(a.) The last time Jone was in a proper battlefield, the city she defended was under siege. How fucking brilliant, to break a siege herself. After months of tactics she has only theoretical familiarity with, siege-breaking is a welcome reprise to her skill.
The scar on her face is an angry red line from nostril to lip, taking its sweet time healing. She doesn't grin in the face of a fight, doesn't hoot or howl like she prefers. When you sack a city-- even to save it-- you ought to be a terror about it. But she minds her fucking face for once in her life, and fights silent.
She makes it over the wall with little effort-- she's too old to be shock troops, and by then the people kicking down ladders are either dead or quit to other rafters. Of course, mages always know their use. The one on the wall before her wields fire like two lanterns from each palm, the light scorching whatever it touches. Jone has stolen one of the large, heavy metal shields common to Tevene heavy troops and is using it to slowly advance upon the mage. The shield grows hotter and hotter, and the scent of burning flesh can be detected.
"Fuck," she says, hissing.
(b.) When the battle is finished, pours her energy into the clean up effort. She prefers her mind busy, in moments like this, and that means work. Jone puts her time into every empty-headed task she can find, from carrying supplies to lifting lumber. She's strong, and weathers the strain.
It's not like she'll be useful at the medical tent.
But tents are needed. She's found most often helping more to be raised, banging metal into the ground or digging a hole for posts. The labor goes slowly, but that's fine.
Inevitably, she gets in the way of others. Holding up a beam, she becomes for a short time one of the pillars that holds up the tent itself. "G'wan," she murmurs, mush-mouthed with effort, "outta the way, now."
(c.) [feel free to wildcard, i'm up for anything.]
jone | ota.
The scar on her face is an angry red line from nostril to lip, taking its sweet time healing. She doesn't grin in the face of a fight, doesn't hoot or howl like she prefers. When you sack a city-- even to save it-- you ought to be a terror about it. But she minds her fucking face for once in her life, and fights silent.
She makes it over the wall with little effort-- she's too old to be shock troops, and by then the people kicking down ladders are either dead or quit to other rafters. Of course, mages always know their use. The one on the wall before her wields fire like two lanterns from each palm, the light scorching whatever it touches. Jone has stolen one of the large, heavy metal shields common to Tevene heavy troops and is using it to slowly advance upon the mage. The shield grows hotter and hotter, and the scent of burning flesh can be detected.
"Fuck," she says, hissing.
(b.) When the battle is finished, pours her energy into the clean up effort. She prefers her mind busy, in moments like this, and that means work. Jone puts her time into every empty-headed task she can find, from carrying supplies to lifting lumber. She's strong, and weathers the strain.
It's not like she'll be useful at the medical tent.
But tents are needed. She's found most often helping more to be raised, banging metal into the ground or digging a hole for posts. The labor goes slowly, but that's fine.
Inevitably, she gets in the way of others. Holding up a beam, she becomes for a short time one of the pillars that holds up the tent itself. "G'wan," she murmurs, mush-mouthed with effort, "outta the way, now."
(c.) [feel free to wildcard, i'm up for anything.]