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The Rabbit Emperor

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  1. I got to play around in the National Archives this week. Felt like a kid in a candy store, too much to see not enough time to see it!
  2. I'm gonna wait for Elven, hopefully that is okay!
  3. My guy, callsign is 'Robin' though he rarely uses it.
  4. "Fuck, man this is bad." A scared voice said, the deep local accent giving way to the same scared shit George Buckley had heard a thousand times, on a thousand men from South America to Africa to the Middle East; language, culture, it didn't matter. When a man was about to die he always sounded the same. Laying with his back against the wall a young man held his gut, his dark skin paling as the dark red liquid pumped from his open wounds. He was an unremarkable youth, wearing a bright red winter jacket and loose fitting jeans, a pair of tan work boots covered in blood stood out against the pink snow and cheap looking shotgun sat across his waist. "Buck man." He whined, his eyes tearing up as he looked up at the older man kneeling down in front of him. George "Grayson" Buckley had seen this scene more times then he would like, and his hard expression was mostly hidden by a pair of large dark sunglasses. "I'm sorry, kid." George said, his voice like gravel doing it's best to soothe the younger man. It wasn't long after that the young man's eyes faded, his stare becoming that eerie empty it always did. The young man was no soldier, his appearance leaving little doubt of that. George had been trained throughout the years to make use of locals to bolster his own force, and he had trained hundreds of poorly educated men to fight, and often die, for a cause he had convinced them they cared about. The dead boy laying on the street was just another, a local whom George had trained, equipped and sent against men better trained and better equipped. He wasn't the first George had trained since he had been activated, and he doubted the boy would be the last. George stood up, grabbing a handful of snow and wiping his blood stained hands as he did. George Buckley looked like a relic, his Russian Soviet era green jacket standing out against the grays and whites that was Brooklyn - to say nothing of his red shemagh. A keen eye would find other oddities on the old man, the 'web' gear he wore over his jacket which held his extra magazines, grenades and other tools an antiquated foreign design, likely South American. His boots were standard issue US Army, at least they were during Vietnam. A smart watch stood out stark against his old school attire, as did the weapon slung against his chest. Looking like a mixture of an AR pattern rifle and an MP5 the Sig MPX was a decidedly cutting edge sub-machine gun, showing just a subtle hint that George Buckley was not quite the relic he appeared to be - though the lack of optical sight was decidedly old school. Gripping the suppressed firearm George turned away from the dead boy, stalking down the streets like a proud old lion. Almost as soon as he had begun he stopped, his watch pinging his ear piece - SHD Agent nearby. Seconds later the radio frequency opened up, a young man's voice asking for rendezvous, a newbie if his transmission was to be believed. "See you there, kid." George responded, a subtle bemusement present in his tone. Without another word George stalked toward the park, his stride a little quicker then before.
  5. Grayson Buckley — Basics Real Name: George Buckley Alias: Grayson Buckley Callsign: Robin Age: 56 Occupation: Corporate Security Affiliation: Strategic Homeland Division — Looks Height: 5'11" Weight: 170lbs Gender: Male Hair: Gray (Bald) Eyes: Green Voice: Gravel, commanding. — Skills Covert Operations (Logistics acquisition, local connections, 'spook' work.) Urban Combat Wetwork Multi-Language Fluent (English, Spanish, Somali, Dari & Pashto) — Psychological Profile Joined the US Army in 1979, forging his age to get in at age 16 using his brother Grayson's birth certificate. Completed Green Beret training that same year, assigned to 19th SF Group 1st Battalion. Discovered to have forged enlistment documents, dishonorably discharged. Quickly picked up by the CIA to work in the SAD/SOG tactical operations team as a civilian contractor. Served five years in Nicaragua from 1979 to 1985, noted for easy acceptance of 'grey' morality. Briefly served in El Salvador. Lead 'loud' operations in Somalia from 1985 to 1993. Served in Afghanistan from 1993 to 2011. Recruited by SHD in 2011, part of the first wave activated to defend Manhattan. Prefers to work in a small team, willing and able to adjust morality to situation, Noted for a rough, sarcastic personality not uncommon among CIA operatives.
  6. Any more info on this Assassin's Guild you could provide? Who do they work for? Are they a morally neutral group who kills who they are paid to? A covert branch of Government, etc? Is this test open to foreigners, etc? The more info the better!
  7. Hey! Can I take Infernal's spot? I've played nearly every Tom Clancy game ever made, and I'm a straight Gunji Ota. I can crank out a character quick!
  8. A trap for a trap, a tentative tool traded for another. Striking was at it's core a game of smoke and mirrors, a contest of who could bait who into their tools and traps. Leo let his foot be pushed across as it was parried, his side long stance allowing him to quickly pivot off the momentum into a full spin in a way which a more traditional square stance or teep kick would not allow. Like a ballerina Leo's planted foot raised and flexed, taking the momentum given to him by the parry to accelerate rapidly into a response. As Eshara stepped into fire a right cross he'd find a spinning 'back fist' to meet him, though in truth due to the step in required to cross the distance from kicking range to punching it would be more a spinning forearm then fist. It was a gamble, if Eshara didn't commit Leo would be in punching range and out of position, but it was the gamble he had chosen the moment he fired an open front leg side kick and if the right cross coming his way told Leo anything, it was that he had won that bet.
  9. Old for a New Moon Raion stood out among his peers, not due his skill or accomplishments or even his age but due to his nationality. A Welander by birth Raion was a recent citizen to the Empire, relinquishing his Terric citizenship and swearing allegiance to the Empire. A student for less then a month Raion had yet to truly assimilate among his fellow New Moons, each of them carrying the burden of clan, honor, or their own ambitions - it was not an environment that cultivated friendship, and each of them seemed to be competing with each other for the much desired title of 'Captain' or beyond. Senpai Moromichi was the Captain of the New Moons, two years younger then Raion he was prestigiously skilled but was equally abrasive, seeming almost unapproachable in the short time Raion had been apart of the Dojo. For Raion this Dojo was not so dire a competition, his experiences and personality was worried more about besting himself and growing; he lacked the fundamental hunger that so many of the Empire natives seemed to have. It was that same personality which left Raion painfully nervous, his muscles stiff and his eyes unfocused. He did not deal well with social events, less so when so many eyes were on him - he doubted greatly many of the spectators cared much about the zainichi, a slang term for Weland immigrants, but that didn't make Raion any less uncomfortable. Absently Raion thumbed the strange looking katana at his hip, the odd sword looking like a mixture of a saber and a katana, with a single handed D guard hilt and a traditional katana blade hidden in a metallic scabbard. It stood stark contrast against his traditional red attire. The Kyu Guntō wasn't a rare blade, in truth Raion's was relatively cheaply made; but it was unusual to see such a weapon on a student of such a prestigious school. As Senpai Moromichi's display ended Raion silently thanked the younger boy for his desire to be the star of this ceremony. Let the ambitious be the center of attention, Raion just wanted to get back to the his practice swings.
  10. Raion looked up from his sake, his boyish features no longer obscured by his hat and revealing a man who had not truly yet entered his prime, his youthful face wearing the grime and exhaustion of the road in a way only a youngster could. His slate gray eyes studied the Elf as she spoke, her attire and general demeanor giving her away as some sort of mage; she gave off the regal charm many Elven women did, though her almond shaped eyes and button features struck Raion as a bit more on the 'cute' side then normal. Not that Raion would ever say as such, his experience with attractive women thus far being one marked more of respectful fear then carnal desire, and Raion had little doubt at a glance that this Elven women would continue that trend. "A wedding ring ma'am? I don't see why not." Raion said, his nervous energy hidden behind a cocksure grin. Raion wasn't great at dealing with others, his nature being that of a loner - he was infamously awkward, made doubly so by being unprepared to being approached. Raion hid it well, perhaps it was the Sake's liquid charisma. Standing Raion gathered up his sword, clipping it to a pair of unequal length straps on his left hip which hung it at about his upper thigh. The prospect of searching for a wedding ring did not scream 'excitement' but it was a better way to pass the time then nursing sake and waiting for a caravan that was heading out toward Weland that he could hitch a ride on, perhaps he would get a chance to indulge his combat addiction at least once this trip.
  11. Leo almost chuckled at the response to his taunt, almost. The quick lunge of the larger man was hardly surprising, though his choice of tool was - it was apparent from the triple jab his opponent was more then brawn, relying on fundamentals over haymakers and toughness. Leo's side long stance wasn't well suited to the evasive, bending at the waist motions of the boxer but instead favored attacks and defense in a straight line, limiting Leo's options. A response of Sen no Sen with the hands was out of the question, his opponents superior reach and choice of attack meant meeting punch for punch would result in at best a trade of blows; a fools errand against a larger man. Leo feinted giving ground, his back leg loading weight as if he meant to lunge away; suddenly the weight shifted, lead left leg firing outward in a stomping side kick to Eshara's front leg just above the knee. If the larger men continued his assault of punches his loaded front leg would buckle under the joint attack, likely hyper extending the knee. A low committal attack the distance left Leo plenty of space to retreat under pressure if Eshara powered through the blow or lunge forward if the larger man tried to reset.
  12. Leo could sense he had stumbled with Immie, and his internal monologue grew only more self depreciating at it. Whatever it was that had made him seem approachable Leo wasn't sure, but he knew he was floundering. When Minerva mentioned some bizarre place called 'Massachatata' or some such Leo was thankful, for it seemed to draw Immie's attention away from what was sure to be an awkward attempt by Leo to salvage a first impression. Deciding it best to take part in the inquiry Leo nodded long with Immie as she asked about the strange place Minerva claimed to be from. Leo hardly knew every location across Valucre, but he was well schooled in the Weland system and his geographical knowledge was far from inept - 'Salem' was not a place he was familiar with, and less so the word which his Welander trained tongue struggled to even attempt to say. "Where is this Salem...Mass..Chu-sat?" Leo fumbled, wincing internally but hoping it was easily enough brushed off. "Is it in Genesaris?" Leo added quickly, smoothing his speech. The translator was effortless, perfectly echoing his Terric words into Genesaris with a strangely human male voice. The arrival of the beautiful secondary Special Skills passenger briefly caught Leo's attention as she sat at the table adjacent to their own. He felt mixed emotions about that, adding another gorgeous woman to his growing table would have likely crushed his spirit but he could not deny her exotic, magnetic charm and a part of him wanted dearly to invite her to their conversation. If he was ever going to do it was a moot point, for an aristocrat of some description soon stole his opportunity, the attractive and well dressed man striking him as someone who would make a good visual match with Immie - an elegance shared. His choice of words dashed that illusion, but Leo was no white knight intent on intervening - and he also highly doubted his assistance would be needed, she was in many ways more capable then the youth himself was. Pulling attention away from the scene Leo returned to his meal and his new companions, a content smile on his face.
  13. Leo could hardly suppress the cocksure grin that always dominated his boyish Welander features when he was nervous, the expression equally endearing as it was punchable. Leo had expected another ringer, Professor Meira seemed fond of having him fight new and varied opponents, but in truth Leo had been poorly prepared for what exactly it was he was up against. By no means was the man across from him the largest man Leo had ever seen, but he had an air about him which was undeniable, the same sort of air his aging father had - a strength that demanded respect and fear in equal parts. Leo had always been scared of his father, and the feeling he was facing a similar man did not bring solace in the moment. Professor Meria stood outside the simple circular arena, her delighted smile infuriating. Beat the Professor? Maybe. Beat this man? Even with his gun he felt it unlikely. That in of itself was hardly enough to crush Leo's spirit, however, and the head strong youth wasn't going to make this easy. Leo took his own stance, his body completely side long and his feet slightly wider then his shoulders; his hands were shoulder height and about half way extended from his body. He bounced from front foot to back in a serpent like motion, the hypnotic rhythm falling inline with his breathing pattern. The traditional stance of Weland scholastic hand to hand, a style which had been beaten into him from Elementary School all the way to the Tamonten Academy - known colloquially as 'karate'. "Kakatte koi, gaikokujin." Leo spat in his native Welander, his tone mocking.
  14. I took some liberties by moving the story to the point where the ward was already placed, I hope that is okay!
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