- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Location
- Lutetia-Iveria Border, 20 miles as the crow flies from Lutetia City
The morning was dominated by a wall of dying birdsong and the rumble of a motorcycle’s engine chugging at a steady but lower speed than its greedy pistons demanded, coexisting with an altogether louder than expected and pervasive sound of rustling shrubs. Two figures shared a motorcycle ride through the rugged off-road country between Iverio-Lutetian border crossings.
It was the sort of terrain where an ATV was reckless, let alone a motorcycle. Yet, the two figures made a reasonably good clip. One, a youth a few years shy of thirty rode upon the front and expertly pulled the bike through the shifting terrain. The other, a woman who appeared slightly older than the young man, rode upon the back of the motorcycle. She sat sidesaddle, with one arm firmly around the man’s waist for support whilst the other weaved intricate patterns and gestures aimed around the air and ground around them, magically causing the shifting that afforded them a solid passage through the wild undergrowth.
They were just beyond the border into Lutetia when they rode upon a particularly gnarly and tangled patch of shrubs, trees, and vines infested all the spaces between. The woman tapped the man on the shoulder and pointed for them to stop as a path amidst the plant-life revealed itself, leading towards a small chain-link fence ringed clearing containing a shed within that had been hidden from view by all the vegetation.
One of the myriad Verdant Mantle weapon caches that were spread all over the countryside, serving as both staging and storage hubs for the VM’s international gun running business. Most would not have been as deeply rooted and undefended as this one, but that was because this one wasn’t intended to hold product, but tools.
The woman stepped out of the motorcycle before it came to a complete stop, a woody tendril rising from the earth to wrap itself and adroitly convey her safely to stand ahead by the chain link’s entrance ahead of the motorcycle. “C’mon Saxton,” demanded the woman. She spoke in the cultured and accent-less Lutetian you could only achieve through the fancy private schooling route. Her voice wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it could even be described as lilting or musical—although it was clear by the tone and the matter of fact delivery that the speaker was used to her requests being accepted matter of factly. “If we hurry, we can make it with enough time to visit a cafe for breakfast before we have to see if your family will take you back and return to work and all that. I do so love crepes with Lutetian jam and coffee.”
It was the sort of terrain where an ATV was reckless, let alone a motorcycle. Yet, the two figures made a reasonably good clip. One, a youth a few years shy of thirty rode upon the front and expertly pulled the bike through the shifting terrain. The other, a woman who appeared slightly older than the young man, rode upon the back of the motorcycle. She sat sidesaddle, with one arm firmly around the man’s waist for support whilst the other weaved intricate patterns and gestures aimed around the air and ground around them, magically causing the shifting that afforded them a solid passage through the wild undergrowth.
They were just beyond the border into Lutetia when they rode upon a particularly gnarly and tangled patch of shrubs, trees, and vines infested all the spaces between. The woman tapped the man on the shoulder and pointed for them to stop as a path amidst the plant-life revealed itself, leading towards a small chain-link fence ringed clearing containing a shed within that had been hidden from view by all the vegetation.
One of the myriad Verdant Mantle weapon caches that were spread all over the countryside, serving as both staging and storage hubs for the VM’s international gun running business. Most would not have been as deeply rooted and undefended as this one, but that was because this one wasn’t intended to hold product, but tools.
The woman stepped out of the motorcycle before it came to a complete stop, a woody tendril rising from the earth to wrap itself and adroitly convey her safely to stand ahead by the chain link’s entrance ahead of the motorcycle. “C’mon Saxton,” demanded the woman. She spoke in the cultured and accent-less Lutetian you could only achieve through the fancy private schooling route. Her voice wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it could even be described as lilting or musical—although it was clear by the tone and the matter of fact delivery that the speaker was used to her requests being accepted matter of factly. “If we hurry, we can make it with enough time to visit a cafe for breakfast before we have to see if your family will take you back and return to work and all that. I do so love crepes with Lutetian jam and coffee.”
