burr of the rings [CLOSED; ONGOING]
Characters: specificities, brb_napping
Setting/Location: Outside the caravan.
Date & Time: Day 19 - Evening
Warnings: Guns, death. Possibly description of the latter as the effect of the former.
Summary: The rookie was looking for soldiers on the caravan earlier. Arthur spoke up. Now that the caravan stopped and nobody is part fish, the two meet for Arthur to show how good a shot he is. Sadly, everything goes wrong.
The Rookie hadn't felt too well for some time now. When the other passengers of the caravan had fallen ill, he hadn't been an exception. Fairly good in shape and healthy, other than for a formerly cut throat and a therefore useless voicebox, he could be glad that he had not been affected as strongly as some of the others - at least not yet. He had suffered from occasional headaches and from pain in his chest since he had woken up here, and he suspected that both were a bit of an aftermath of the crash-landing in New Mombasa, but he couldn't deny that both had gotten worse, and had changed. He felt slightly feverish, but for now, it wasn't anything worse than that - that, and the occasional coughing, that sounded strangely hoarse and distorted from his throat - and the caravan's defence was important. He would probably go and see a doctor soon, after this.
"This" was a meeting he had set up before and that was now finally taking place, a meeting with one of the passengers; Arthur, a soldier by his own claim. The Rookie believed the man, of course. There was no reason for him to lie. He had to test his abilities, however, to determine if Arthur could be useful when given one of the few guns they had on the caravan in case of an attack, of if he would just waste ammunition and a firearm.
A short walk away from the caravan, the Rookie had prepared targets in a bit of a distance, roughly carved into a few trees with a stone. He sat on the grass with his M7S on his back, arms crossed and head slightly tilted forward, but not quite sleeping, just dozing with his eyes open. His M6C sidearm was resting in the grass next to him. He watched the direction of the caravan through his visor and half-lidded eyes while he waited, and only sometimes, a throaty, weak guttural cough shook his shoulders slightly.
Setting/Location: Outside the caravan.
Date & Time: Day 19 - Evening
Warnings: Guns, death. Possibly description of the latter as the effect of the former.
Summary: The rookie was looking for soldiers on the caravan earlier. Arthur spoke up. Now that the caravan stopped and nobody is part fish, the two meet for Arthur to show how good a shot he is. Sadly, everything goes wrong.
The Rookie hadn't felt too well for some time now. When the other passengers of the caravan had fallen ill, he hadn't been an exception. Fairly good in shape and healthy, other than for a formerly cut throat and a therefore useless voicebox, he could be glad that he had not been affected as strongly as some of the others - at least not yet. He had suffered from occasional headaches and from pain in his chest since he had woken up here, and he suspected that both were a bit of an aftermath of the crash-landing in New Mombasa, but he couldn't deny that both had gotten worse, and had changed. He felt slightly feverish, but for now, it wasn't anything worse than that - that, and the occasional coughing, that sounded strangely hoarse and distorted from his throat - and the caravan's defence was important. He would probably go and see a doctor soon, after this.
"This" was a meeting he had set up before and that was now finally taking place, a meeting with one of the passengers; Arthur, a soldier by his own claim. The Rookie believed the man, of course. There was no reason for him to lie. He had to test his abilities, however, to determine if Arthur could be useful when given one of the few guns they had on the caravan in case of an attack, of if he would just waste ammunition and a firearm.
A short walk away from the caravan, the Rookie had prepared targets in a bit of a distance, roughly carved into a few trees with a stone. He sat on the grass with his M7S on his back, arms crossed and head slightly tilted forward, but not quite sleeping, just dozing with his eyes open. His M6C sidearm was resting in the grass next to him. He watched the direction of the caravan through his visor and half-lidded eyes while he waited, and only sometimes, a throaty, weak guttural cough shook his shoulders slightly.