» Mon Sep 14, 2015 9:37 am Gaius Magnus - Freeside
The heat of the Mojave sun beat down upon the crowd, a sea of dirty faces, huddled around the central podium in the middle of the old Mormon fort. Gaius Magnus breathed hard, the heat of the day ensured he felt every pound of his ornate metal armor. The armor of the 87th tribe, a personal gift from Ceaser himself to congratulate Gaius Magnus on his conquering of the Sacred Tongues. Though the weight was great, Gaius wore it with pride as he stood stoically, his crested centurion helmet casting a shadow upon his face, red cape still in the hot air and polished gladius in hand. Beside him stood a young boy of perhaps eleven years, he wore a rudimentary tunic and makeshift sandals. In his hand lay a scroll, marked with a seal in the image of an eye. In front of Gaius, kneeling, were half a dozen men and women bound and gagged. They were bruised and bloodied some worse than others though all showed signs of trauma and abuse. Flanking them were a dozen Legionaries, faces masked and with their hands resting upon sheathed blades.
Gaius stepped forward and grabbed one of the captives by his hair. The man was close to middle aged, he had thinning black hair down to his shoulders and sported and grey speckled beard. Gaius dropped the man and held out his hand, the boy ran forward and unsealed the scroll before handing it over. Gaius held it so that he could read it and spoke
“Citizens of Nova Roma, I, Centurion Gaius Magnus, conqueror of the 87th tribe and liberator of Freeside give you Derrick Monroe. Guilty of the crime of treason and murder against our great city and Empire. Gathered with him today is Lidia Funes, Margaret Hagerman, Rodger Lloyd, Tyler Kennedy and Miles Yetmet, all of them guilty of treason and murder.” Sweat poured off Gaius’ face and he took a moment to breathe and let the silent crowd process his words.
“By the order of Ceaser himself, and the laws that you have enacted as citizens of this great city. Derrick Monroe and his band of terrorists are to be put to death.” A stiff brezze cut through the fort and Gaius felt himself cooled, black clouds gathered in the distance and the boy left Gaius’ side and moved to the rear of the podium. Several Legionaries moved away from stairs and five young boys climbed to the platform. They walked up behind the gathered prisoners and turned, Legionaries stepped forward before kneeling and offering up their blades to the boys. The children took them and turned to face the crowd, Gauis looked to the boy that had gave him the scroll and handed him his galdius. The boy bowed before taking position behind Derrick Monroe, with a raise of Gaius’ arm, six boys grabbed six victims by the hair and pulled them close. With a lowering of it, Gaius ended six lives and created six Legionaries. There was a flash of lightning and then a couple seconds later the crash of thunder. A slight trickle of rain began, Gaius looked up into the storm that had been seemingly conjured up as the clouds opened up in a brilliant flash of light and booming noise, letting forth a torrent of water. The Gods were pleased
"You know it's going to be like this for awhile," one dour Legionnaire said to another, "I wish you'd stop complaining."
It was raining, a rare thing in the Mojave, and the rain only made things that much more miserable. The desert was hot and now, thanks to these showers, unbearably humid. Your clothes would stick to you immediately, the heat sealing them close against your body. The desert soaked up the water and so the sand slid about and stuck to anything it made contact with. Immediately your boots were caked in it, and shortly thereafter the bottoms of your pants as well. Should you fall, well, it would just make the trip that much more horrid, but even if you stayed upright the winds would ensure that you were covered in it shortly. It would be unpleasant even to take a short stroll, but hiking through this barren wasteland escorting a carriage. It was a nightmare. A long, monotonous, slow, sodden, never ending *****ing nightmare.
One of the soldiers stops to wipe the muck from his goggles and clean his face. Momentary relief, soon a fresh layer of Mojave would decorate his face, "Not like we're bringing treasures outta there. ****ing place was nuked. It's all trash."
He was right, of course. Flagstaff was gone. Consumed by atomic fire, and not much left. They hadn't been there, this small troupe, hadn't been anywhere near it or they'd be dead by now. They'd heard what had happened there, heard about the aftermath. They'd been lucky. Granted that luck had landed them this [censored] job, but at least they were alive.
"Shut up. Just shut the **** up. All your whining and ****ing isn't doing us any good. Caesar wants this stuff to rebuild, he put us on it. You want to show up back to Nova Roma empty handed?"
They walked along some more. Visibility was shot. Rain and wind in a desert. It was almost funny. That kind of funny where you've had all you can handle, but you know you've got to just keep taking it. A very strange kind of funny. The first shot drained the situation of even that humor immediately. In the first few moments it was impossible to tell where the shot came from or who, if anyone, was hit. All of the Legionnaires talking at once until finally one called for quiet. Then a low moaning could be heard.
The Legionnaires paused, no clear solution to the problem apparent. They'd been shot at, and someone was down...but where had the shot come from? How many shooters were there? Before they could formulate a plan another shot rang out and a cry rang out. One by one they were murdered that night. Just another caravan lost in the wastes, bodies buried under mounds of hot wet sand.
