Soaking in Your Arrival The cold registers like a wall of shrapnel biting into Walter’s skin, forcing him to gasp reflexively. He jerks, thrashing in the water as he forces his limbs to move through the shock. He’s barely managed to wrangle them under some semblance of control when a woman emerges from beneath the water. Her movements are much cleaner — no sign of the cold affecting how she swims — and he has little time to react when she presses a vial of something against his lips. “What are you—?!”
His sentence is cut off as the fluid hits his throat. Having been strangled to the verge of unconsciousness hardly a minute or two before hitting the water, it stings uncomfortably. His abused throat rebels, and he coughs, nearly choking on the liquid before some of it manages to make its way down.
She’s gone almost as quickly as she came, off towards someone else who’s just hit the water.
Scowling, he swiftly makes his way to the shore, a far better position to take stock of the situation from. Maybe then he can figure out just what the hell is going on here.
The Caravan to Camelot They’re being gathered atop the cliffs — White Cliffs that are definitely not of Dover. Dover was by the sea, and there’s no salt scent lingering in the air or in his clothes from his inopportune dip in the decidedly freshwater lake.
There’s already a creeping sense of wrongness about this situation beyond his being plucked from where he was and brought to where he now is. They’re a decidedly mixed lot, and items are being handed out to the lot of them in streamlined fashion, as though they were accustomed to the process.
They look like a group of evacuees. Like the poor bastards brought to shore when the Nazis closed in on Dunkirk, arriving at none other than Dover.
The parallel is surreal, and it grates.
Cloak pulled about his shoulders and fastened close to his neck, Walter stares down at the smartphone in his hand with a scrutinizing look, a cord and a pair of miniature earphones trailing from the device.
“What is this? A hearing aid?” It certainly bears some resemblance to some of the models that cropped up with the advent of electricity and the telephone. But why does it have a screen like a tiny, tiny version of a rich man’s television set?
The Red Spring Walter is quick to leave the room once they’re settled in at the Red Spring. “Room’s yours for the night. I’ll be quiet coming back in.” That’s all the warning he gives. He doesn’t feel like socializing right now. Instead, he makes his way to the training grounds. Might as well get on with it, he figures. The training won’t be nearly enough to vent his frustrations, but it’s better than nothing.
He’s followed by a Black Dog, an abnormally large spectral hound with lengthy black hair, it trailing behind him like a quiet shadow.
He spends most of his time at the targets and obstacle course, deliberately pushing himself even after the instructors call it a night.
It’s half-past one when he decides to make a quick trip to the shower in his quarters to clean up, slinking off to the spring to soak for a bit alone. He only sticks his feet in, the legs on his pants rolled up as far as they will go — a little ways up his shin, with how tightly they fit — as he’s not inclined to strip down in the open air of a populated area, even if most people in the area seem to be asleep.
Quest: Fogueria Walter is a night owl by habit; what with his role in the Order of Royal Protestant Knights in tracking down and dispatching supernatural threats, he’s grown accustomed to keeping those dusk to dawn hours, give a few for other assorted household tasks. Consequentially, it’s only natural that he gravitates towards the one quest that deals with a nightly problem, even if it is only a band of irresponsible travellers.
He makes out for the plains south of the Red Spring, ambling casual with a great, shaggy-maned Black Dog ambling at his side, its eyes aglow like fire in the darkness. Sometimes he pulls ahead, impatient in his stride, and lacking in cohesion with his newfound familiar.
After a few hours, he spots it; a light in the distance, casting a flame-lit glow over a corner of the fields. A growl rumbles from his familiar’s throat, tension creeping into its form. The smell of burning grasses hit his nostrils.
The pair shift into a predatory stride, stalking closer, closer, until the sight becomes clear. And what an interesting little surprise it is, to find out a quest asking for help with disciplining partiers turns out not to have anything to do with partiers at all.
Crouching in the grass, he pulls the smartphone from his waistcoat, turning it on. It’s a good thing he spent a while pestering Camelot Support for details on how to operate it.
So it is that sometime in the middle of the night that the boyish voice not yet turned deep by the breaking that comes with adolescence sounds over the network.
“So… that little quest on the board about revellers setting fires at night? It’s not revellers.”
He doesn’t sound particularly frightened or disturbed about the revelation, but more something between amused and put-out. He doesn’t have the proper equipment on him for dealing with a fire-based fiend on his own. Partiers? Yes. Fire-beast? No.
“They really should do something about the quality of their intel. So, are any of you elemental magic types comfortable with earth or water spells yet? This thing is bound to be jumping about a bit.”
Though he supposes kinetic magic could be applied to turn the earth… There would be more collateral damage, but options are options.
The Darkness in the White Cliffs It is late in the evening when he comes to inspect the site along the White Cliffs, having spent much of the late afternoon and early evening honing his skills. He’s a hard worker, even if he is unorthodox in his hours.
Unfortunately, even with a gift, it seems that the Cliff Beast won’t let him in on his own. It due to the danger, or so he’s told, and his insistence that he is perfectly capable of handling himself goes precisely nowhere. As such, he’s left at the cliff’s entrance wondering if the whole thing isn’t a waste of time. He could have been training.
Though… he supposes he can still train while he ponders whether or not to stay and see if there isn’t one other person in the whole lot of them that doesn’t mind doing tasks in the dark.
He tries for a simple thing; floating the large, pale mussel shell over his outstretched palm, his hand loosely open to prevent said shell from breaking if his concentration slips. It wobbles a little — first high, then low, as though bouncing — before he manages to hold it at a steady level.
It’s not the best way to pass the time, but it’s something.
Wildcard ((Are you interested in encountering Walter in another scenario? Foraging? Wrangling pigs? Float your ideas here! And sorry if he's a little cranky!))
Walter C. Dornez | Hellsing: The Dawn | Black Dog, Kinetic Magic
The cold registers like a wall of shrapnel biting into Walter’s skin, forcing him to gasp reflexively. He jerks, thrashing in the water as he forces his limbs to move through the shock. He’s barely managed to wrangle them under some semblance of control when a woman emerges from beneath the water. Her movements are much cleaner — no sign of the cold affecting how she swims — and he has little time to react when she presses a vial of something against his lips. “What are you—?!”
His sentence is cut off as the fluid hits his throat. Having been strangled to the verge of unconsciousness hardly a minute or two before hitting the water, it stings uncomfortably. His abused throat rebels, and he coughs, nearly choking on the liquid before some of it manages to make its way down.
She’s gone almost as quickly as she came, off towards someone else who’s just hit the water.
Scowling, he swiftly makes his way to the shore, a far better position to take stock of the situation from. Maybe then he can figure out just what the hell is going on here.
The Caravan to Camelot
They’re being gathered atop the cliffs — White Cliffs that are definitely not of Dover. Dover was by the sea, and there’s no salt scent lingering in the air or in his clothes from his inopportune dip in the decidedly freshwater lake.
There’s already a creeping sense of wrongness about this situation beyond his being plucked from where he was and brought to where he now is. They’re a decidedly mixed lot, and items are being handed out to the lot of them in streamlined fashion, as though they were accustomed to the process.
They look like a group of evacuees. Like the poor bastards brought to shore when the Nazis closed in on Dunkirk, arriving at none other than Dover.
The parallel is surreal, and it grates.
Cloak pulled about his shoulders and fastened close to his neck, Walter stares down at the smartphone in his hand with a scrutinizing look, a cord and a pair of miniature earphones trailing from the device.
“What is this? A hearing aid?” It certainly bears some resemblance to some of the models that cropped up with the advent of electricity and the telephone. But why does it have a screen like a tiny, tiny version of a rich man’s television set?
The Red Spring
Walter is quick to leave the room once they’re settled in at the Red Spring. “Room’s yours for the night. I’ll be quiet coming back in.” That’s all the warning he gives. He doesn’t feel like socializing right now. Instead, he makes his way to the training grounds. Might as well get on with it, he figures. The training won’t be nearly enough to vent his frustrations, but it’s better than nothing.
He’s followed by a Black Dog, an abnormally large spectral hound with lengthy black hair, it trailing behind him like a quiet shadow.
He spends most of his time at the targets and obstacle course, deliberately pushing himself even after the instructors call it a night.
It’s half-past one when he decides to make a quick trip to the shower in his quarters to clean up, slinking off to the spring to soak for a bit alone. He only sticks his feet in, the legs on his pants rolled up as far as they will go — a little ways up his shin, with how tightly they fit — as he’s not inclined to strip down in the open air of a populated area, even if most people in the area seem to be asleep.
Quest: Fogueria
Walter is a night owl by habit; what with his role in the Order of Royal Protestant Knights in tracking down and dispatching supernatural threats, he’s grown accustomed to keeping those dusk to dawn hours, give a few for other assorted household tasks. Consequentially, it’s only natural that he gravitates towards the one quest that deals with a nightly problem, even if it is only a band of irresponsible travellers.
He makes out for the plains south of the Red Spring, ambling casual with a great, shaggy-maned Black Dog ambling at his side, its eyes aglow like fire in the darkness. Sometimes he pulls ahead, impatient in his stride, and lacking in cohesion with his newfound familiar.
After a few hours, he spots it; a light in the distance, casting a flame-lit glow over a corner of the fields. A growl rumbles from his familiar’s throat, tension creeping into its form. The smell of burning grasses hit his nostrils.
The pair shift into a predatory stride, stalking closer, closer, until the sight becomes clear. And what an interesting little surprise it is, to find out a quest asking for help with disciplining partiers turns out not to have anything to do with partiers at all.
Crouching in the grass, he pulls the smartphone from his waistcoat, turning it on. It’s a good thing he spent a while pestering Camelot Support for details on how to operate it.
So it is that sometime in the middle of the night that the boyish voice not yet turned deep by the breaking that comes with adolescence sounds over the network.
“So… that little quest on the board about revellers setting fires at night? It’s not revellers.”
He doesn’t sound particularly frightened or disturbed about the revelation, but more something between amused and put-out. He doesn’t have the proper equipment on him for dealing with a fire-based fiend on his own. Partiers? Yes. Fire-beast? No.
“They really should do something about the quality of their intel. So, are any of you elemental magic types comfortable with earth or water spells yet? This thing is bound to be jumping about a bit.”
Though he supposes kinetic magic could be applied to turn the earth… There would be more collateral damage, but options are options.
The Darkness in the White Cliffs
It is late in the evening when he comes to inspect the site along the White Cliffs, having spent much of the late afternoon and early evening honing his skills. He’s a hard worker, even if he is unorthodox in his hours.
Unfortunately, even with a gift, it seems that the Cliff Beast won’t let him in on his own. It due to the danger, or so he’s told, and his insistence that he is perfectly capable of handling himself goes precisely nowhere. As such, he’s left at the cliff’s entrance wondering if the whole thing isn’t a waste of time. He could have been training.
Though… he supposes he can still train while he ponders whether or not to stay and see if there isn’t one other person in the whole lot of them that doesn’t mind doing tasks in the dark.
He tries for a simple thing; floating the large, pale mussel shell over his outstretched palm, his hand loosely open to prevent said shell from breaking if his concentration slips. It wobbles a little — first high, then low, as though bouncing — before he manages to hold it at a steady level.
It’s not the best way to pass the time, but it’s something.
Wildcard
((Are you interested in encountering Walter in another scenario? Foraging? Wrangling pigs? Float your ideas here! And sorry if he's a little cranky!))