Several mercenaries are gathered together in one of the many barracks. They sit and wait for their new assigment. All any of you know is that the group you are being assigned to just finished turning in a captured Emperor Prosek, and they are being hailed as heroes.

Whatever the reason these mercenaries are here for Tolkeen, the tension is building to finally get out to battle, earn this paycheck - and to see what the Coalition is really made up of; and Tolkeen for that matter.

You have been informed that your platoon returned with wounded and are currently getting fixed up, as well as re-supplying. You are all to wait around, until they arrive to collect you.

A select few of regular soldiers are here as well, apparently they will be commanding these mercenaries in the field, alongside Pluto Company.

OOC - The new mercs and soldiers can post here. Nothing to do - but you can start posting nonetheless. This will eventually become the main thread for everyone to post, until the group gets split up - at which point there will be 3 threads.
This message was last updated by the GM at 12:35, Tue 01 May 2007.

Revolver sits at one of the tables, loading a revolver slowly to pass the time. He is not overly interested in small talk among the other mercs, he speaks when spoken to but keeps to himself otherwise. He grabs some of the food available and eats it in quiet.

Armored lightly and armed with several pistols and one rifle, Revolver is not an intimidating man, although he is dressed for the job - the true strength is yet to be seen.

A well-built psi-stalker stands at one side of the barracks in story-telling conversation with a power armour jockey. Covered in tatos, and scars this stalker has been around. He could have come from one of the Northern tribes, or perhaps the Pecos Empire, but is most definitely not ex-Coalition.

Also armored lightly, and armed with pistols, a rifle, and melle weapons - he would also be a light warrior. Speaking perfect English, and running off jokes, White Moon has obviously been in civilized company many times before.

Standing tall and proud at the doors to the barracks is a Blazing Iron Juggernaut. It doesn't move, and speaks to no one.

Attila as it is called, stands guard, and hasn't responded to anyone as of yet...

Seifer has busied himself with the food table. Overflowing his plate - as he has heard from some of the front line troops, that meals such as this are not as common out there.

Yet another lightly armed merc, he returns to his seat at the same table as Revolver, where he has a large rifle leaning up against the wall. Seifer engages in the dreaded small talk Revolver was trying to avoid, but it is a one sided conversation.

Seifer is an outgoing man, but probably unsure of himself in such a large audience, hence the overuse of small talk - perhaps to calm himself down, and appear normal among all these other... killers...

The power armour jockey stands with his arms folded, leaning against his power armour talking to White Moon. His power armour is a Chromium Guardsman suit - better known as a Glitter Boy. The suit has been redecorated, and any and all visible "Free Quebec" insignias have been tweaked to read "Fuck Free Quebec" of other slurs.

He appears to be a cocky pilot, as many GB pilots are - trained that they are the best of the best - piloting the best of the best. And with the effect Free Quebec has on The Coalition invasion - these egos are only strengthened.

The ogre sits at another table, seperate from Revolver, and Siefer. He sits calmly, in a meditative state - already making it clear to Seifer earlier that he did want to be bothered. His demonic helmet in front of him on the table, the ogre is covered in scars of battle, all over his already - distinguished face.

A calm man, but he likely has another side to him...

Why do Mystic Knights get paid more than everybody else anyway?

Towering over everyone except Ulik, and then even matching him in height, the Lanotaur was sitting on the table in a corner, picking apart a morsel of food with a sneer on his face. This was no hunt-food, and it was somehow humiliating to eat their gather-food. As if he were some clawless and stub-fanged elder... slowed down to uselessness, who'd not known enough to die on the hunt.

Bah.

War. Necessity was the bitch-mother of humiliation.

He sheared off a chickenleg in his fangs, bone and all, chewing it as he studied the others. He could sense the whiff of magics and psychics with his trained senses. He was drawn occasionally to study White Moon. Psi-stalker. A honorable hunter race, from all of his accounts, although the enemy ones were honorless curs in most cases, and best put down as such.

Tyirrik was silent, and didnt respond to any advances, except to fixate the individual with a scarlet-eyed stare that suggested each time that he was assessing ones quality as prey. Even if it wasnt a conscious choice of his, his gaze inevitably suggested that, as it was ingrained into him on an instinctual level.

He was clad in his armor, but glove-less and helmet-less, the accessories tied to his belt. Aside from his knives, a heavy particle beam cannon was strapped over his back... but he was otherwise unarmed. Seargant Tyirrik definately did not look like the individual who often took prisoners.