Blackguard Central

[The Blackguard]

The Blackguard
Sword Of Authority
"What Will You Pledge To The Cause?"

((OOC Note: Please contact Harris before posting to this thread. Thank you!))

[Mai Sato]

Like before... when there's a time of struggle and violence, there's money to be made.

Before the visit to the Resistance Homefront, another deal was made. While she was busy counting out the money paid to her in the shadows of an alleyway, one of her associates were busy opening up the nearby crate to show the Blackguard representative the wares.

Guns with the ammo to go along with them, blades - many, many blades, and some enchanted items (A couple tomes of ice magics, a few wands that would let loose bolts of arcane energy for those not-so-magically-gifted, and pre-written runic inscriptions that would give the user magical armor for a few hours).

With both sides in agreement they concluded their business with a brief handshake, though Mai added a pat to the guys shoulder and a word of, "Good luck out there." before she and her two armed associates went on their way.

((Private Support))

[Jelani]

During a busy dinner rush, Jelani met with members of the Blackguard at a private venue located in The Anchor. He brought with him two simple, unmarked crates. On behalf of his employer, Jelani sold high-tech arms including hand pulse-canons, heavy blasters, narrow-focus disruptors, thermal detonators etc. If they needed anything else, they could reach him on his private comm-link. Harris also received a personalized invitation to Kitty's Palace of Pleasures, located on a small-range spaceship semi-permanently docked at one of The Anchor's more exclusive landing pads.

((Private support))

[Delahada]

Lyle Stiggowitz was rather quite surprised to find the blue haired baron of Old Market standing in the Carnicería looking at him like he owed him something. “Can I help you?” he asked politely. The two uniformed men flanking the door made him uneasy.

“Yeah,” said Harris. “Where’s your boss?”

The larger of the two Stiggowitz men, bald and imposing father Boscoe, stepped in from the back. He crossed his massive arms and scowled furiously. One of him was larger than the two decorating the shop door combined.

“He is boss. I am boss. We are boss,” the older man growled.

“No, where’s Sal? I need to speak to him.”

“If this about Carnicería,” snarled Boscoe, “you speak to me. I speak for him here.”

“Look, Igor. My Blackguard need to eat. Me buy meat. You sell meat. Make deal for meat. Meat? Meat.”

The muscles in Boscoe’s enormous arms strained. He glowered furiously at Harris for an incredibly long stretch of time, jaw clenched. Lyle was pretty sure his father was resisting the urge to punch Harris in his smiling mouth.

“No soldiers in my Carnicería,” the senior Stiggowitz growled.

Harris turned to dismiss. Once they had exited the building, he looked back at Boscoe. He was still smiling. Lyle kind of felt like breaking his teeth in too.

“No soldiers around my Carnicería, either,” said Boscoe. “You let customers come through, I feed soldiers for you. Special discount.”

They shook hands on it, and Boscoe personally saw to packaging the baron’s first purchase. Lyle exhaled a heavy sigh of relief when Harris was gone.


((Mostly private support.))

[Dizzy Flores]

“Come on, you apes! Show me something!”

Dizzy forced herself to keep a stern face instead of smiling at the memory of the first time Career Ship’s Sergeant Zim had referred to her recruit class as a “bunch of apes”, and the innumerable instances she’d been called the same upon first joining Rasczak’s Roughnecks after the debacle on Klendathu.

The men and women here definitely weren’t raw recruits. Most of them were trained soldiers with extensive combat experience. But they hadn’t been trained in the Mobile Infantry. They hadn’t proven themselves in powered armor, hadn’t kept their wits during a drop and hadn’t put their lives on the line for citizenship. Thus, they hadn’t proven themselves in her eyes and she had no problem looking upon them with the same disdain Zim had shown her so long ago.

As she watched a team run through another endurance drill, Dizzy stretched her arms above her head and glanced around the “camp”. Stationed a few kilometers outside of Rhydin, these training grounds, along with her services and those of several other instructors, had been bought and paid for by one Harris D’Artainian, whom she was familiar with from dueling in the Outback and who, unsurprisingly, was having some sort of dispute within the city walls.

She hadn’t asked him for the specifics when he’d approached her to gauge her interest in instructing his recruited army in the finer points of combat. Her focus was to take the skills the MI had provided her and bestow them onto others. The Blackguard whose bodies were willing but minds were weak she reported immediately, suggesting their dismissal. A trooper’s intelligence and wisdom, more often than not, counted for much more than brawn. Anyone graduating from a course she taught would have to prove themselves outside of the ability to shoot straight on a firing range, knock someone down in hand to hand combat or run an armored suit through its paces.

Though Harris was purported to have unlimited funds, he hadn’t seen fit to pour but a few pennies into the location. The facility, such as it was, was a far cry from Camp Arthur Currie or any other Mobile Infantry training camp. They had no barracks, shooting ranges, combat simulators, chow hall, armory, enclosed fencing or guard towers. What they did have were thin sleeping bags, overcrowded tents and rations that most domesticated pets wouldn’t eat. All in all, she didn’t mind; she’d been through worse and she was quick to shut down any complaints she might overhear. Though she couldn’t help but notice the lack of a designated area for corporeal punishment (a staple at all MI training camps), she recognized that not all MI traditions would play well in this environment.

Winter was turning to spring and frost still permeated the ground for much of the day, leading to at least one broken wrist and several bruised egos as numerous Blackguard trainees slipped during parade runs or during individual close-combat sessions. Every time a recruit made a mistake, Dizzy seemed (in their eyes) to revel in describing, with coarse insults and meticulous detail, the umpteen ways that error would result in their deaths. She did it with such gusto and so often that, unofficially and out of her earshot, they started referring to themselves as “Dizzy’s Deadmen”.

She snapped her attention back to the drill as a sharp yell from another instructor revealed that her group was lagging behind yesterday’s pace even though they were practically sprinting. There was no room for backsliding here; she’d settle for nothing less than substantial improvement from any of them.

Snapping her pacing-baton out to its full length, and with a cry of “On the bounce, you miserable apes! You’re as good as dead if you run that slowly!”, she dashed to overtake the group. Those in the back would, soon enough, learn that the rear of the field was not the ideal position to be.

((Public Support))

[Tasslehofl Momus]

Tass had heard there were issues within the Marketplace, and had heard from Harris' squire.. Strawberry?, that Harris' yacht had exploded. It didn't matter that it was Harris, he didn't deserve that. So, Tass offered his assistance.

Harris has come by and asked a simple request, one that Tass had no problem in providing.

Soon enough, Tass found himself in the Marketplace. Taking a look around, he gave a small nod. This would be as good as any to set the anchor portal. He moved to the fountain, and set his hand into the flowing water. Cold though it might be, he didn't seem to mind. Soon, the water began to glow with it's own force, throwing out a complex patter of webs that looked much like spider silk, but no spider could hope to spin. His words were guttural, and now and again, as someone would walk by, they would quickly run away, unsure of the reason, other than that small part of their brain from the days when man was hunted.

Those webs continued to expand, growing out of the fountain and soon soaked into the streets. For those with the wherewithal to stand and watch, the threads scattered from the Marketplace. One headed towards the Governor's Mason, others towards the Emergency Center, the Art Gallery, a few other requested destinations within the Old Market district, and a final one towards the Blackguard Headquarters. These would be the places where easy travel could be gained between those locations for the Blackguard to quickly move towards threats.

As each thread found its end, it gave a final pulse, then faded, deep into the cobbled stone.

He stood as the final web landed, and soon the fountain too grew dim, back to it's normal bubbling self. He gave a look around, then smiled.. and that smile made everyone else who was around flee.

[Lilith Anderson]

To the Blackguard headquarters came an urchin of a boy, no older than twelve. There was a queerness to his aura, a general not-right feeling emanating from his very being. Or maybe that was just what happened when you looked into his void black eyes, sclera and all. He brought with him a letter and a box for Harris. Made of lead and obsidian, it was a heavy thing inset with a dial that seemed to number one to thirteen.

The letter was simple;

Harris,

If you won't pull your head out of your ass, at least keep her safe. She's just a kid.

Use this wisely.

-L

At the bottom of the letter, two infernal Words had been etched in sanguine ink, a passphrase of sorts to the box. If spoken, the dial could be twisted to any of the numbers and in turn it would release the corresponding number of demon wraiths, beholden to the speaker of the Words. Vile things summoned from the torture pits of Purgatory, they were capable of atrocious acts should their handler wish it. They could play guard dogs or they could serve as monstrous attackers or neither or both, their limits were up to the summoner. Just don't subject them to Holy magic. That had the tendency to make them explode. Violently.

((Private Support))