Claudian Galbraith's page

Claudian followed Ashleigh inside, standing at the war-bard's right shoulder like a man-at-arms, huge and imposing. Claudian was a regular fixture at the temple of Morrow, making the journey across Corvis for weekly faith services, occasionally to have a particularly nasty brawl-scrape looked at, repaying the church for it's kindness with his own time where he lacked money. The rebuilding took the effort of many men, and one thing he was not adverse to was heavy labor.

He nodded once, smiling his damaged smile in recognition of the one who'd come to greet them.

"A busy night for you, frien' ferryman," Claudian said, crouching on the lip of the stone sidewalk to look down at Thunker. "Th'group's off to th'Church of Morrow, if you'll be s'kind."

Claudian stomped across the Quad, looking down into the canals for the lantern of his ferryman friend's gondola.

"HOY, THUNKER!" he shouted into the dark, cupping both hands to his mouth.

"Ain't never asked leave to go a place, ain't about to start, 'specially when it's devotional," Claudian groused, nodding off toward the temple of Morrow standing in the distance of the cityscape and striding off toward it.

Claudian will begin thinking about whether there's a need for ferries and ferrymen to get to the Temple, and look to see if Thunker's still about.

Claudian nodded slowly, then clicked his tongue resignedly.

"Well, sounds like it's time to go swamp stompin'," he started, looking dubiously back at the scene of the Cryxian raid.

Suddenly, he turned back toward the group. "Wait jus' a moment... didn't--..." he turned and looked around for a bill-post. "Won'er if this 'as anything to do with th'missin' Strangelight folk... Might be they know somethin' 'bout this jaw 'ere," he said. "Long shot, but it's funny coincidence."

Claudian looked up sharply at the lieutenant's description, and barked his one-word question almost before the man had finished speaking.

"Kossite?"

"Yeah," Claudian said heavily, turning slowly with a look that took in most of the narby Cygnaran soldiers. "Y'got any leads at all we can chase down? S'here's startin' to look a lot less like fun an' more like paperwork, you catch my call."

Claudian hefts the thing in his hands, looking preturbed, then hands it to Sy'yll. Turning to Ashleigh, he tilts his head back toward the wagon. "Been inside yet? Might be some other leftovers, huh?"

Claudian looked up at the announcement, then back down at the dead Kossite, Volk. He stood back to his impressive height, but for a moment as he walked toward the wagon Ashleigh stood by, he couldn't take his eyes off the corpse. Finally as he arrived he looked away and grimaced.

He arrived at the wagon and looked over Ashleigh's head. "Looks like a..." he said slowly. "...a jaw? But it's metal," he said confusedly, reaching over his companions to see if he could retrieve it.

Claudian ceased bothering the Cryxian corpse as Ashleigh looked over his dead companions. As the other man moved on about his investigation, Claudian crossed the Quad with slow, heavy steps and hunkered down beside Volk, the dead Kossite. He clucked his tongue once, but said nothing.

Claudian had taken to restlessly pacing up and down the same stretch of the Quad, staring at one of the Cryxian corpses and cursing to himself. His huge frame and heavy musculature, as well as the locharn rolling back and forth in his grip, were enough to keep anyone from bothering him or voicing their irritation at his pacing.

Finally, he reached out with the spearpoint of his weapon and began to look the corpse over from a distance, searching crudely for some identifying mark, some explanation of this seeming suicide attack.

Claudian scowled at the response, then the irritation on his face washed away and he nodded. "True enough. Don' take me serious, boy, yer right. Ain't no knowin' what it might do," he said, looking at the scraping claw.

Sullen, he paces around, watching his two companions begin their investigations and simply being a looming presence, doing little more than be in the way, already restless at having clearly missed the fight.

The scene of carnage unfolded before Claudian and for a while at least, he wasn't bothered. He'd seen and caused entire battlefields worth of death before, and while the slaying of civilians certainly didn't sit well with him, it wasn't the mutilated bodies that began put him ill at ease.

"Ain't like th'pack of 'em would jus' steal into th'city in a handful to get shot up," he said, echoing his earlier statement quietly to himself. "Would they?"

He walked along, looking around at the bodies and the caravan wagons, warily pacing the area. He had no particular insight to bring to the scene, so he tried not to disturb the lay of things. He threw his locharn back over his shoulder and watched the guards as much as the wreckage, waiting for signs of some new uprising.

Claudian was almost immediately vexed by the screeching claws dragging across the ground. "Ain't someone gonna hack that bit off and get 'im t'stop scrapin'?" he growled sourly to the nearest posted guard as he passed.

At most, Claudian's actions here constitute a passive Listen check to hear anyone scuffling or yelling for help, and an untrained Search to see if any clues or explanations just pop right out. I'm not expecting him to pick up anything, but he'd bother to look. Just not touch.

Claudian was the last out of the boat. He'd not sat down but rather taken a wide stance across the center of the boat to keep from pitching it to one side under his weight. He'd stayed quiet during the trip, though he'd spat another thick wad into the water as they travelled.

Upon arriving at the Quad he'd let everyone else first, and dropped another silver coin at Thunker's feet surreptitiously with a nod and what Thunker would recognize as a companionable smile, even though no one else might.

He hauled himself up out of the ferry as the introductions were made and crossed the distance toward the Watch Lieutenant, striding up next to Ashleigh and dwarfing the man by head and shoulders. He extended a huge, knotted hand toward the young man.

"Master Sergeant Claudian Galbraith of the Bloody 19th, Lieutenant. Retirin' don't mean I don't value Lady Cygnar's virtue any less. I'm 'ere t'put a little muscle behin' these two's cleanup."

He smiled down at the Lieutenant, trying hard not to be frightening and convey something of the esprit de corps that banded the Cygnaran military together.

"If it's answers you want, I ain't got 'em. We're actually of a mind to walk the Quad if you'd take a fare this eve," he grumbled, glancing over the waterways as though he expected Cryxians to burst from the canals right then and there, before following Thunker's gaze to Sy'yll.

"Folk're folk, I say. Nyss ain't got a reason to love the Cryxians neither, an' if there's any more floatin' around, 'nother blade can't go amiss, y'ken?" he asked, turning back with a trademark grin that his scarring turned into an awful sneer.

Claudian raised his voice as they approached, perhaps a bit more than was necessary to awaken a sleeping man on a quiet street.

"Hoy, Thunker!" he called, cowling his hands around his mouth for the greeting, then dropping them as they came a bit closer. "What's the word on the water, then?" he asked more reasonably.

"Ain't far," Claudian said curtly.

A few minutes of walking later, he frowned a bit and glanced back at Ashleigh. "S'what yer sayin' is that there's maybe a whole pack'a Cryx out in the fens and you guys only got a tiny clip of 'em? Ain't likely they jumped you just fer the chance'a gettin' a half-dozen folk into the city to soak up Long-gunner shot..." His grating rumble trailed off slowly as he thought to himself. Walking with his head down, the big man rolled the ideas in his head and remained silent from then on.

Claudian nodded approvingly, brushing at a patch of greasy stain on his greatcoat's sleeve and shrugging his shoulders more fully into it. "Right words spoken. Lady Cygnar ain't faced a worse threat, though Khador wanders close lately." This last he muttered darkly to himself.

Once he was satisfied with his presentability - the stain was clearly not going to come out and so he decided others would have to accept this about him - he struck off in the direction he'd indicated. "Hope Thunker's moored up here, be a damn shame t'walk all th'way off for naught."

He walked heavily, his stride rolling his towering frame slowly back and forth. As he settled into the movement he tossed the locharn over his shoulder and carried it with one hand.

After a suitable distance had passed from the 'Jack, he snorted powerfully and hawked a brown blob on the sidewalk.

Claudian smiled knowingly and tapped his temple, then nodded sidelong toward the rim of the sidewalk where it fell down to the waterside. "'bout a half-mile this way, ol' Thunker might still be pullin' his ferry along. 'bout the only ferryman I trus' this late. Nice enough gent if yer carryin' coin."

Claudian turned and began down the sidewalk without waiting for a confirmation.

"Claudian Galbraith," the big man rumbled as they stepped out the door. "Glad to see you're coming."

Claudian peeked his head back in the door of the 'Jack, nodding his acknowledgment of the night man and giving the 'just a second' gesture to indicate that he'd probably be back for his room before long, then glanced across the common area to where the Khadoran woman waited, seemingly obstinate in the face of the excursion.

Ignoring the larger woman's posturing - After all, I tried to be civil. Cryxians are nothing to shrug off. - he nodded abruptly as soon as Sy'yll had finished. "Good, let's go," he said, turning toward the door.

Claudian blinked and turned to the corner where the Jack's last two patrons remained, with a look on his face as if he only just remembered they were there. In particular he regarded the massive Khadoran, but the Nyss had a reputation for being dangerous in their own way, and with the wicked curved blade beside her, this one seemed no exception.

"Might be the two of you could find a bit of excitement if you were t'come along, and a pair of extra blades wouldn't be amiss if we ain't seen the last of the Cryxian folk," he growled as pleasantly as he could from across the room. "'Jack's closin' anyway unless you plan on shackin' up."

He glanced back to Ashleigh and the departing Faro, then again to the Nyss and her axe-wielding companion. "What say?"

Claudian descended the stairs a few minutes later, looking cleaned up and awake. His face was still damp with a splash of cold water to give him back his senses, and his hair was corded and tailed severely close to his head.

"Let's get to goin' before the blood's tried and trod on, huh?" he gravelled, watching Ashleigh cross the room to shout at the retreating Herod. Claudian shouldered the locharn, bare and dangerous and black in the inn's halflight, and waited.

Claudian nodded once, looked up at Faro and Ashleigh, the glaze of the night's slow drunkenness seemingly gone from his face and manner.

"Gimme a few minutes to be ready and I'll come with. My hours are done here at the Jack for the night, and tonight's little drama has me on edge. Reckon I could do with seein' for myself before my head hits the pillow."

Claudian didn't wait for confirmation but spoke the last few words as he was ascending the stairs.

In his room, looking at himself in the mirror, he examined the haggard face for a moment. He frowned, looked into the corner where a small bag lay covered in dust. This he opened and fetched out a straight razor. Dipping it in the bucket of cold clear water beneath the sink, he began meticulously shaving away the patches of black and white hair along his jaw and cheeks.

That done, he put on an overshirt and shouldered his Cygnaran-blue greatcoat from the coatrack by the door, then began to step out. Here he paused for a moment, turning back in.

Lastly he retrieved his locharn, a six foot long spear with a mace-head as a counterweight, and left to head back downstairs.

Just describing all actions at once. This'll all probably take about 5-10 minutes.

One last post, since it's just speech.

Claudian stood straight and proud, and while he still bore the sneer that was scarred into his lip and the patchy salt-and-pepper hair of a man who hadn't shaved in a week, some measure of his military bearing returned to him then. He ceased for a moment to be the slovenly bouncer of a dive bar and was a leader of a squad of selfless soldiers. The moment passed before long as he met the Colonel's eyes, but it was clear that Claudian had not always been as the Rusty Jack knew him.

"Sir," he started, dusting off the reverence with which he'd addressed officers in the past. "Jackal's Grin Irregulars have been loyal to Lady Cygnar since the start. Might be there's more to the story. If I vouch for their good faith with my own service, will it calm your nerves so we can dig down to the bottom of it instead of swapping eye-knives all night?" he asked reasonably.

Claudian turned as well to regard Ashleigh, scowling a bit at the idea of treachery. He still stood nearby, as this was no place for bloodshed, but the tangle of events had softened his conviction a bit.

Claudian moved out from between the two men, but stayed close. His own anger had subsided almost immediately as the situation was defused into harsh words instead of gunshots, but he wasn't about to have a man shot in the Rusty Jack, especially not without due process. He stood to one side and simply remained a presence, a calming effect on the altercation and a ready hand if tempers should flare again.

Ready action to keep Graves from shooting/pointing the gun at Faro again. Claudian's not having any of this summary-execution stuff.

Claudian had watched the officer arrive at first with a kind of startled smile, which - as he watched the man's head-forward march and resentful scowl cross the room - changed to growing alarm. Sitting beside Faro, at first Claudian thought that he himself was the reason for the visit, but when the soldier's seething anger boiled over, he watched the exchange with growing alarm. Finally, as the pistol whipped out and clacked a deadly shot into place, Claudian stood, and while the newly arrived officer was big, Claudian was bigger.

"Captain Graves!" he shouted, as loud as a hail of cannon-fire from a man used to giving commands in just such conditions. "Enough!"

Through clenched teeth Claudian spoke, grabbing Graves' wrist in one meaty hand and lifting the pistol-arm up and away.

"This is not a gallows, and you haven't the law to kill a man at a bar." Claudian held the captain's arm fast, forcing himself between Graves and Faro, looming over the other man like a mountainside.

Claudian made no attempt to cover his groan-and-eyeroll routine at the outlandish display that came down, as they always did, to an offer of song. He let out a growl deep in his throat, the sound like the thrumming of a warjack's engine, and put his head down on one arm, the other hand clasped around his beer mug.

Claudian was just swallowing the first of his newest mug of Herod's ale when the Nyss asked her question, and he gurgled suddenly into it as he choked on a gasp.

Finally recovering, foam bubbles hissing in his beard, he turned and regarded Sy'yll with a sort of puzzled wonder. "Ne'er heard of the Jackal's Grin?" he asked, clearly astounded.

Claudian turned slowly, matching Ashleigh's mirthful expression with one of wry cynicism.

"Galbraith, an' no. I don't know a damn thing more'n the next about them folk. Ghost-hunters an' witchlight, an' that's the end of it." He waved dismissively with one hand.

"Lucky's the fella who don't get himself involved. Lonely business wanderin' th'swamp an' it ain't a surprise to no one that some folk up and vanish. Smart money's on fightin' the enemy you'n see."

Claudian turned back to the bar, watching Herod and Sara work in the kitchen with a slightly forlorn air. He had not once smiled at the jovial man's invitation, nor during his own dull dismissal.

Claudian shrugged his huge shoulders indifferently, looking down at the bar, worn with old beer-stains and the marks of hastily drawn weapons.

"Everyone's import'n t'someone," he grouched quietly, and put his head down between his folded arms on the bartop. He grumbled there to himself for a moment before looking up at Herod.

"H'bout that chow?" he asked abruptly.

"Oughta get together a thumpin' squad and go out and sand up that fen," Claudian grouched to no one in particular. "Tired of hearin' ghost stories from the swamps. Ain't like we don't believe they're out there, an' yet every day people go out in onesies and twosies and vanish, and no one cares. 'Cept the Strangelight folk, it looks to be." Claudian looked up from the bar and spoke conspiratorially with Herod. "Thousand gold marks to find that one they just posted." He paused thoughtfully and looked over his shoulder at the bar's patrons, specifically to tonight's newcomers. "Think any of'em are here for that mess?" he asked, not particularly caring that two of the people he was discussing so impersonally were right beside him.

Claudian returned with the cord of chopped wood under one arm, closing the door with an abrupt slam with his free hand. He wove his way between the 'Jack's patrons to the swinging door that would admit him to the kitchen and piled the new stack of firewood next to the meager remaining pieces inside, tossing one onto the cookfire and shuffling the embers to catch it.

That done, he turned and ambled back out into the commons area and up-nodded to Herod. "Finch is out posting again," he declared to Herod and loud enough that everyone might hear, settling back into his seat to the Tordoran's right. For a wonder, he was a bit more careful on his way through this time and took care not to actually run into the gentleman, though was still a heavy presence to the other man's right nonetheless.

Lowering his voice a bit he spoke directly at the barkeep. "Strangelight Workshop's had one of theirs vanish, it looks to be. Had to happen sometime, huh?"

"Can't do with that," he growled, more to himself than Herod, and unwound his hand, pressing his hands on the edge of the bar. Claudian hauled himself to his feet again and shifted his weight on one foot, turning and shouldering the Tordoran brusquely as he did. He glanced down, blinked once, looking at the other man in the slight bafflement of early drunkenness, scowled meanly and headed for the door.

The stockpile was right around the corner, it wasn't much of a favor to ask in return for a hot meal and a job that involved little more work than occasionally looming darkly over the easily cowed until they stumblingly showed themselves the door. Claudian turned the knob and pushed the door open somewhat awkwardly. As he stepped outside he let the doorknob go and flexed his wrists and elbows and winced when he was sure no one was looking.

That done, he strode toward the woodpile, leaving the door standing open for his return.

"Herod!" Claudian suddenly barked a few minutes after the Rusty Jack had settled down from it's strange visitors. He swung his tree-trunk legs off of the tabletop and down with a clump, standing at last to a startling height - he could easily have reached the tavern's ceiling.

His ugly grimace of a smile retrod his face as he crossed the distance from his corner table to the bar. He folded his arms as he pulled himself into the barstool next to the Tordoran and his group, and leaned in to rumble at the bartender.

"'bout time I poured somethin' besides swill down my gullet," he rasped loudly. He didn't seem to have bathed in several days, was unmindful of personal space and didn't particularly mind that he was interrupting their conversation with his proximity. "Still have a dippa yer girl's stew back 'ere?"

He spoke with the ease of casual friendship, which seemed unlikely given the boorish man's nature, but then, he was clearly the man-at-arms in the place and had probably earned his keep more than once.

Claudian wasn't staring at her, or really at anyone. He'd settled into his chair, rocked back and balanced, and was idly looking at patterns on the wall as his beer-mellowed mind wandered.

Claudian didn't stare, just so we're clear. He got peoples' attention and suggested that they stop staring. Yfel and Sy'yll could easily hear him, unless they're deaf or something. Just sayin'.

Claudian reclined hugely across two chairs. He wore patched leather trousers that tucked into steel-capped boots, and a yellow-stained white vest over his massive torso. His beard had grown in irregularly around a scar that sneered the left side of his mouth, matching the host of pock-marks and sword-rips that tangled almost every inch of visible flesh.

The man had not been scarred in the pretty fashion of a trophy-wound at all - here was the countenance of one who'd seen all the worst things about close combat. His hair had gone snowy gray at the crest of his forehead and near the point of his beard, as well as his left temple. His right, however, bore no hair at all; it too was marked with a jagged, poorly healed crescent, perhaps the size of a man's fist, if not the shape.

Despite all this he seemed relaxed in his own way. His table held up four empty mugs. He leisurely crossed his ankles on the table, looking out over the collection of sullen regulars escaping the drudgery of the day's work, and had been about to give the first thought to considering perhaps busing his own table when the door opened and admitted the odd couple.

One frail, one fierce, neither of them local. The patrons began lifting their heads and talking in startled whispers amongst one another, shying away from the frigid glare of the smaller of the two.

Claudian smiled and picked his mug up about a hand's width from the table, then brought it back down again with a delightfully loud clop. Satisfied that he had broken the momentary inquisitiveness of the more sober customers, he spoke up, leaning a little up from his chair to further emphasize the point.

"It ain't but two wearies come in from the night, boys. Back t'yer drinks," he said. His voice carried well, resonant in it's own way as was the wont of big men, but his throat sounded like he spent his spare time gargling gravel. He smiled when he'd finished, meaning not so much to cow but rather to simply remind people of their manners, and settled back into his chair again, rocking it up on two legs and draining the last of his mug.

Although, now that I think about it, I could just have you guys post your character stats to your alias profile, if you wouldn't mind? I'll show you...

Saw that a while ago, just finished doing mine. Also, did mine for my OOC account as well. o.O

Zomg. Who the hell is Dak? Steve! I wanna see your avatar! And Zack... did you receive the email I sent to your home address last night?

I'm torn between this one and a few others. But this is the one selected for now.

*edit* Honestly, I think I'm gonna stick withthis one. It's closest to what I wanted. Just know that he's definitely NOT clean-shaven like that when you first meet him.