Szarlo Yamego

Examiner's Record 
Subject: Capricorn Blue (hereafter referred to as CB)

Day 1 - Acquisition & Assessment

Obeying standard procedure, three field agents were dispatched to enact CB's pacification. Among these, there were no survivors. Case officer Lt. Sebastian Barker was granted authority to deploy a double-strength acquisition squad, in addition to an MCA (mechanized combat apparatus). After a prolonged exchange, CB was accosted in a brothel and tranquilized.

Assessment sequence revealed much as we expected: CB's records are edited, omitted or deleted. Original copies may still exist.

Day 14 - Processing

CB has proven extremely resilient to mental/emotional reconditioning techniques. Case officer has moved repeatedly to terminate CB's subjugation; claims that he is too dangerous to be trusted. This assertion has some merit--in the last two days, CB has critically injured six different Handlers.

CB's value to the project, however, can not be overstated. 

Day 38 - Case Suspension

Pending further consideration by Mr. Kelstrom, CB's subjugation has been placed on hold.

Day 40 - Egress

CB has escaped from confinement. All untasked agents and Handlers will coordinate for CB's reacquisition.


From the Fox's Mouth

Assembling a team is no easy task.

Szarlo knew just how hard it was to find good help. Mercenaries were expensive, and also people, and people were unreliable at best--in terms of cost-effectiveness, one is best advised to simply never get out of bed in the morning. In this manner, one can not make too many enemies.

It was a bit late for that, all told. He was a hunted man, and Kelstrom wouldn't give up. If he wanted to live to a venerable age, he would need a team; a good few soldiers, scouts and survivors to wander with him.

He met his first soldier in Southern Antiford, in an out-of-the-way hamlet by the name of Sulley's Claim.

Sulley's Claim featured two attractions: Hatford Lake and Dragomir's, an inn with a longstanding policy of not asking and absolutely not telling. Therein Szarlo sought a brief respite from his travels, reaching deep into his pockets to cover the cost of a night's stay. Slumped across the bar with an empty glass in his fist, he made an irresistible target. That much occurred to Savate as she pressed the barrel of her pistol against the back of his skull, and Szarlo was completely prepared to accept his fate--

"Long journey, stranger?"

It was the voice, really. He hardly needed to see her face or know her name--wreathed in that voice like cloying smoke, fine tobacco burning in a blackthorn pipe, all his troubles seemed a thousand miles away. The warm luster of those three words sent him reeling. They tasted like old brandy, and surely they would render him just as drunk. So he lifted his head from the cradle of his arms, daring to look sidelong at his assailant. 


What else could account for the pale red of her flesh, what little he could see? She wore a cloth headwrap, a desert runner's turban, its creases and folds giving way enough to reveal dark chocolate eyes and high, strong cheekbones. Rather than narrowed in anger, they were laughing eyes, creased at the corners as though she was smiling. She was smiling.

"Many miles yet," he croaked, throat dry from too much whiskey and not enough water. Those kinds of luxuries were well beyond him, the penniless runaway. "Would you--could I ask you to put that away?"


The revolver slid home in a holster he could not see, and they got to talking. 

A year later they numbered six members, each acquired through trial and misadventure. They were a motley crew, held together by the promise of pay and the bonds of camaraderie, ostensibly a deadly mercenary crew despite the many... unusual assignments on their record. From rescuing birthday gifts to deposing robber barons, there's not much Szarlo's band won't do, better judgment notwithstanding. It took them two months to decide on a name, despite Savate's insisting it was a terrible idea. They settled on an all-too-common issue for desert riders.

The Hotspur Brigade: No Job Too Small©