Author Topic: Byn Sergeant Role Call - We need YOU  (Read 612 times)


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Byn Sergeant Role Call - We need YOU
« on: February 09, 2018, 07:12:44 PM »

On an endless expanse of sand stained crimson with blood, the bodies of bent-backed gith and shitcloaks are strewn like twisted marionette dolls. You had lost count of how many of the former you had cut down and how much wounds you had taken before you finally lowered your weapon. Krath, does everything hurt.

Your vision comes back in a blur of dreary color and it takes you a dizzying moment to realize you are sprawled across the floor. Through the pounding thrum, thrum, thrum in your head, it takes you another moment to realize the warmth in your pants is your own piss. Oh, that’s right. You drank too much. Krath, does your head hurt.

Every single muscle in your body aches, every wound sending a sharp thrum, thrum, thrum through your core. The burning rage of battle fled long ago, leaving only an exhaustion that goes beyond your bones. You wade across the sea of corpses strewn across the desert and, through swirling sands kicked up by relentless winds, you spot your Sergeant amidst the mangled bodies. He struggles to get to his feet, his flesh yawning with gaping wounds, but his knees buckle, sending him tumbling back down with a spray of red dust.

It takes you an embarrassing while to find your footing as the world tilts around you, threatening to throw you back to the ground. All around, the tavern is a clamor of laughter, shouts, and clinking coins. You manage to right yourself against the bar -- at the expense of mugs and bottles tumbling over the edge and shattering on the ground.

“First,” he rasps out, blood tainting his choked words. Still struggling to find his footing, he reaches out towards you with a trembling hand. “Thought… thought you might’ve taken the fall. Get me… get me up.”

At first, you don’t catch the words of the man sitting nearby. A glance in his direction only aggravates the throbbing ache burrowed in your skull, causing your vision to swim. After a slurred mumble of confusion from you, he repeats himself, mirth tinging his voice, “You look like you’ve hit ruk bottom.”

Gone is your Sergeant, a man who would stride down a road with an arrogant swagger, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. In his place, a pathetic man quivers and mumbles almost incoherently in a pool of his own blood.

As your vision clears, you make out the source of the words: a man lounging against the bar, the evidence of his amusement in the arrogant smirk of his scarred mouth. You note the brown aba and the stripes on his sleeve that mark him as a Sergeant of the T’zai Byn.

With hands stained red, you struggle to haul him up from the puddle of crimson and the tatters of his aba, tearing a groan from him as blood dribbles out of the reopened scar across his mouth. Heavy as he is, you barely manage to avoid toppling down on him instead. Your Sergeant never was a small man.

An almost effortless shove of the Sergeant’s boot brings a creaking stool closer to you and he pats it with a hand befitting his large form. Too inebriated for little else, you topple into the stool without a moment’s hesitation.

Holding him close, it’s almost too simple to take your belt knife into your grasp. Shlick. The knife goes in with little effort despite the tremble of your hand. It sinks hilt-deep into leather before, finally, meeting flesh. Blood blossoms, spreading across his jerkin like a blooming desert flower.

“You’re in a right mess, ain’tcha?” He says, punctuating the words with a careless swig of the bottle in his grasp. A drop of the crimson liquor spills on his shirt, blossoming across the fabric. He lowers the drink to continue speaking.  “You know, us Bynners are in a right mess, too. I am. So, I said, why not make some sweet ‘sid while I’m at it?”

His entire body jerks in your grasp as he struggles to shove himself away. Keeping a firm grasp on your Sergeant, you shove the knife further in and twist. You keep it rammed in there as he writhes in the last throes of death before -- finally -- he succumbs. With a hard shove of your boot, his limp corpse falls like a ragdoll and you yank your knife free in a single movement. As more blood spills, the pressure of exhaustion drums in your ears.

He slouches back in his stool, regarding you. His fingers drum an idle beat against the bartop. “Way you’re drinking, you’ll have nothing left by the end of the week. But put on a shitcloak, ’sid’ll be pouring onto your lap,” he says, pausing as another smirk claims his lips. “So long as you stick with me.”

You look down, regarding your Sergeant. His unseeing eyes stare up at the bruising sky, the dimming horizon swimming in reds and purple. By habit, you reach for your belt, from where your flask usually hangs.

It’s true. Your pouch has grown dangerously light. The dung-cleaning barely keeps up with your drinking habit. Already, you feel the urge to refill your flask. As you consider, the Sergeant casts an impatient glance across the crowded tavern, bringing the morning light filtering through the doorway to your attention.

Your hand grasps nothing. In the chaos of battle, the clash of weapons, and the screams of both gith and shitcloak, it must have slipped from your belt. Where in the Known did it go?

You have nothing to lose. “I’ll do it, Sergeant.”


You were scraped up from the scums of the commons, salvaging whatever you can to scrounge up the three hundred coins to join the ranks of the brown aba.
Like every other scums of the Known before you that had picked up their patches and managed to survive, you ascended your ranks by being baptised through blood and sweat.  Waking up at the crack of dawn to go through the ritual of pain in the training halls, shovelling piss and shit repeatedly in the latrines until blisters form on your hands, throwing yourself across a raider’s arrow to shield the life of your paying client. And if you are lucky, if you are smart enough - you may survive to lead the pack and take the largest cut of the pie in a contract.
You build yourself a reputation, that with a good stack of coins come guaranteed protection of professional sellswords who would ensure the survival of their escort and the cargos.
As you receive that fateful stripe marking you as an officer, you have sworn to yourself and those around you that you will get shit done even if it means you have to wade through shit.
You are the Sergeant of the T’zai Byn.
« Last Edit: February 09, 2018, 07:15:52 PM by Fehu »


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Re: Byn Sergeant Role Call - We need YOU
« Reply #1 on: February 09, 2018, 07:15:25 PM »
Do you favour yourself as a plot starter? Somebody who are not afraid of getting their hands dirty?

Do you reckon you have the savvy of an excellent leader?

Do you enjoy drunken brawls, coins and more coins and blood and pain?

Then you may be the one we’re seeking!
We are looking for two Sergeants who are:
- Responsible and dependent
- Who can report in regularly and keep staff in the loop
- Who would get their hands dirty to make things happen
- Who is a creative problem solver even at the face of adversity
- Who has consistent playtimes and is a team player

And in return, you will receive:

- Full staff support
- The awesome opportunity to be involved in one of the grittiest, most badass role available in the game world.
- The opportunity to steer clear of the Shield Wall and order folks to shovel shit for you
- The opportunity to be involved in plots from all directions because you’re the meat shield that everyone loves!

Cut off date is on: 19th Feb Server time

« Last Edit: February 09, 2018, 07:49:05 PM by Fehu »


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Re: Byn Sergeant Role Call - We need YOU
« Reply #2 on: February 11, 2018, 09:10:34 PM »
Bumping this!


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Re: Byn Sergeant Role Call - We need YOU
« Reply #3 on: February 20, 2018, 06:11:21 AM »
Thank you for all the applications!

We've got some really great ones in and there were a lot of tough choices to make. The applications are closed and you should be getting a response by now!