Aspects:
Squaddie
Soldier
Specialist Operative
Freeport Ranger
Inn Keeper
Skills:
Danger Sense: x
Endurance: xxx
Footman: xx
Intimidate: x
Awareness: xx
Tactics: x
Ranger (Urban): xx
Streetwise: xxx
Cut-throat: xx
Body Language: x
Sneak: x
Language (Isles): x
Language (Strazi): x
Literacy: x
Age: 49
If Vasco were to be summed up in two words they could be ‘weathered’ or ‘battered’, used to a life that was harsh, tough and weary. Vasco could not be described as handsome. Nor is he as ugly as a mud fence, deep lines etch out history in his ruddy features; his hair, silver and grey, is cut short and is receding. A small scar from his left eyebrow to temple the is only indication on his face of the life that he has led.
The scars on his torso tell a different tale, a man who has faced his share of trouble and whom the gods have looked not unkindly upon. The scars on his back reveal the people he once was forced to associate with.
Vasco stands about 5’8” and weighs about 150 lbs.
If he could ever be coaxed back into the field, he would wear his old military issue leather buff jacket, leather trousers and boots – both scuffed and but in excellent working condition. Vasco knows while he had to play the part of a street low life, his gear was the best available.
The Life of Koenig
The older man stooped down to stare at his young nephew, wincing slightly as he hip refused to bend as far as it did. A small he would say, paid in service to keep his hearth free from the East. The young boy stared back at him, this uncle, the only father figure he knew of.
“Koenig, you have grown strong to reach your tenth summer. And now, you must cast aside your toys and your Mother’s apron and learn to defend this land from the Enemy.” The last word was spat out, as if it would burn the tongue should it linger longer than it was needed, “You must go to the camps. No, not for me, not for your Mother, but for the greater need for the people. No, at such a young age, I don’t expect you to understand, but you will learn of the threat that has been posed to these fine people of ours for so long. You will learn. And yes, you will be frightened, but this will toughen you, for you will soon understand that this longing for home will pass, for it will be replaced by a greater fear that all will be lost to the East.
We’ll set out in the morning, come now we’ll enjoy a meal with your Mother and Sister.”
***
Older now, the boy stood at the head of the long room that served to teach the History to the young cadets to be. He stood remembering the time since his Uncle left him with the nurse maid at the barrack’s gate. Surprisingly, the nurse maid had soothed his tears as his uncle departed. Explaining that one day he would return to his Family as a great hero, the words were lost on him back then. Later in life, the boy would learn what that word, hero, would mean to him, and what it meant to the Strazi as a whole.
The Lieutenant stood before the boy, looking down at the wolf lean youth.
“Name.”
“Sir. Vasco, Koenig. Head Boy. Sir.”
“Vasco? You Sherman’s boy?”
Vasco reeled slightly at his Father’s name. His Uncle spoke rarely of his Father, and his Mother never breathed a word of that important figure missing from his life. The man who had “inspired” his Brother to stand in this very spot some seven years previously, his Brother, another empty word ringing in Vasco’s family.
“Well? You are? I knew it, I never forget a face. Stunning man was your Father, Vasco! I was honoured to serve with him. I was further honoured by teaching your Brother. I hope you keep up the fine stock of Guardians that the Vasco’s seem to produce…”
Guardian of the Isle. Hero. Decorated. Still meant dead to Vasco.
“…I’ll keep my eye on you. A very close eye. Now, after this revelation, I want you to give me a full report on the Storming of the Dry Hills, an operation you should know well and have it on my desk by next lecture! For now, recite the 13 dictums of the Rules and Demands of Supply…”
***
Summer season came around quickly, and each young cadet was in perfect rank for the final parade. The hauberks, on loan to each soldier, had each scale polished to a high shine. So much so that they could have blinded the on lookers, had they looked directly at the grim youths. Vasco stood, trying his best to ignore the sweat rolling down his head, to be trapped at the neck by the steel plate gorget, remembering the past six years since his arrival. The nurse maid and her kind words to the frightened children, her inspiring stories and simple histories. To be replaced by the firmer teachers as they grew older, hammering home history, dogma and theory, coupled with the rigourous regime of physical exercise and training. One of the lucky ones, thought Vasco, a vague hint of a scowl the only sign of the sarcasm in his mind.
Of the Silver Ghosts who fell out to the cheers and praise of the families, only one third would survive the first contact with the Enemy to the East. Vasco’s Uncle was among the crowd swelling with pride the image of the Vasco’s upheld by image of his Brother wearing the bronze laurel.
***
“Ah Hell!”
“Which one?” quipped Vasco as he made his harness ready, preparing himself for the siege to come. He steadied himself with one hand as the boat rolled unseen through the fog.
“All of ‘em! Hey, Vas, you’re in charge, right! What are we doing here? I mean Sarge tells us that he is off for a stroll into the hills, to camp out and make comfy – but grins at us and tells us he’ll keep a brew warm. What’re we up to?”
Vasco stared at the bulk head before him. Orders were easy; quiet in, loud out! Sneak into the watch tower on the southern edge of the island, small crew of eight lead by First Legionnaire Koenig Vasco. Incapacitate the tower wardens, light the signal fire and high tail it out to rendezvous with the Reaver Company to raid the town at North’s Edge.
“We go out for a stroll, take in the sights and people and go home for a brew!”
“Ah Hells!”
The mission was deemed to have failed due to inaccurate incoming intelligence from indigenous sources. The team lead by First Legionnaire Vasco made perfect time to the watch tower, however, the Enemy had learned from previous raids that falsified signal fires could be lit, so different coloured flames were used to alert neighbouring towers of different alarms. Vasco’s team ignited what would turn out to be the wrong oil, resulting in a series of catastrophic events.
Vasco’s team quickly realised the mistake that had been made, and had acted accordingly. The Rendezvous Point would have been compromised and “Reaver” Company would split into squads to carry out terror raids before returning to the Extraction Point. Legionnaire Vasco took his squad, at this point reduced to six, including the First Legionnaire, up the coast firing warden towers and light houses, denying the Enemy the use of the rocky coastline to move personnel and material around the island.
Vasco then had a stroke of luck at one stage, as his squad happened upon a Freeport merchant berthing his vessel in a small cove to wait out the day. Vasco and his squad commandeered the vessel and led it north to relieve the beleaguered “Reaver” Company in the town at North’s Edge. Running the vessel behind the blockade ships in the harbour mouth, Vasco inserted his squad onto Enemy vessels firing and scuttling them where possible. Where it not the quick thinking Vasco and the valiant efforts of those who gave their lives, “Reaver” Company would have been lost to the Enemy. Instead, the effectiveness of the Enemy harbour was reduced by a significant amount, and would take substantial resources to clear the harbour and make it capable for military use.
First Legionnaire Koenig Vasco was recognised for his swift thinking and reactions and recommended for promotion.
***
For a second time in his life Vasco stood in the ceremonial hauberk, the weather matched his mood. Hail pelting the parade ground made the scales ring each time they were struck. He eyed each of the soldiers file past him, Vasco taking in the different details of the different armours. Each style was a different barracks, each metal plate and buckle highly polished, every square inch of leather well oiled, each spine stiff at attention.
Jaeger staked past Vasco’s field of vision, the commander of Reaver Company was in line to gain a special commendation for his actions in the fiasco the previous month. His was to be the last name called, Vasco was furious while his face did not show it. His ire was aimed at every level of this parade, from the simple discomfort of the showy and ornate armour, to having the humiliation of standing rank with the others and coming out with nothing to show for it, to his anger of having all the pomp when he should have been at the barracks remembering those left behind (both living and dead).
When the call came to fall out, Vasco stalked off into the barracks. Or at least that was his intention; he was intercepted half way with orders to report to the Battalion commander. The squaddie in him rolled his eyes at having such close attention from the brass on him. As he walked back across the now empty parade ground, thoughts raced through his head. What did they want me for, thought Vasco, the mission reports were meticulous in their details and he had not left anything out with the briefing with Jaeger and the top brass. But this scrutiny had that itch of danger, that he had learned so long ago to trust, chaffing.
Outside the office, Vasco readjusted the helm after the bronze circlet (replacing the laurels) was ensured to be as polished as possible; he knocked on the heavy oak door and waited. He was beckoned inside to the “Old Man”. But he was not greeted by some wisened and gnarled general, the officer behind the desk was composed and well groomed, as senior officers tended to be. There was, however, a vague sense of familiarity in that hard exterior that greeted him.
“I told you I’d keep an eye on you. And it seems that my skills were not wasted on you Vasco. You’re handling of the situation was exemplarily, making use of the terrain, interference of enemy supply lines, successful adaptation.”
“See, I told you he is what you need” This statement aimed to a figure stationed behind Vasco, a man whom he had not seen as he entered the room. “Koenig my fine young man, you have been selected to serve your people in a much more important way. There will be no more running about waving your sword at the Taji. No no! You will be charged with… let us just say at this juncture, internal security!”
And that was that. No more polishing and posing. No more ranging into enemy territory, in fact the territory Vasco had to learn was those of his native towns and cities. Submerge himself into the underside of the urban beast and root out any potential dissidents and infiltrators.
***
Not one for overt prayer, Vasco did utter an oath for the dry overcast night. Crouched on the flat roof of the warehouse, he sighted down the compact crossbow to the street below. The distance was not too far, thirty five, maybe forty feet; a simple kill. His plan was to kill the lumber merchant, make space in the economy for his competitors to move into the niche. From there it would be a simple case of tagging the merchants who met the Taji informants, and marking them for “internal judgment” and carrying out the will of the Strazi command.
His mark entered the street from the left. Something was wrong, Vasco noted, as merchant hugged the wall of the warehouse. It was a shame that his movements only helped his soon to be executioner aim. The thrum of the bow string made the merchant momentarily flinch before it killed him, a good messy wound to the chest. This would mean it would look less like a planned hit.
Vasco’s itch chaffed.
Crossbow dropped.
Blade out.
Too Late.
Damn it, thought Vasco as his back burned from the knife wound. His assailant got sloppy and fell on him, almost knocking the wind from his lungs. Without thinking of the pain of rolling on the blade still lodged in his back, Vasco flicked off the attacker, and returned the gesture. Unlike the novels he had read, this hero’s valiant blade did not pierce the heart of the rabid cur. No, thought Vasco as he plunged the blade through the Taji throat, more like pushing a dull knife through a round of cheese.
Vasco made a quick mental list, as he stood, gently probing the fresh knife wound:
Swing by docks,
Dump Body,
Report,
Healer,
Rumour Monger.
***
A bell announced Vasco’s entrance to the butcher, who looked up from the carcass on the block.
“Told you Vas, know nuthin’. Krech came by last week, snivelling and whining but…”
Vasco cut him off with a raised hand.
“Not today Georg, I’m just here for some your chilli jerky.” Vasco said softly. Georg wrapped a pound of the jerky in waxed paper; Vasco paid him and left without another word.
Vasco approached Radegar, and stopped within ten feet as a beast padded in between the two men. Some four feet to the shoulder, the dog was hugely muscled. Dog, Vasco thought with mirth, more like a bear! The bony ridges of the animal’s skull helped visage of anger as the dog growled dangerously. With infinite care Vasco removed the jerky from his coat and opened it towards the dog.
It was at that moment the dog charged! Bowling Vasco over, landing heavily on his chest – forcing the wind from his lungs, the dog proceeded to sniff his face.
“Get off me Roxy!” Vasco managed to push out from his constricted lungs. Roxy stood off him, and started to worry at the chilli jerky.
Sitting up, he scratched behind the dog’s head ridges, “And how are you, my dear?”
Briefly looking up at him from the jerky, the dog regarded Vasco with intelligent eyes.
“Mmm… fuud… guud!” grumbled Roxy. You could hold a conversation with one of the Strazi Mastiffs once you understood that due to their mouth shapes they could not express a full range of human vocal sounds, and that the Mastiffs had the temperament of a moody teenager to anyone but their handlers.
“And how are You, my dear!?!” asked Radegar as he pulled Vasco from the floor. Vasco said nothing, and Radegar continued, “What about you? They get you too?”
Vasco only nodded.
“You should have stayed with us, Vas. Shouldn’t have done all the cloak and shadow shit!”
“No choice, I was pushed.”
“What are you going to do? Thanks to that mean bitch over there, I’m a kept man. Roxy is worth both of us doubled in sovereigns. But you, what are you going to do with yourself? Could you go back to the colleges?” Radegar scowled, “Why not?”
“Not part of the mob any more, according to the papers I left of my own accord. I’ve made some contacts though, I know people. People who need jobs done. Freeports!”
“Aww! Come on, Vas! Don’t even joke with that bull. You must be, what 32, 33 summers? Can’t the bureaucrats find something for you, or maybe Jaeger could pull something out of his ass for you, that ass may I remind you that YOU saved. He owes you big!”
“Can’t”
Roxy sat beside the two men, resting her massive head on the table between them. She regarded Vasco with big yellow eyes. Unable to maintain the gaze, Vasco looked back into his beer, and idly scratched her head ridges.
“Sttuhh. Hurrr.”
Those two simple words broke Vasco’s heart, his words choked and he could barely say his goodbyes.
***
Ten years, thought Vasco. Ten damn years! A decade of flitting from employer to employer, and with the war over, it seemed that the state got a little lax with its secrets. More than once he was turned out of a job because of his past. Merchants got frankly worried about employing a man, who in living memory, kept close tabs on them and turned them in for “internal judgement” should their actions be deemed to go against those of the Strazi. More than once he had to leave a tavern with a knife bloodied because someone was tipped off about his identity. A grudge is never planted in rocky soil. Frankly, Vasco was still morbidly amused by the fact that men would come looking for revenge. It was not as Vasco acted in a personal manner; it was all matters of State business.
The only man who would keep his employ was a filthy wretch, a wretch morally speaking. Vasco hated the man, but could not find employment anywhere else. The Strazi turned their back on him, and the Taji would have arrested him and interrogated him for his actions in the past. Here in the Freeports however Vasco could lose himself. He did like the Freeports, it was the majority of the people that he had to work with that annoyed Vasco the most. Tarik was one of those people!
“Koenig! Koenig? Get in here!” roared Tarik, Vasco suppressed a shudder at having to face that slob, and hated him even more for using his name.
Vasco entered the small room that Tarik used as an office, and regarded his employer with a distasteful eye. Tarik’s clothes were the finest on the island, and the slight paunch was not the only sign of his good eating. Unfortunately, food was the least of his vices, and the constant leer on his face hinted at darker tastes.
“Koenig, my dear boy”, Vasco was older by at least 5 summers, but Tarik constantly repeated the words, using them as a calculated insult. “Where are the reports on the last shipment?”
“The slaves were dead when they got there! You cut corners to increase profits. One of those corners you decided would be the slave’s food on the voyage. Your contact decided not to pay you for delivery of a ship load of carcasses!”
Outraged at being spoken at in such a way, Tarik launched into one of his belittling tirades against Vasco. A veritable tide of insults which Vasco had endured before. His mind wandered, he had been chewed out by Barrack Sergeants before. Men who were much better than the little goblin like creature that stood before him. Vasco noted the bulging veins in his neck, the red flushed face and the sweat on the brow of the worm behind the table. His eyes wandered with his mind, took in the sights of the office, until the last came to rest on the ornate letter opener that lay admit the scattered reports on the foul dealings.
The letter opener; it was silver. Silver was known to be used as a weapon to be used against the vilest of creatures known to have been spawned by the lower hells.
Tarik stopped yelling, but his gaze never left Vasco’s face, “And just WHAT are you grinning about, you idiot?”
***
Technically he had been happy during these past two years, but there was just something in Vasco that would not settle. Irma looked up at him from the kitchen and smiled, the only thing that brought back the memory of beauty to her face. Irma had been a camp follower in a previous life, the same way Vasco had been a soldier. But the toll of a hundred men and seven children was fully eminent on her features.
One bar patron had mentioned to a drinking buddy that she had the face akin to that of melting wax. The drinking buddy quickly separated himself from the company of the patron before Irma’s two eldest children took to him with violent abandon.
And were it not for Vasco’s intervention, he would have surely died. It wasn’t to save the wretched soul, no, it was to save the teens from seeing death at an early stage. He had heard rumours that something was amiss and there could be trouble brewing, tales that Ettir had died. Ugly, vicious rumours. Things he wanted to save the children from!
While the children were not his, Vasco took to them as his Uncle had to him, and in many ways tried to be better. At no time did he mention the war, and if asked, he would turn the conversation away such topic. The children took to Vasco as a well loved distant relative. And even though Irma took to his bed on the often cold winter nights, Vasco was not settled. As close to happy as he could have ever been; but never settled.
It was with a heavy weight in his gut that he once again said his good byes to those he respected and loved. The tavern he had salvaged, he turned over the Irma and her children to run.
That was when he walked away. Travelling aimlessly once again but this time in reasonable comfort; not having to work for his passage. Although more often than not he did choose to work for his passage, Vasco was never one to allow himself to be idle. And questions about his age and ability were generally put aside.
That was until he found Thiemus.
***
Quite recently, as Vasco was tending to a hardy rose bush in the gardens of the Church of the Herald Eislint, a shadow fell across him. Looking up a young man stood before him. Vasco regarded him and his itch chaffed.
“War has returned to the Isles!”
Stretching his aching back, Vasco rubbed is hand across his sweating brow, “A young fool’s game that!”
And he turned his back and walked away, furious at himself for presenting such an open target…
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