slept in the same tent as Ikashev, every night, and every night they shared stories. Dreams. Ideas. Hopes. Jokes. Joy. Happiness. That was it. Happiness.

When the recruiter came into their tent that morning---waking them both, he balled his fists. They wanted Ikashev. He was small, and could fit into tight spaces to repair the machines of the Legion. Crying out, he told them they would not. He struck the pudgy prelacy man directly in the mouth. A tooth came free. He knew the man would be angry; and likely, he would kill both Ikashev and Jahandar now. Stupid! So stupid. So sorry, brother. I failed you. But not quite.

The man was -smiling- now! Jahandar was a fighter. He had blood lust. "A hot-blooded westerner? I'll double my bounty for this!". The man was no legionnaire, but a merchant. He dealt in flesh, and here in this tent he had found his pound of it. This obese cretin was looking for boys just like him and Ikashev. But if he went, Ikashev did not. And so his brother would be free. Though he would bear the chains of servitude for ten years, at the end of that ten years he would get to invest himself into a farm, with his brother, and perhaps a pleasant wife.

BLINKINGLY he realized he had been staring at the painting for nearly a half-hour. Hailey had gone home for the night, and Mahsid was snoozing in the adjoining room, his obnoxious snorring now noticed. The painkillers were working. There was that, atleast. He sank a little deeper into the pillows, and stared at the empty seat across the table from him. The one in which Ikashev always sat. He stared on at the empty place at the table, and he threw himself into the gaping maw of rumination and emotional pain. The painkillers blending minutes into moments, he was utterly lost in it.

And it felt deserved.

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Kent
Posts: 262
Character: Requiescat In Pace

Halt and Catch Fire

Post by Kent » December 7th, 2022, 4:55 pm

1347, Undisclosed Pit, First Province.

THE MEETING with Nicolien had gone quite well. The details of the conversation seemed innane to him now, and the conversation so long ago, as he stood poised over the inky depths of the screaming cavern. The sounds come from the cave entrance prior to their entry were something straight from Hel.

The pale, vile things were something straight out of a nightmare. The servants of the Ill flooded the cave, breeding like the vermin that they are. Their unholy howling had lead some in the group to bleed even from their ears as we battled the Eyeless horrors.

Grappling with one that had seized him from behind, Jahandar placed the muzzle of his revolver under the creatures tepid jaw and pulled the trigger. Covered now in the detritus and filth of the foul creature’s messy death, he stood and faced the others. After a brief discussion they had resolved to put to death the prime evil of the place.

Continuing on, they noticed a veritable slaughter of the disgusting creatures; their corpses lining the cave up to its walls in places. Lunging forward, they encountered Lucien Silvercrest. The man was preponderously alone and gripped in battle with the Ill. Coming to his aide against the foeman, Jahandar made a nearly fatal error.

Acknowledging the tension in the room, which was poisonously thick, he sought to break it by making an immature jest. Thinking nothing of it, the man and Aemilia began to walk out of the cave. Following after them for a time–but not wanting to abandon the others to face the prime evil alone, Jahandar finally gave up attempting to talk to the swarthy young man, returning to the group.

As the day’s battle wound down to an end, Jahandar and Valentin dove through a narrow tunnel that would allow them to emerge near the exit of the vile place. Noticing that Drusilla and Constantine had fallen out of formation, Jahandar debated with the others with regards to a course of action. Finally asserting himself, Jahandar stated that he would return to ensure the safety of the two–in such a place, any number of horrors may be laying in wait in the shadows.

Coming across them, he was rather out of breath and could hardly even begin to speak before the pattering of heavy boots on unhewn limestone shocked him to the present. A flurry of red and white revealed an impressive group–a full contubernium with attached skirmishers, in effect. The bright red of the Parish’ uniform put Jahandar in a rather visceral mindset.

THE AMBUSH was effective; the group was utterly unsuspecting of what was to come. Before he knew it, his revolver was levelled at Lucien Silvercrest’s head, and Adam Blackwell’s blade was levelled at his throat. There they stood for nearly an hour, with the more level-headed among the men and women in the cavern struggling viciously for peace.

Jahandar wanted nothing of this violence. Here he was again, facing a man bringing violence to his family. Atleast it was not in his home–but the threat remained the same. And this threat, he figured in that moment staring down the blued barrel of his large revolver squarely at the side of Lucien’s temple, he reckoned he would likely not be able to end it so readily.

The man and his soldiers ranted and raved, demanding my head and even threatening the life of Constantine. Constantine was quite brave, and stood in an honorable place amongst men whose honor had vacated them. Constantine, he considered, truly was the best among them. Sensing his impending death, Jahandar winced internally as he wistfully considered how things may have been different if he had only set his pride aside sooner. The lost days, lost weeks, not only towards progress–but good days spent with his family and loved ones, those were irreplacable.

In the service, he would have made fun of himself. A new boot facing death for the same time does the same–throwing a one man pity party for themselves as the shot rains around them and the cannons blare the song of their people. When the clawing Afflicted seek to probe your armor for gaps–for flesh, those were the longest moments in the lives of men.

Peace was reached, and Jahandar agreed to it–though reluctantly, as the injustice of it all was tragic to his reckoning, and he felt less manful for abandoning his values so easily in the face of danger. But, the stakes were higher than ever before now. He knew his death would not end anything; it would only begin weeks or perhaps months of Hel for those he treasured most.

IKASHEV. Drusilla. Constantine. Even Valentin would have been swept up into things and likely killed. Poor Ikashev. He could see him waiting at the bistro for his brother to return,unknowing that such a thing would never occur again. His heart ached terribly as he passed through the consideration of the decisions he was making moment to moment.

He lashed out, the emotional pain twisting and tearing at his very heart of hearts, and grew to regret it. Silvercrest added another term, and–wanting to leave the place desperately, Jahandar agreed to these post-agreement shenanigans. Constantine scolded him terribly, and their lives were once again put into danger. The bitter injustice of it all was a very difficult thing to swallow, and he was forever thankful his friend Constantine had been there to rub his throat and ease it down. Perhaps there was hope for the boy after all.

As the servants of Ill leaped from the darkness into the midst of us, both sides broke the stand-off to engage in holy battle against the Foe. Thereafter, blades and guns were holstered for good—except for a few bloodthirsty Parish soldiers making repeat threats, the violence was over.

Tasting fresh air was a privilege he never thought he would enjoy again. Paying keen interest to the health of all those in his group–his contubernium—his family, he was satisfied to see everyone was still breathing and unwounded, though Drusilla looked quite faint and exhausted. Marching away from the pit like battle-brothers being rotated out of the theatre, we resolved to put hostile lands behind us for the gentle shores of Fort Praesidium.

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