Explorers of Gehenna [IC]

[Rupudska]

February 11, 2358
6:30 AM
Eastern outskirts of Jerusalem
The Dual State

The grip of winter was finally relaxing its grip on the Levant, or at least beginning to. At just over 9 degrees Celsius, the air was crisp, past cool but not quite chilly. The sun was not yet up, but judging by the greying of the sky to the east, it wouldn't be long until it rose - an hour, at most. And yet, despite the darkness, there is light. A number of downwards-hanging floodlights on poles surround a complex the size of a supermarket complex. This is the sending-off complex of the Grand Asian Expedition, an exploratory effort funded by European powers-that-be, and those with a thirst for knowledge.

Solar-powered 4x4s rolled about the complex, towing weapons, food, and research equipment. Within the complex were two rows of steel hangar-like buildings ranging from no larger than a classroom to large enough to store a decent-sized house. The largest ones were, of course, in the center, with their sizes tapering off to the ends of the row.

Surrounding these portable hangars in a U were a series of tents of varying colors, with a flag of some European nation placed in the middle of each colored group. At the base of the U were a line of grey tents, which have no flags at all near them, instead simply featuring a sign that read "Mechanics team" or "Communications team" or "Construction team" or something similar. And on either side of the U were two more lines of tents. Unlike the rest, though, these were vibrant and colorful, rather reeking of decadence. They were also the only ones that were either guarded or fenced.

Facing the steel buildings were four more tents, but these were much larger than any of the others, the lot of them occupying the remainder of the U. These were all marked by a single flag at either end of the rectangular tents: A pale white flag with three tails, and a blue stripe running lengthwise the flag and having the thickness of the middle stripe. On the center of the flag are the letters 'GAE' in black lettering. In these four tents were the actual members of the Great Asian Expedition: The tents of the U were for family and friends who could afford the trip, the grey tents at the base were for the crew of the starting site itself, and the decadent tents at the sides were for whatever nobility cared enough to come.

Matilda Haggard was up, as usual. Whether it was nerves or excitement that caused her insomnia, the result was the same: She had been unable to sleep for much of the previous night, repeatedly turning in her small foam cot.

So, for the past hour, instead of sitting in her bed doing nothing, she had been slowly jogging around the compound.

She looked up at the sky.

A few hours, I suppose...

[Cylarn]

The night had been a long one for Willem Botha, who served the GAE in the capacity of combat medic. He and some other expedition members had left the compound for the night, choosing to go party it up at one of Jerusalem's rare titty bars. Accordingly, they had consumed heavy quantities of alcohol, weed, nicotine, and Willem had even dropped 2 tabs of acid on litmus paper, which left him promptly fucked up during the entire night. Due to his sexual promiscuity, there was the possibility that several fatherless children had been conceived that night, but Botha didn't think much of it. At around 0210, after 6 hours of debauchery, the men had returned to the compound, where they hunkered down and attempted to get some shut-eye.

4 hours of sleep was something of a luxury for Botha, who had on occasion been forced to stay up for an entire week, during his time in the Royal Oranje Army. He awoke at around 0625, and found himself promptly naked on his cot, still half-drunk and coming off of the tail-end of his trip. The dark colors were still swirling around in his vision, and he still felt as though time and reality were somewhat bending around him, but not too much. He groaned as he rolled over onto his right side, only to find himself falling from his cot and onto the hard dirt.

"Fuck..." he muttered, as he wallowed for a second before forcing himself up, holding onto the side of the cot as he ascended, wobbling somewhat as he gained his balance. He then stepped over to his footlocker and opened up the box, removing an olive drab polyester pull-over and a pair of olive drab PT shorts ("silkies"). He put on the items before slipping into a pair of sandals that sat next to his cot, and then he picked up a milk jug filled with water from beside of his bed before walking outside of his tent, sipping the water as he slowly lumbered forward as though he were some sort of zombie.

Shuffling out of the tent, he leaned against the entry frame, looking out towards the horizon and the slowly-rising light out there. He could feel his stomach and innards burning somewhat, but he paid it no mind; liquor didn't make him throw up too often, but beer did. Besides, pissing took precedence over throwing up, and Willem shuffled over towards the noble tents and held on to one of the poles as he pulled his silkies down and began to urinate onto the side of the tent. The stench of urine filled the air, and the Dutchman guessed that the nobles wouldn't be too pleased about someone pissing on their tent. Most likely, they were going to blame a porter or a teamster, instead of the medic. Once he had relieved himself of urine, Willem pulled up the shorts of his and walked away from the tents. As he walked, he spotted Haggard, a woman that he often referred to as the "Dame," despite the fact that she was a soldier and on par with most of the men. He took a sip of his water, and simply walked past the woman, not paying her any mind as he did so.

[Imperial City-States]

Klaus Schweitzer
February 11, 2358
6:30 AM
Eastern outskirts of Jerusalem




My fucking god my head hurts.

Klaus thought as he awoke and groaned loudly as he fell the rest of the way off a crate he'd passed out on.

What a fucking night. Klaus thought as he stood up his joints cracking loudly.

As Klaus gathered what items of his were scattered in the area careful not to step on any of the sleeping Mercs and their 'company' he eventually recovered all but his right boot which he eventually found soaked in what smelled like Peach Schnapps behind a slipped crate. As Klaus stumbled onward back toward the tent he was bunked in was he saw one of the Medic's that he'd been introduced to the other night before the intense drinking started.

When Klaus shuffled past he nodded his head slightly as both a sign of respect and a silent 'you look just as bad as me '.

Eventually reaching the tent he was bunked in Klaus began changing , pulling on a pair of camouflage fatigues and replacing his soaked boots with a spare pair that he had packed for this trip.


After getting dressed Klaus loudly plopped down on his cot and pulled his Heavy Laser Rifle from underneath his cot along with a cleaning kit. Laser weapons were extremely powerful if used properly but god were they an absolute bitch to keep maintained. Breaking the rifle down to a simple field strip Klaus went though the rather elaborate process of cleaning the focusing lenses , power relays and the rifles other internal parts.

[Fralinia]

The cold Jerusalem morning was deceptively crisp. While Jens had his jacket collar tightly pulled up next to his neck and his hands shoved in his pockets, truthfully, he was just as comfortable as ever. It would be when his collar was flipped down, his jacket hanging up, and his hands freely hanging that he would be at his worst. Unfortunately, with the route that the Expedition was planning to take, that might end up being a common experience.

Currently, the young collegiate was sitting inside his tent, working on the introduction to a paper. He'd been up late the night previously, working on it to relieve his stress about the whole deal, but now, the words weren't quite coming. He desperately needed a coffee, and here in Jerusalem you could actually get your hands on it without being a noble, but the only coffeehouse in the city that he knew of was... he didn't actually know any coffeehouses in Jerusalem, come to think of it. Maybe they'd have some at the expedition canteen. There were enough nobles milling about that the chance was high.

Emerging from his quarters in the tent, he was greeted by a gust of cold air and a slightly more unpleasant sight than a blank paper that should be full of notes- a man in dark green clothes who appeared to have just finished relieving himself on one of the noble's tents.

After leaning in to confirm that the man wasn't merely in some kind of awkward position or something, Jens had to admire the man's guts before realizing that, well, he had to do something. It was simply too vulgar. Not to mention, if that was who he thought it was, then the response might be quite interesting.

"Oi! Hvad laver du! Hvem fanden er du!" he shouted across the gap between the tents, before realizing, as an afterthought, that the chances the man spoke Danish were slim to none. He tried again, careful to remain in the tongue of the Anglo-Saxons as he shouted once more.

"What the hell are you doing!" The answer was obvious, but the response is a good judge of character. A wisecrack or joke typically indicates that the offender is either confident in himself or suffering from a complete lack of caring about the consequences of his actions.

"And more importantly, who the hell are you?"
That one would be a very important answer. If it was some mechanic or worker, it might be that he genuinely didn't know better, or that he had contempt for nobility. If it was someone of higher status, there was no excuse. But, damn it all, if he was in the bloody expedition... the trip to Tokyo was going to be long and arduous indeed.

[Cylarn]

As Bill distanced himself from the noble tents, he stopped in his tracks as he heard a voice calling out something in Danish. He didn't speak the language, but he understood enough of it to know that the guy was calling him out. He twirled around, taking a swig on his water as he faced the man, staggering somewhat. The man could probably tell that Bill was fucked up on something, due to his rather disheveled appearance, lack of shoes, and the jug of water. The Dane looked well-kept, though Bill regarded his appearance as nerdy; who the hell else would pull up their damn jacket up past the neck like some space cadet? Then, in the English tongue that most everyone knew, the guy asked Bill what he was doing, and who he was? Who the hell did this dude think he was, demanding to know Bill's circumstances like he was some MP? He made eye contact with the man, narrowing his eyes as he stepped forward into the man's comfort zone, leaving less than 24 inches between them.

"What the hell are you doing?!?" Bill called out, speaking in an accent that indicated his fluency in English, but still gave him a noticeable Dutch accent. "You're the head honcho here? You're going to inquire about what I do at every turn, huh? That gives you the right to go shouting at 0635, eh? People are trying to sleep! We've got a long day ahead of us, and you're making racket!"

[Reverend Norv]

Friar Ibram rose an hour before dawn. The bed in his tent, the Remembrancer found, was too soft. He had grown used to sleeping upon roots and stones, in caves or hollow trees. The mattress seemed to give beneath him like quicksand, threatening to swallow him up. Ibram kept waking up with every muscle in his body rigid, straining upward as if to escape the embrace of some great maw below him.

Nevertheless, the friar remained in bed, tossing and turning, until about an hour before dawn. Then, Ibram gratefully arose and dressed in a loose robe of well-worn undyed wool, split to the waist to allow for swift movement, over woolen trousers and leather boots. Once dressed, the friar strode out of his tent toward a shadowy area, far from the floodlights, in the shadow of one of the hangars. There, he let out a deep breath, and began his exercises.

The Remembrance Friars were famous - infamous, some said - for being able to perform seemingly superhuman feats. Ibram knew differently. He knew that a man's mind was shackled from birth, held in check by ideas of what was and was not humanly possible. Only through a lifetime of mental training, beginning in early childhood, could those shackles be broken. It took hypnosis, and meditation, and behavioral conditioning - but it could be done. Even once complete, the process required constant reinforcement - which was why Ibram was standing in the shadows an hour before dawn, ready to prove to himself that he was not like other men, ready to become once more what he had been created to be.

It began slowly. Ibram's limbs moved gently, precisely, like a slow-motion dancer. A twentieth-century observer might have mistaken this for Tai Chi, and the principle was similar; Ibram's motions were Krav Maga bone breaks, Muay Thai round kicks, Kali disarms, all slowed down until they were unrecognizable. The friar's eyes were closed. I do not see with the eyes, he thought, lips moving soundlessly. The eyes only confirm, they do not know. I see because I know. Ibram felt something uncoil in his mind as thought processes instilled through behavioral therapy were accessed by the hypnotic trigger words.

Suddenly, eyes still closed, the friar whirled and sprinted toward the outer wall of the warehouse. Something let him know when he was upon it - memory? smell? instinct? - and Ibram's feet left the ground as he ran up the wall. He made it seven feet up the wall - that is to say, there were seven feet between his feet and the ground - before he suddenly pushed off as if springing away from a horizontal trampoline, and did two backwards somersaults in the air. Hanging in the air, eyes closed, his body moving of its own accord, Ibram felt his soul spread its wings in the void of no-feeling. I do not move with my feet, he thought. I move with my mind. I move because I believe.

The friar's feet struck the ground. Ibram dropped into a crouch, and bowed his head. He sought out the voice in the back of his mind, the tiny voice of the doubting child. But that's not possible, the voice whispered. A man sees with his eyes. A man moves with his body. Just knowing, just believing - that doesn't make a thing so. Not everything can be possible.

And just as he had for every morning of his adult life, Ibram smiled, and whispered: "All things are possible." In his mind, he felt the final piece of the puzzle slide into place, the last hypnotic trigger activated. He felt the calm, the readiness, the clarity of pure certainty. All things are possible. It was that act of faith that could send a man halfway across the known world in search of rumors of a lost book. It was that act of faith that created a Remembrancer.

Ibram touched one hand to the ground, and prayed. Lord, Your servants made me what I am. Thank you for this morning. Guide me to the fulfillment of your will. Guide me to whatever end. The friar lifted his face, and opened his eyes at last. The winter stars shone down upon him, glittering in the heavens like diamonds scattered with careless generosity. Ibram smiled. "Thank you," he whispered.

And then he heard shouting, some in Danish, some in English. Ibram's mind analyzed, compared. There were two voices; a Dane trying to speak English and a Dutchman speaking in the same tongue. The Dane was well-educated, angry; Ibram though he heard a hint of fear or worry beneath the outrage. The Dutchman's voice and vocabulary were military, aggressive. Vocal stress suggested similar ages, though for some reason Ibram's finely honed instincts told him that the Dutchman seemed older.

Either way, from the sound of it, there would be trouble. And that was one thing that Ibram knew the expedition did not need, certainly not on the morning of his departure. His robe of undyed wool swirling around his ankles, the friar turned and walked quickly toward the commotion.

When he reached Willem and Jens, Ibram seemed to materialize out of the shadow of a nearby warehouse; his hands were clasped behind him, and his deep-set eyes considered first one man and then the other. A soldier and an academic. Each the Platonic ideal of his profession. Each necessary. Ibram sighed. But natural opposites. Inherently reactive. Thermite and ice.

The friar gently laid a hand on each man's shoulder; they were too close for Ibram to step between them. "All right, then," Ibram said softly. "That will do, gentlemen." His accent was deliberately indeterminate, with elements of his native Borderlands, and of London, and of County Kerry, and of Glamorgan. "You're both making a racket now, are you not? Let us talk then, not shout. Introductions are usually a good place to start." The friar touched his chest. "I am Ibram, a Friar Exclaustratus of the Order of the Resurrection." Neither man seemed foolish; Ibram was confident that both would be able to connect his words to the better-known terminology of the famous Remembrance Friars. "And you, friends? What brings you here?"

[Cylarn]

The altercation suddenly shifted, when Ibram made his entrance, placing a hand on Bill's shoulder. Had the Dutchman not spotted the familiar-looking robes, he would have made the costly error of removing the Friar's hand. He had once encountered a Remembrance Friar; he was working a job in Barcelona with some other guys, when they crossed paths with a Friar. Both the mercenaries and the Friar were searching for a copy of an ancient field manual produced for Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War, and only Bill had made it out alive, watching his entire team get slaughtered when they went toe-to-toe with the Friar. Bill barely survived, and it was the only point in his life that he had ever yielded in a fight. From that point on, he knew not to mess with the Friars, for they were not your average holy men. Bill instead stepped back from the Dane, and loosened up in an attempt to show to the Friar that he wasn't a threat. His heartbeat began to pick up, and he shifted his gaze over to the Friar, his eyes not making eye contact with those of the Friar, though directed towards them.

"Willem Botha, medic," he said, his tone of voice much calmer. "I was hired here partly because I needed work, and partly because I was in charge of the ALS paramedic unit at last year's Dakar."

Botha had worked the Dakar the previous year, indeed in the capacity he claimed. They had normal-tier paramedics at the event, and then they also had Advanced Life Support-qualified paramedics, most of whom were former military like Botha. Despite Botha's reputation as a drunk, he ran a tight operation at Dakar, coordinating the dispatch of his ALS paramedics to incidents which required ALS. Not rollovers and simple fender-benders, but the big, multi-vehicle crashes and other serious incidents. Under his guidance and leadership, the ALS paramedics managed to save the lives of 98% of all of their patients. It was his crowning achievement, though it was not enough to fully get his name on the map.

[Fralinia]

A hungover Dutch and a Friar of the Remembrance, no less. Morning just got interesting. Jens thought to himself.

Immediately upon seeing the friar, Jens backed off from the Dutchman and turned to face him, although keeping his eyes diverted and his face calm. A few Friars had frequented the university every couple of years or so, soaking up and recording every ounce of knowledge that the academics had unraveled since their last visits, no doubt to share it with their brothers upon their return to their home. When they were present, utmost respect and honor was to be given to them, and you were only to speak to one directly if they talked to you first. Now, this one wanted an introduction, and he was sure as hell going to get it.

"Jens Kjeldsen, professor of botanical sciences. I was sent here partly out of my own interest and partly at the request of the University of Copenhagen." His accent, he noticed, compared to the other men, was thick and pointed, like Germans speaking Danish. His wording was fine, he had taken long courses with his colleagues from Anthropology to learn fluent English and some German, but he found that while his brain knew the words, his tongue slipped about like a drunk Swede and mucked it up on the way out.

"Friar, I do not mean to pry, but will you be accompanying us on the expedition or did you merely arrive to quell a disagreement?" Jens was thankful that he had shown up, however. This 'Willem Botha' did not seem the least bit reasonable, and certainly not in his present condition. Jens had been inwardly bracing for a beating before the friar had arrived to break it up, since he certainly wasn't going to win against a man whose very demeanor screamed military man.

[Reverend Norv]

"Willem Botha," the friar repeated. "Professor Kjeldsen. I am honored to meet you both. We will have need of men of your skills."

Ibram nodded to Willem. "A colleague of mine shadowed last year's Dakar." That was only partly true; Friar Elaine had mostly used the rally as cover to slip into Russia, where Remembrancers were both less common and less welcome than elsewhere in Europe. "My colleague," Ibram continued, "spoke highly of the Dakar's new medics, trained specifically to save critically injured racers." The friar smiled. "Perhaps it really is a small world after all. At any rate, I think that running an ALS paramedic unit for the Dakar will give you abundant preparation for keeping us all alive as we journey to the ends of the Earth. We are lucky to have you."

Ibram turned to Jens. "You are also known to me, professor. I read some of your work on the process of partially interrupted photoreactivation that occurs in response to the prevalence of cyclobutane pyrimidine dimers in the flora of the Ural Mountains. Your original research is impressive. I am sure that the mind behind such work will be an invaluable asset as we seek to understand the unknown." The friar smiled briefly. "And in response to your question, professor: yes, I will be accompanying you both upon this expedition. The Society of the Resurrection is an important source of funds for this endeavor. I am here to safeguard that investment, and to ensure that any information of interest to my brethren is returned safely to Mont Saint Michel."

As he spoke, Ibram felt the old yearning. Conversation. Friendship. Companionship. He wondered for the millionth time what his life might have been had the Society never found him. A woman in my bed, a baby on my knee. Never alone again. That life was lost to him now, and Ibram tried not to waste time mourning it. But in moments like these, when he found himself surrounded by the next-best thing, he could still feel the need - the need for other people, the need not to be alone.

He shouldn't feel it. He knew that. Needs were the debilitating illusions of a shackled mind; an unshackled mind knew that will alone determined success, and that detachment was freedom. But as he awaited the replies of his new companions, Ibram could not help looking forward to a long journey in which he would finally - finally - be traveling as part of a group. For the next two years, at least, I will have a family of a kind. Squabbling, bickering, but together. For that much, at least - though he cringed inwardly at the sacrilege of thanking God for supporting Ibram's own weakness - the friar offered up a silent and grateful prayer.

[Fralinia]

"But of course," noted Jens, who was still fully stiff and stock, facing the friar with utmost reverence and respect. "Half of Europe's pitched in to fund this undertaking. I actually made a private contribution myself, when a large number of colleges and places of learning pooled funds to make a joint donation. It payed for the mobile lab, at any rate. Which reminds me..." He trailed off.

He had been meaning to get the lab ready for departure for several days now. It was a simple procedure, he just had to check all of his equipment and make sure that everything was in place so that nothing would get damaged during bumps on the road. However, it would only take about half an hour and the departure was far enough off and lengthy enough in ceremony that he could probably get it done later. Instead, Jens looked to Willem.

"I do believe we've rather gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we? What say we grab some breakfast and talk it out like civilized people. I heard that the food stalls over in Jerusalem proper have great fresh bread, and we haven't got to be anywhere to be for a few hours. I know a man who can get us a car, what do you think?" He looked to the friar and to Botha for a nod of agreement or reaction. The friar he thought might accept, but Botha might be slightly less keen on the offer.

[Cylarn]

Discussing Bill's actions wasn't on the medic's mind, though he could use some breakfast. He was pleased that he had received a compliment from any sort of Remembrancer for his actions at Dakar. They had responded to countless dangerous accidents during the grueling race, and one paramedic was killed when the vehicle that she was treating a victim in fell from the ridge that it was hanging from after being accidentally rammed off by a racer. Such dangerous situations we commonplace at the Dakar, and Bill himself had to conduct rescues and provide medical care in precarious circumstances during the event. He nodded to the academic, on the subject of breakfast.

"Yeah sure," he said. "Let me just get cleaned up and dressed."

With that, Bill walked back into his tent and changed into a pair of tan cargo pants tucked into a pair of olive drab green mil-spec combat boots, with a forest green t shirt on underneath his pullover. After gathering up some money, he walked back out, approaching the academic.

[Imperial City-States]

"But of course," noted Jens, who was still fully stiff and stock, facing the friar with utmost reverence and respect. "Half of Europe's pitched in to fund this undertaking. I actually made a private contribution myself, when a large number of colleges and places of learning pooled funds to make a joint donation. It payed for the mobile lab, at any rate. Which reminds me..." He trailed off.

He had been meaning to get the lab ready for departure for several days now. It was a simple procedure, he just had to check all of his equipment and make sure that everything was in place so that nothing would get damaged during bumps on the road. However, it would only take about half an hour and the departure was far enough off and lengthy enough in ceremony that he could probably get it done later. Instead, Jens looked to Willem.

"I do believe we've rather gotten off on the wrong foot, haven't we? What say we grab some breakfast and talk it out like civilized people. I heard that the food stalls over in Jerusalem proper have great fresh bread, and we haven't got to be anywhere to be for a few hours. I know a man who can get us a car, what do you think?" He looked to the friar and to Botha for a nod of agreement or reaction. The friar he thought might accept, but Botha might be slightly less keen on the offer.

Klaus Schweitzer
February 11, 2358
Eastern outskirts of Jerusalem
Expedition Camp


Klaus had finished the rather elaborate procedure of cleaning his HLR when quickly reassembled it and set it aside. Klaus turned and exited his tent to see a group of people who Klaus could overhear discussing food , a prospect that greatly intrigued him.


"Excuse me. Mind if i join you ? " Klaus asked loudly as he approached.

[Reverend Norv]

Friar Ibram nodded. "It is early," he noted, "and tempers tend to fray before dawn. Nothing that some fresh bread can't fix, I'm sure." The Remembrancer turned to Willem, and smiled briefly as the Dutchman accepted the invitation. "Excellent," Ibram said briefly. "I'll grab some clothes too, and we'll meet back here shortly, then." The remembrancer felt a glow of satisfaction. Men who break bread together are that much less likely to break each others' necks, and that puts me one step closer to recovering whatever ancient knowledge lies hidden in the East.

A few minutes later, the friar returned, fully dressed. Ibram's clothes were well-made but well-worn: leather and steel and sand-washed silk, brown and green and grey. A battered leather-bound book hung at his waist, sealed with many chains and locks, and he carried an oak walking-staff capped with steel at either end. Beneath the friar's knee-length leather coat, an ornate and ancient-looking sheathed elecksword could just be seen. Ibram nodded once more to Willem and Jens. "Sorry for the delay," he remarked. The remembrancer laid one hand on the book. "There are things that I do not like to leave just sitting in a tent."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ibram saw a young man with very short hair approach the group. The remembrancer cast a practiced eye over the new arrival. Soldier. Partially invalided. Experienced, but not as much as Willem - too young. Mercenary? Certainly has spent a lot of time under the southern sun. Ibram grunted softly to himself. An asset if he's loyal. Not an issue to remove if he's not.

"Excuse me," the young man shouted. "Mind if I join you?"

Ibram shrugged. "I have no objection," he replied softly. "I am Friar Ibram, of the Society of the Resurrection. This is Mister Willem Botha, and this is Professor Jens Kjeldsen. We were just going into town to get some breakfast. I take it that you would like to join us?"

[Imperial City-States]

Friar Ibram nodded. "It is early," he noted, "and tempers tend to fray before dawn. Nothing that some fresh bread can't fix, I'm sure." The Remembrancer turned to Willem, and smiled briefly as the Dutchman accepted the invitation. "Excellent," Ibram said briefly. "I'll grab some clothes too, and we'll meet back here shortly, then." The remembrancer felt a glow of satisfaction. Men who break bread together are that much less likely to break each others' necks, and that puts me one step closer to recovering whatever ancient knowledge lies hidden in the East.

A few minutes later, the friar returned, fully dressed. Ibram's clothes were well-made but well-worn: leather and steel and sand-washed silk, brown and green and grey. A battered leather-bound book hung at his waist, sealed with many chains and locks, and he carried an oak walking-staff capped with steel at either end. Beneath the friar's knee-length leather coat, an ornate and ancient-looking sheathed elecksword could just be seen. Ibram nodded once more to Willem and Jens. "Sorry for the delay," he remarked. The remembrancer laid one hand on the book. "There are things that I do not like to leave just sitting in a tent."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ibram saw a young man with very short hair approach the group. The remembrancer cast a practiced eye over the new arrival. Soldier. Partially invalided. Experienced, but not as much as Willem - too young. Mercenary? Certainly has spent a lot of time under the southern sun. Ibram grunted softly to himself. An asset if he's loyal. Not an issue to remove if he's not.

"Excuse me," the young man shouted. "Mind if I join you?"

Ibram shrugged. "I have no objection," he replied softly. "I am Friar Ibram, of the Society of the Resurrection. This is Mister Willem Botha, and this is Professor Jens Kjeldsen. We were just going into town to get some breakfast. I take it that you would like to join us?"

Klaus Schweitzer
February 11, 2358
Eastern outskirts of Jerusalem
Expedition Camp


"Klaus Schweitzer , of the Selous Scouts. If you don't mind me tagging along i would. " Klaus replied as he walked up waved slightly with his prosthetic left hand. Out of instinct rather than any malicious intent Klaus kept his right hand down near his leg holster where his handgun sat his fingers carefully tracing the weapon's grip.


Great a scholar , holy man and what looks like a soldier.. no medic. At least i'll get along with him.

[Fralinia]

The Dane smiled at the friar and Botha's responses. He saw another man approach, but he decided that he needed to get the car before they became pressed for time. In truth, he didn't know whether he could get the car he had in mind, but hopefully... hopefully his father would cooperate.
"I'll just go grab the car then. Give me a minute."

Jens stepped out of the ring of men talking and left towards one of the tents in the U. During the walk there, he was mulling over in his head how to get what he wanted without angering the man inside on what might well be the last time they ever talked. When he got to the tent, he gulped, pulled open the flap, and stepped inside.

"Father, I need to borrow the Zealander", Jens blurted out in Danish, his well prepared speech completely forgotten in an instant.

A large leather swivel chair in the middle of the tent turned around to face him. In it sat a short, balding, black-haired man with a heavy figure. He looked at the newcomer with the eyes of a falcon looking over a potential meal.

"And why would you need the Zealander?", the short man asked, also in Danish, slowly starting to stand up from the chair. "Is there an emergency?". The man looked inquisitive, and ever so slightly disproving.

"No." Jens said, looking at his feet. "I offered to take some of the expedition members to breakfast in Jerusalem proper, and I need transportation." Jens's father looked at him with a terrifyingly unrevealing face.

"Do you know why I'm in Jerusalem, Jens?" Father asked. Jens scrunched his face. He had thought... no, he hadn't done this to him again... not again.

He said the words he knew were false. "You're here because the Grand Asian Expedition is elaving today and you want to see me off, Father."

Father chuckled a little. "I am in Jerusalem, Jens, because the Aarhus Trading Company is working out a deal with the Dual States, and I needed to be here anyway. The Expedition just happened to be at the same time, and I'm staying in this camp for publicity. That is the only reason I'm here, Jens. I don't care about the bloody Expedition."

He wouldn't. He'd have to make it about business and money and power and wealth... damn him. Damn him to hell.

"No, father", he said softly.

"What?" asked Father, with a tone of annoyance in his voice.

"I'm not letting you do this to me again!" Jens said, much louder now. "I'm not letting you be the self-centered bastard you always were, not now, not today, dammit! Give me the damn keys to the fucking Zealander! Now! I'm not having it, Father!" By now, he was raising his voice, not quite yelling but getting there.

The two sat back, staring at each other. After several minutes of Jens inwardly regretting everything he had said, Father leaned over to his desk and tossed Jens a key ring.

"Have it back without a scratch or you won't even see the starting ceremony of your precious expedition."

Jens arrived back to the men with a distincly depressed look. He was still a disappointment to his father, but at least he had gotten the car. He spoke to the newcomer first. "Hello! I'm Professer Kjeldsen, and if you're accompanying us, then wonderful." He turned to face the group. "I've got the thing worked out, if you'll follow me, the car should be just outside the complex."

[Rupudska]

It was around this time that Matilda completed her lap of the compound, coming upon the group of men. She was a bit red in the face, but it appeared to be more due to cold than anything - she hadn't worked up much of a sweat, and her breathing was rather even.

Gently curtsying (despite not having a skirt), she introduced herself. "Matilda Haggard, KSG. You wouldn't mind a third passenger, would you? Turkish tea can only be so filling."

At her side, as per usual, was a simple elecksword, though inactive for obvious reasons.

Never hurts to be prepared, after all, and I'm more comfortable with it than I am with a bra. Or any firearm, at least.

[Minroz]

Northern outskirts of Jerusalem

In the middle of the day, a stranger has appeared on the hills of Levantine, roding on the horse. Dressed in the white Tuareg-like clothing added with modern amities, the stranger gaze at the city and decided took off his mask for a better look. In contrary to his appearance, as soon as he pulled down his clothed mask, he’s actually a girl! Revealing herself a beautiful Middle-Eastern woman, her name is Nuray Shahin the young mercenary from Turkey.

Looks can be deceiving by her innocent beauty; underneath it is a ferocious warrior who is surprisingly wise beyond her years. Only fools will be taken by her appearance. To her friends and family, Nuray is more than that. To them, she’s a kind-hearted soul with the strong sense of justice and a loyal friend to depend on. Now, this woman has grown-up and taken herself upon to seek adventures beyond the known world. Not without heart-wrenching tears of goodbye and words of encouragements and blessing from her family back in her native homeland, it pains her heart a lot. She does miss them in her heart. But she’s an adult today and she has made a choice.

“Allahu Akbar, I have arrived.” Nuray murmured with the wry smile. Pocketing out of her bag, she holds a map and a contract from her GAE employers, the Turkish girl then knew she’s in the right place.

“Hmmm…” She notices the GAE complex, east side of Jerusalem, buzzing with activities. Her mind can tell it’s the start in her journey to see the world she wishes when she was a little girl. And it seems God had granted her wish today. “Alhamdullilah, Thank the One for my fortunes. May he, the All-knowing and the All-merciful one bless me in my journey.”

Urging her horse forward, Nuray Shahin rode towards GAE site.

[Cylarn]

More people were gathering for the ride to pick up breakfast, and although Bill wasn't one for a packed vehicle, he couldn't blame the others for not wanting to eat a military-issued breakfast. The rations provided by the GAE were absolute shit; they tasted awful, and you couldn't poop for several days, at which time it would be a catastrophe for whoever wanted to use the john next. Bread and whatever Jews and Muslims ate - coupled with a blunt and a few shots of whiskey - would do Bill much better. Reaching into a pocket in his cargo pants, he removed a steel flask and opened up the device, before taking a long sip of the harsh liquid.