Your shopping cart is empty!
- Type: Took
$ 9.00 - $ 9.90
(3) 28mm Scaled Figures
Sculpted by: Aaron Brown
Ran'g was sitting in Master of Arms Guul's smaller, frayed tent when the first shots came from the trees. As Guul's Adjutant, he was permitted to be inside the tent during daylight hours, so long as he left the flaps open and stayed out of the brandy. He was going through the latest casualty reports when the weapon discharges - a sungun, even, not a caplock or a slammer - made him slosh the tin cup full of liquor across his pants. Ran'g cursed and threw the cup outside the tent, where he soon joined it. He'd drawn his ok'ka and pistol without realizing.
A dozen pan'gos lurched through the treeline, dragging another five of their number with them. One was quite noticeably dead, his leather vest and tunic smoldering. The sungun, then. Ran'g made a note to himself to find out which militia idiot had such a precious but dangerous weapon and repossess it before he hurt somebody important. The scrappers - city to'ok, Ship to'ok, likely, though by definition poor, landless, and without title or privilege - were filthy and glossy-eyed. They'd been on their feet all night, harried and harassed by the autochthons the whole way from their advance camp back to here. Theirs was the third work gang in a week ambushed. Thus far the entirety of the survivors had been pan'gos. Ran'g sheathed his ok'ka and strode forth to meet this latest group of fortunates.
They were called into service from the dirtiest jobs in the Homesteads, from the smithies, the foundries, the stables and the warren of workshops around the Ship. They were given little more than heavy leather greaves for armor and whatever aprons and equipment they might have used in their regular jobs. Likewise, most still carried the same hammers, cudgels and whatnot that they had carried their whole lives. They were scum, in short, beneath the contempt of blowhards like Guul and Me'a'molo, the genius behind this entire expedition. Scum, yes, but Ran'g's kind of scum. He'd take a dozen of them at his back over a full company of militia.
The apparent leader of the group, a bare-chested, brawny brute of a to'ok, with long, curled whiskers, was seething. Blood ran down his wide face from a deep furrow in his scalp. He spat at Ran'g as he rattled off a string of expletives that, despite their vehemence, seemed to be directed at no one in particular. The adjutant heard references to the rats, a worthless militia captain or two, Guul and his staff, but mostly the 'gutless 514'. That last piqued Ran'gs interest. The Plebes had been tasked with providing security to the outlying camps after the first half-dozen massacres, but Helo'lo had been acting decidedly squirrelly the last week or so. He let the pan'go work his way through his anger before directing the scrappers to the mess and surgeon's tent, conveniently adjacent in the center of the camp. Then he went off to find the moron with the sungun; no one really cared if one pan'go or one hundred died, but it made a jolly good excuse to upgrade his own armory.