This Story is the Amalgamation of a Role Play Thread from the We Are Legion RP group, a Forum based group that has recently moved from Facebook to a Forum Based Website. We are always looking for new RPers, so if you're interested, please come visit us at: wearelegionroleplay . spruz . com. We are not just LEgion based, we have several Faction RP threads including Open Legion, NCR, Merc, Brotherhood of Steel (To come), Khan (To Come), plus many others in the works as well as one-on-one Closed RPs between two or more characters. The fantsatic writers in this Story are active on the We Are Legion Site today, we would love to have you join us!

Characters in this story who are played by the fantastic authors in the RP group are Credited below:

Centurion Titus Vulcanus

Decanus Sejanus

Nightstalker

Recruit Lupe

'Techslave'

Ameritus

Ised Ui

Private 1st Class Aurora Cosgrove (Starsa83)

After the Legion had taken Hoover Dam, they quickly began to advance through the Mojave, rooting out any and all NCR near the river. Centurion Titus Vulcanus and his Centuria had just returned from a large skirmish into Camp Forlorn Hope. He and his surviving men marched into The Fort victorious, trailing behind them, a large group of new slaves, fresh from the NCR Barracks at Forlorn Hope. Titus marched his men into the centre of the Fort and made a large spectacle of his return. "My fellow Legionaries! Today, we take another step towards the eradication of these filthy degenerates!"

His Centuria cheered while the rest of the Legionaries already in the Fort looked on.

Titus pulled one of the slaves up next to him, the Major of the NCR Camp by the look of the emblems emblazoned across his uniform. He then looked down at the rest of the cowering NCR prisoners who were held down by Legionnaires. "You filthy profligates will learn how pathetic you really are!" Titus said calmly to the new slaves. With that, the NCR Major spat in Titus' face.

The Fort fell silent, shocked at the audacity of this prisoner.

Titus threw the Major to the ground and stomped on his chest - the sound of ribs cracking was drowned out by gasps from the slaves and the screams of Major.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you filth!" bellowed the Centurion as he took his shikebab, lit it, and slowly pressed the flaming blade against the Major's face.

His skin began to crackle and melt while his hair caught fire and his eyes boiled in their sockets, all the while Titus was laughing, getting some sick enjoyment out of this torture.

Within minutes, the Major has burned to death, and his agonizing, blood curdling screams finally stopped. The slaves were silent, and the Legionnaires were grinning.

"Take all the men to the slave pen, and tie the women up in my tent!" shouted Titus with a deviant smirk on his face. This had been a good few days: Forlorn Hope had fallen, the Legion had a new batch of slaves, and now he had some entertainment and pleasure as a reward. He sheathed his Shishkebab and walked off to his tent while his men threw the men into the pen, and dragged the women, kicking and screaming, into his large tent.

Among the crowd of Legionaries that turned out for this brazen display, which included new recruits and grizzled veterans alike, there were few who neglected to take the opportunity to jeer and call out with all manner of cruel mockery to the captured NCR troopers, especially during the major's public execution. There were a few exceptions, of course: those few recruits not yet accustomed to the Legion's ways, who had to turn away, lest they be overcome with nausea; those who preferred to stand by, nodding in approval and quietly appreciating the show. And then there was nightstalker.

Not the terror-inducing creature of nightmares found in the Mojave's dark hours, but a Legion scout, named by his former tribe after the beasts for his near-silent movement and -charming- personality. He stood in the rear of the crowd, watching silently as the major was tortured. No facial twitches or body language betrayed his emotions as he looked on. In fact, were one to describe his expression to the best of one's ability, they might say that he looked... bored. Or even mildly annoyed. The truth would be close.

He'd been a scout in service to the Legion for many years, and had seen more than his fair share of executions. Such things were commonplace: making an example of your enemy, taking spoils for one's self. But to his knowledge, nobody had ever done such a thing without first seeking Caesar's permission. The same applied to taking slaves for one's self. Certainly, such things had happened before; it would be foolish to think otherwise. But never in such a public spectacle. This Centurion was brash. Perhaps foolhardy. Either way, he would have to be watched closely in the future. Without a word, the scout backed away from the crowd, face impassive, movements fluid and practiced. This sort of thing was amusing at times, but at the moment it was merely an unnecessary distraction. He had news to bring to Caesar. News that would not wait.

Sejanus smirked as she removed her plumed Decanus helm, handing it to one of her contubernium with a curt order to take it and her gear to their tent and have her axe sharpened and brought back quickly. Her spirits had markedly improved since the taking of the dam, and the day's victory though easy was still sweet. She nodded to her fellow Decanus as she went to assist with the girls, taking a length of rope and her knife for any foolish enough to resist, though she doubted any would after Titus's display. Though rather exuberant and sloppy for her taste, she couldn't deny the effectiveness of such a show. Sure enough there was little struggle among the women.

Her disgust with these creatures was only heightened by their cowardice, their weak complacency. She felt a grim pleasure at the almost ironic situation she found herself in as she herded several bound girls into the Centurion's tent. If she were ever found out, if by some circumstance someone discovered what she was, would she share their fate? No... no she knew she wouldn't. They were weak - they chose this over death in battle, the harlots. They chose this; they -wanted- this. She was better than that, despite being...what she was. She would have chosen death.

Though glad to see them rewarded for their craven ways, the fate of those dissolute still had her frowning by the time she left the tent. The mere thought of being discovered had sent a small knot of dread chewing at her gut. Her brow furrowed further at the sight of Night Stalker trudging his way off from the group. She hurried to meet her old comrade, handing off the rest of her rope to a young legionary as she passed, but by the time she looked back he had already vanished from sight though.

"Dammit Arenam," she muttered to herself, calling him by her nickname for him - a fitting name, she thought, for one as hard to catch as sand. "Where did you go..?"

She turned back to camp scowling, the worried feeling in her stomach growing worse.