[Closed] Fire power

[7 Yaris 2718] Gunner prepares and delivers a gun

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Writer: Crosspatch
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Thu Nov 29, 2018 10:10 am

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the meeting point | evening
7 YARIS 2718
“And what a conclusion that is to draw. What a tall tale that would be,” There was something useful about the mask. It was that it coverer so many things, yet also allowed someone to be someone else. A true disguise that with it brought its own, new persona. Anonymous and an unknown, no one knew who really existed beneath. It could be anyone really, and on occasions was anyone. How many times over the years had Gale been the one not wearing the mask? How many times had Gale not even been there? But, the instructions every time were the same – the cold, emotionless state that did not divulge in who they were, their identity and, most importantly, their ties.

And Gunner was not about to give that ground. Not to him, not just as a stranger and definitely not as a non-resistance member. Yet in that instance the smith learned more about him that they wanted to. Cared to even. They knew instantly in that moment how they could hurt him, how they could destroy everything he ever lived and cared for. On how they could break him to their will. How deeply could they stab that knife and twist it?

But they were not that kind of person.

Even if he was one to deny the game.

Yes it was life, everything was life. Everything had a cost, was created, born, lived and died. Yet, it was also still a game – different groups, organisations and factions dressed up in their own colours. Even those that looked to remain unaligned still sported their own signs. That was the game and you either lived or died. The green eyes did not meet his, resting somewhere on his forehead in an attempt to at least look at him. There was no damns given on where he came from – none of it mattered really.

What mattered was what he did now.

“Neither of us have time to indulge your presumptions. Nor the story you wish to carry on telling. As I said before, I have little interest in your current affairs. Your time and your choices are yours to make, along with your ideologies and beliefs. If you are looking for justification, a balm against your hurts then I am not one to give it,” the gloved hand gestured to the firearm, “I am merely an enabler for your ambitions. Least, until they turn otherwise.”

They would not rise to him, would not hear the bleating he tried. How many others were like him? How many stories had they heard over the years, through word of mouth or first hand? He would not be the last, and he was not the only; so why carry on with his pathetic noise in such-

“Perhaps if things stay as they are, or perhaps if they change, or how they change. Change is inevitable and nothing is certain. The future is not ours to see,” Gunner caught their thoughts, grateful for the mask that was in place that hid the grimace of bored annoyance. Information was important, yes, but Gale was not about to put up with listening to his life story raw and unhinged. The gunsmith made no move, finger gently stroking down the cylinder of Liberator, “Rightways or quick and mostly painless? Or will you decide on the day? If your bravado matches your ability, then I am sure they will be no match for you regardless.”

The Artful Gunner gave a tilt of the head, before the hand gestured back and to the door behind Gunner, opposite from where the Passive came through, “With your goods received and satisfactory, a collector of your payment awaits you outside. Less, of course, you have further questions in regards to it?”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 176
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 15
Race: Passive
Location: Old Rose Harbor
: Ever th' balach.
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Tue Dec 04, 2018 10:08 am

7th of Yaris, 2718
THE MEETING POINT | EVENING
Tristaan struggled to keep the judgment from his face, to keep his expression neutral despite the way the masked gunsmith made him feel both awkwardly exposed for who he really was, holding a dangerous weapon in his hands when he was, in fact, already a dangerous creature, as well as horribly guilty, claiming that killing wasn't his ideal when he'd so willingly murdered in his life just enough times to make that sentiment ring achingly hollow in the scarred cavity of his chest. He claimed his life worthless and yet he'd fought tooth and nail to keep it.

Hypocrite.

If he really was garbage, why did he continue to live like Anaxas owed him something?

Gritting his teeth, the dark-haired passive let the weight of his own internal conflict settle heavily on his narrow shoulders, grey gaze drifting away from the mask and tuning out the admonishment of the only other person in the room. They just wanted his coin, probably to fund their revolution, probably in the hopes of crushing galdor bodies beneath their boots. His was a body shaped by galdori blood, marred by bad genes and the malevolence of gods he'd never intended to offend.

"Am I makin' presumptions? 'R y' jus' don't want t' hear any other sides 'cept your own?" Tristaan smirked, steely gaze on the masked figure's weapon, "That's the problem, there. Ent anyone really lookin' past their own kind."

Calloused fingers tightened on the firearm he'd come with every intention of purchasing for a purpose he'd been quite convicted about before he arrived.

Silas Hawke and his Brothers would have no pity, either.

This gunsmith and those that hunted him for a fictional debt he could never repay weren't so dissimilar.

Perhaps that's what turned his stomach, the understanding that those who wanted to take everything from himself, from the witch he loved, and from the child they'd made together weren't any different than those who claimed they wanted to give everything equally to everyone.

Did he want something better for himself? For Sarinah? For the future generation he'd just contributed a life to?

There had to be a better way: One he'd probably never get to see or experience, but one he could dream about and pass on to his children instead.

"Onthian Mill of Textiles. Up th' street. Nothin's changed save for th' bodies inside. Nothin's certain, oes, but th' future can be made better if 'nough folks get their heads outta their erses an' all look in th' same clockin' direction. My problem's I ent entirely convinced it's jus' gollies that 're th' issue. I ent holdin' my breath for a golly nor a human t' change, an' certainly no' together." Tristaan replied firmly, reaching for whatever else was his, glaring not at the mask but at the door indicated.

The dark-haired passive had over-shared, his protective emotions a runaway weed in the garden that grew secretly within the scarred confines of his scarred chest. His was a life that wasn't allowed—he was free, he could read, and he'd learned to love. He'd made a life that was not galdori—willing to complete the turning away from his tarnished heritage to fully embrace all that was forbidden and supposedly wrong. Not only had he, a mere scrap, passed on his cursed genes, but he'd watered them down with a wick.

There was no shame in it for Tristaan, for all things had been done in love not politics.

He sighed one more time, grey gaze drifting back down to the weapon in his hands. A firearm far more dangerous than he'd held before—magic for the magic-less. The memory of his diablerie was still sharp and sore somewhere beneath his tanned, inked skin, the haunting awareness that he, too, was a loaded weapon only without any of the focus and control.

Was he any better a man than those whose lives he'd taken to preserve his own? To keep Sarinah from harm? What kind of monster did he allow himself to be to decide whose life was more valuable after he'd been told for all of his just how worthless he was? What made him different?

This was how things were.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to teach his child how to use a weapon, but Tristaan had his doubts.

"Ne. I ent got any more questions. I think I can figure 't out should I need to, mujo ma." There wasn't anything left to say, since he'd already said far more than he meant to. This could have been far more quick and impersonal had the passive not been so consumed by the reality of his life choices from the heat of the crucible he'd found himself poured into in this moment,

"I'm sorry. An' thank y' much." One last glance at the masked gunsmith and Tristaan slipped away to pay for his well-crafted weapon, taking far too much extra weight home with him than he even knew how to carry, the heavy lean of a new kind of responsibility still something his heart wasn't quite used to bearing.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
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