Post by Ruzhyo on Sept 20, 2009 14:06:55 GMT -5
Ruzhyo ambled along the dusty road, a mere dirt track travelling through.....nowhere in particular as far as he could tell. To his left were barren fields, stretching as far as the eye could see, and to his right, more barren fields pockmarked with the occasional tree stump. He trudged onward, his rifle beating out a steady rhythm against his back, in time with his pace. He wasn’t sure where he was heading, or even where he was heading from, but it didn’t matter to him. Wherever he ended up, he would find a way to earn his living – find someone who required his services.
A shrill whistle echoing in the distance stopped him in his tracks. He paused, listening again, his cold grey eyes scanning the far-off horizon and spied....Ah! A glint of metal and a growing column of steam in the distance. Perfect. Quickening his pace from a jaunt to a jog, and finally to a run, he pulled his steel rimmed goggles down over his eyes and raced down the path towards the thin glimmer of cold iron traced across the landscape.
Breathing hard, but without slackening his stride, Ruzhyo hurtled towards the rail-road track, the dry wind whipping at his heavy leather overcoat. He reached the line just as the roaring iron monster surged into view. The heavy goods train thundered by, large containers of processed ore bound for the capital city for both manufacturing and trade. Giving himself a moment to catch his breath, Ruzhyo steeled himself for what was about to come and pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves...before throwing himself at the moving wall of towering metal.
Grappling against the sheer sides of the container, he slipped and slid, his feet inches away from the pounding wheels, before finally his hand caught on a ladder running up the side of the truck. Holding on tightly, he hauled himself up, rung by rung, until he reached the open top. Clambering across and lowering himself down, he landed on the loosely packed ore beneath with a crunch. Casting an appraising eye over the inside of the truck he nodded to himself and sat down, taking his rifle from his shoulder and resting it in his lap, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. It wasn’t ideal, but it would serve his purpose, for now. It would certainly get him to his destination faster, wherever that might be.
Ruzhyo was not one to waste the time that was given to him, and at the moment he had nothing but time. Pulling of the padded leather gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his coat, he carefully removed a small pouch from his belt. From the pouch, he gently withdrew a set of minute brushes and a vial of oil and, almost lovingly, began to clean the rifle, making sure every inch of it worked perfectly. As his hands worked, his mind wandered, as it often did. He had been in this business a long time. The business of death. He was a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, fighting for whoever promised the most coin. He often dwelt on this and it troubled him a great deal. Not because he had any ethical or moral qualms over it (he hadn’t), but because he didn’t particularly care for the coin at all. It wasn’t as though he hungered for wealth or power...or anything else come to think of it. He just did what he did because it was all he had ever known. Something drove him onwards, from one job to the next. There just didn’t seem to be any point to any of it. He hoped...He *wished* that he would soon find a purpose to it all.
As the rumble and rattle of the train slowed and faded, he snapped back to his sense, quickly banishing the thoughts that swarmed his brain and packing away his gear. The time for thinking was over – now it was time for action. And perhaps, with action, purpose would follow...
A shrill whistle echoing in the distance stopped him in his tracks. He paused, listening again, his cold grey eyes scanning the far-off horizon and spied....Ah! A glint of metal and a growing column of steam in the distance. Perfect. Quickening his pace from a jaunt to a jog, and finally to a run, he pulled his steel rimmed goggles down over his eyes and raced down the path towards the thin glimmer of cold iron traced across the landscape.
Breathing hard, but without slackening his stride, Ruzhyo hurtled towards the rail-road track, the dry wind whipping at his heavy leather overcoat. He reached the line just as the roaring iron monster surged into view. The heavy goods train thundered by, large containers of processed ore bound for the capital city for both manufacturing and trade. Giving himself a moment to catch his breath, Ruzhyo steeled himself for what was about to come and pulled on a pair of thick leather gloves...before throwing himself at the moving wall of towering metal.
Grappling against the sheer sides of the container, he slipped and slid, his feet inches away from the pounding wheels, before finally his hand caught on a ladder running up the side of the truck. Holding on tightly, he hauled himself up, rung by rung, until he reached the open top. Clambering across and lowering himself down, he landed on the loosely packed ore beneath with a crunch. Casting an appraising eye over the inside of the truck he nodded to himself and sat down, taking his rifle from his shoulder and resting it in his lap, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. It wasn’t ideal, but it would serve his purpose, for now. It would certainly get him to his destination faster, wherever that might be.
Ruzhyo was not one to waste the time that was given to him, and at the moment he had nothing but time. Pulling of the padded leather gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his coat, he carefully removed a small pouch from his belt. From the pouch, he gently withdrew a set of minute brushes and a vial of oil and, almost lovingly, began to clean the rifle, making sure every inch of it worked perfectly. As his hands worked, his mind wandered, as it often did. He had been in this business a long time. The business of death. He was a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, fighting for whoever promised the most coin. He often dwelt on this and it troubled him a great deal. Not because he had any ethical or moral qualms over it (he hadn’t), but because he didn’t particularly care for the coin at all. It wasn’t as though he hungered for wealth or power...or anything else come to think of it. He just did what he did because it was all he had ever known. Something drove him onwards, from one job to the next. There just didn’t seem to be any point to any of it. He hoped...He *wished* that he would soon find a purpose to it all.
As the rumble and rattle of the train slowed and faded, he snapped back to his sense, quickly banishing the thoughts that swarmed his brain and packing away his gear. The time for thinking was over – now it was time for action. And perhaps, with action, purpose would follow...
