Borderlands 3 - This is the game thread

[Skopa]

He thinks long and hard before answering. For a brief moment he looks like he wants to say so much.


"Going home."


He turns and wades into the mess to look for something serviceable to use as a bandage. But he watches the horizon even still. Watches and waits. Always waiting. Always watching. They'll be here. They're here today. They'll be here again. It could be any moment. The more he mulls over his answer the less he likes it. There really is no home for him, is there?

[Jenara]

For a moment her youth shines through as she raises her eyes to him from her position on the ground, the wind sweeps her blonde locks gathering around her like a halo. She saw something, and then it was gone like he was.

Home? Nice idea. Pressing her hands to his chest she tries to keep the blood from flooding her fingers.

[Stik]

At Ferric’s cart:
The wound to the mule looks bad, although it is hard for Ferric to judge, being more familiar with broken metal than flesh. As he stands pondering what to do, the young priestess approaches. She has tears in her eyes and a small balance scale, in the shape of a stylized bird, in one hand and a bundle in the other. “This one will live, I think, if we take the spear out. But will not be pulling a cart for a while. Let us get to work.” She places the bundle on the ground and unrolls it, laying out a curved needle and thread, and some bandages, before selecting a narrow knife. “Hold him down. Lay across his neck. He shall fight to get away when I pull this out.”

At the lead wagon:
It doesn’t take long to find some cloth to make a bandage, and Rook returns to the wounded man’s side with it. Navi has been holding the man’s shirt in place over his wound with her hand. Rook pushes her hands away, only touching her lightly and with more of a gesture like a mother shooing her children away from the table while she is cooking, and tears the shirt open to see the wound. It’s low on the man’s ribcage, and about two inches wide – probably from the point of a gladius. Beginner’s mistake. Raise the shield too high against a feint and bring it down too slow, and a trained legionnaire will slip the blade in underneath. The wound is bad, but although the man is looking pale and shaky he’s not coughing up blood, so the blade didn’t get through his lung. Rook has seen men walk away from far worse injuries. He presses the cloth against the wound and wraps a strip around his chest to hold it in place. It will have to do until a medicus can look at him.
“Thank you. Is my niece alright?” he asks.

With not much to do after being dismissed from treating the man’s wound, Navi looks around. The legion got the worst of the fight today. Almost every corpse she can see is in legion gear, although to the southwest, closer to the buildings, there are a few dead men in work clothes, each with a few village women standing over him.


Actions, please.

[Jenara]

And so dismissed Navi scowls, to many times she had been pushed away, told to she wasn't wanted, that this was none of her business, expected to act how she was told. Replacing the crossbow on its postion on her back she kneels by the fallen men, closing eyes and discreetly searching pockets, knowing after all the money that T had given her wouldnt last long, and she needed to survive.

[Skopa]

Legion gear being the best, Rook begins to make a tally. Armor. Weapons. Provisions. Ammunition. Wages. Shoes. Teeth. Some mystic would want their hair. There was a time he might have been darkened by picking over a field of dead. Like the first time he woke up alive on a battle that had gone like this. It was much easier by the fourth or fifth such affair.
He thinks of killing the wounded out of professional courtesy but he can't bring himself to do it. He wants on some level to be an angel and give them water but all it took was one time giving a dying man a drink from his canteen only to see it dribble out his belly wound again to ruin the virtue of it. This particular time seems to have taken something from him too. Another nail perhaps in the casket of the fantasy that one day he'd have a wife or a home. He takes full advantage of the salvage windfall not out of greed, but the assurance that the next wave would be crashing on his beach as sure as the next thousand would.

He'd joined the army because his parents died. In a barbarian raid. That was when he'd learned to Watch. It had resulted in years of guard duty. But they quickly learned to place him at the highest tower, the foremost garret, the first watch, the last watch, forward observer, spotter, and a combination of this and his absolute insistence on dealing with everything himself had earned him in the end only a name. But a name can mean much. Starting as "Rookie," he demonstrated fearlessness. Lengthened to "The Rookie," when he demonstrated talent. And eventually, after all was said and done, after every failed gambit and disaster of administration and botch of intelligence, the one known only as "The Rook" always walked away, in a straight line, stone piled on stone. The experience had been so harrowing he'd forgotten his real name for a time. And there were days he wondered if indeed his name was Justinian, or if he'd misremembered, and he had some horrid name like Judd. So after the war, when he demonstrated obsolescence, he'd just blurt out "Rook" whenever forced to speak up for himself.

Today is an interesting day, he reflects. Before today, Justinian The Rookie hadn't spoken out loud in seven and a half weeks. But Rook has always had an unfriendly relationship with prattle, like he knew better than to add to the bother of living by talking too much.

There was a noise. Something in the brush.

His trials had made his body stony and gouged. His form was above reproach. His stance was poised perfectly behind his blade. Leveling halberd, he stalked into the underbrush, and into the clearing.
He put up his halberd.
Still staying nothing, he held out a hand, and the mule came to him, rattling and wincing, stricken with several gouges and an arrow sticking out of its flank. Saddle, bags, reins, bridle, this poor thing had belong to someone until just a moment ago.
Justinian took a long moment to pat the creature on the nose, and it looked to him. "It's okay," he finally croaked. "It's okay." He cocked his head to read the bridle. It said HOMER.

Instead of anything useful as a bandage, Rook comes back somewhat forlorn leading a wounded mule.

"...this is Homer."

[Jenara]

Realising the man was dealing with his own demons, after pocketing a few coins Navi returns to the Uncle, kneeling beside him she offers a smile, "She is ok, the others not so much.. "

[Garbick]

Following the young healers directions, he positions himself across the mule's neck. As the lady works, he ponders about his decision to leave the military. He's always been apolitical, just doing his job -
trying to get ahead - should have never read that damn "Short Lives Matter" pamphlet! Not given to useless introspection, he thinks: Screw it! the past is done, move on.

Inquiring of the healer about her progress he looks around. Seeing the Kid walking back into the clearing - now leading a mule, he thinks "D'uh"

[Stik]

Navi -
Going through the nearest legionnaires' pouches is grisly and unpleasant work that yields little of value. Most of the men have no purses at all. Those that do have very few coins, although there are other trinkets - stones, small cheap cast-bronze charms, ribbons, etc.
The injured caravan rider watches Navi with a hint of disdain, but doesn’t say a word about it, instead saying: “Where did you come from? Are you from the village?”

Ferric –
The priestess makes quick work of suturing the mule’s wound, then kisses the animal on the forehead. “You can let him up now,” she says. “But if you hitch him to that cart, you will undo my work, and that would be bad for him. And for you.” Her tone is light, but there’s no doubt that she’s serious.

Rook –
The mule looks tired and afraid, but calms down at Rook’s touch. His tack is standard legion-issue, and as such the saddle has no stirrups. He must have belonged to a scout. It would be far beneath the dignity of an officer to ever be seen riding on a mule.
As Rook returns to the area near the caravan the priestess is just finishing up with the dwarf’s mule and approaches with a look of concern. “Let me see. Let me see,” she says, quietly.

Actions?

[Jenara]

"I guess you could say I'm a passenger." Navi replies fixing him with her piercing eyes, giving up on the fruitless task, dignity was worth more than a few coins and trinkets. "Do you have any way to contact the families? They should get something. So much waste.. "

[Skopa]

"It's okay Homer. Strong boy." Rook lets the Priestess tend the mule.
Homer. Is it even the poor creature's name? Or was it the owner's? Or the leatherworker that made the bridle? Somehow it didn't matter. A name like that showing up while he was ruminating about the concept of 'home' was compelling enough. A home that moved. Why not?
"Let's get his saddle off. He's had enough for one day. So have I."

[Garbick]

Thinking to himself: "Time to step up, You wanted to stop taking and passing down orders - then dealing with the aftermath of someone else's decisions".

Addressing the remaining caravan leaders: "We need to move or secure our position, figure out which is the more do-able - let's do it"

To Navi: "you got some good instincts, more layers to the onion than you show!"

to Rook: "Thanks again for getting my back - Always did have a tendency to run at the teeth!. Also, if they decide to move on (and if you're not adopting someone else's property) I'm going ask if that mule can take some of the load off my ass. that wagon is my retirement - it moves if I have to pull myself!!"


Note to DM: I hate stereotypes! Ferric is not from Scotland - he sounds like he's from south brooklyn. and since I don't do typed accents well, assume he adds a "k" to every "ing" ending ie:" thinkingk".

[Skopa]

"Never could resist a good shield wall, Sarge, even made of one soul. But I'm not sure Homer is ready to work yet. Huh Homer? Get the poor thing something to eat first."
Throughout the rest of the day, Justinian keeps hand on Homer's rope, never leaving the creature, finding things to feed it, talking to it. Apologizing. The tall defender seems to finally have found something to take care of. And that is the first step of finding something like a home.

[Jenara]

"I think that was a compliment?" She asks, uncertain, "You two are friends aren't you? Or you know each other." She adds looking between the pair, the expensive cloak fluttering around her as she stands motionless in the field of battle looking every bit the lost soul.

[Garbick]

Wouldn't be saying , we're knowing each other, more like we've chewed the same ground before today!

[Stik]

Oops - You guys managed steal a march on me. (I started writing a post in MS Word but got distracted before I posted it.) That’s good; it shows your enthusiasm. Minor time warp in 3…2…1…

Navi – The injured man looks as Navi strangely, and then says: “Most of this crew is either family, or has no family. And now I have to tell my niece that her father is gone. Help me up, would you?” He rises, leaning on her and on his axe haft, his face knotted with pain, them walks slowly to his brother’s side, where he begins to carefully get down to one knee. He checks for a heartbeat, knowing that it is pointless but doing it anyway. Then he unbuckles the pouch from his brother’s belt and reaches out for Navi’s hand again. “Take me to my niece, if you know where she is. We have work to do.”

At the rear of the column:
As Rook is begins working on Homer’s saddle girth, he is interrupted by a harsh shout from Manda. For a small woman, her voice is surprisingly powerful; she probably learned to shout a long time ago, and has been perfecting her technique for years. “You are not getting paid to play with that mule, wash-out. There are wagons to secure.”
To the priestess, Manda calls out: “There are injured men here that could use your help more than that mule.”
The priestess looks up from what she is doing, confusion on her face as she pauses to parse the words. Then she replies: “I will get to them soon. This is important, too.” There is a tiny bit of wavering in her voice, as if she is not comfortable with confrontation, but at the same time it is obvious that she will not be dissuaded from her current action.

As the next hour rolls on, the state of the caravan becomes gradually clearer. They have lost six of their twenty four people, including the caravan master Jonn, and three wagon drivers. When Jonn’s brother, Gared, handed over Jonn’s pouch to Manda, she broke down for a moment, then bit back her tears and got back to work.

The two overturned wagons are damaged, but it appears that with some work the undamaged parts can be cobbled into one functional wagon. One of the burning wagons is a total loss, cargo and all, but in the other the cargo, which is mostly tools and ironmongery, is salvageable.

While all this was going on, the villagers carefully checked to make sure there were no survivors among the legionnaires, and separated the few soldiers wearing the local lord’s livery, and saw to their own dead.

In the village, perhaps five structures have lost their thatched roofs to fire. One or two others were burnt to the ground. Most of the buildings toward the center in the village were built in the Imperial style, with stucco-covered wooden walls and tile roofs, and were untouched by the fires.

When Rook does get a spare moment to look at the Imps, his first impression is that the men look shabby. Their armor and gear shows signs of long wear and inexpert repair, and the men themselves look thin and poorly fed.

We now return to the regularly scheduled timeline. Actions.