[i]A trifecta of three figures enter the bar amidst the conversations of the Chaos and the Imperium's lower-ranking soldiers, but immediately after the conversation that had taken place only moments before. [/i] [i]The first person to wander inside the establishment was a strange figure to many. With his face half charred and scarred into oblivion, his ugly mug on the leftmost half shows a menacing look to the figure, while the right side portrays his innocence fairly well with only a single, angelic white beard that ran along his face, somehow growing atop the burnt face. Rather, his beard grew at one point, which it seemed to stop after some moment, and the facial hair had barely noticeable burn marks lining the right half of his beard near the top, where it connected with his ugly face. The duster that remains draped over his body was tattered and torn, showing years of usage and fights survived while bearing that outfit. The dirt at the very deepest depths of his outfit carried a darker yet less noticeable brown due to the minuscule amount of dirt that was there, but the outfit quickly grew to be a lighter shade of brown as it went higher and higher, the long jacket showing a strange patch on the right shoulder, that reads [b]Nation Without a Home[/b], above another that reads [b]Outlaw Squad, OSIRis[/b], ending the chain with one that reads [b]Fireteam November[/b]. Across his back rests a single shotgun, one with three barrels and no stock, the words [b]TRIPLE TAP[/b] etched into the top barrel, engraved with an onyx colour. At his sides lay a pair of twin revolvers, either looking to have a slightly longer barrel than the average revolver, although from the way the man carried himself it was clear that he could still draw the weapons faster than half the patrons in the bar. [/i] [i]The second to head inside the bar was far more strange than the first, this being her first time entering the building. Her long, curled red locks flowed over her right shoulder, draping down to touch the side of her breast. Her fiery hair seemingly heated the air around her immensely and filled the bar with pure heat, all the while her icy blue eyes cooled it back down swiftly. Her outfit consisted of a crimson red shirt, the laces that acted as straps running over either shoulder in a nice, dark black colour. The shirt fitted tightly around her body, much like the pair of blue jeans that fitted on her flawlessly, if not taking the image that it formed around her body. Her black boots went overtop the clothing that she bore, and looked to be standard combat boots. Finally, she let a single black leather jacket rest overtop her hourglass figured body, remaining unzipped. She too had the words [b]Nation Without a Home[/b] on her jacket, although unlike how the cowboy carried it on the right side, she carried hers on the left. Her firearm load-out consisted of your standard military gear: An M4A1 with a red dot sight fitted to it, finished only by a fore grip that matched the sleek, unpainted gun. Her sidearm that lays on the left half of her hip was simply an M9, standard police-issue, that had been bought widespread by the NWH Private Forces that she had commanded as a general for the cowboy that accompanied her, back at her home. [/i] [i]The last figure looked to be the most out-of-place one within the confines of the bar, his body encompassed by a pair on onyx black military cargo pants, with matching boots, and a black shirt of the same grade. His jet black hair matched the gloves he wore over either hand perfectly, and the way he moved inside the bar conveyed a sense of discomfort in his figure. He seemed to be taller than the cowboy by four inches, as the man already stood at six-foot-two, and his emerald green eyes looked far different than what the other two had for themselves. Unlike them, he had no idea what he was doing, and so he followed merrily, his rifle, Lightning, draped across his back while Law and Order, his twin pistols, rest at his sides. [/i] [i]The crew made haste towards a booth seat lining the wall in the Imperium side of the bar, each shooting one another a glance of trust, one that was only given by the last man and received by the first two figures, for he seemed to be new to their unit. They all sat in silence until the cowboy finally spoke. [/i]"Well sir, what would your name be exactly?[i]He asked the strange man before him, his voice laced by a heavy accent of Texan descent. [/i]"Hutch Ryder, ex-PMC, Extryte." [i]He responded, his voice laced by no accents whatsoever. The way he spoke led the cowboy to look at the woman beside him, shooting a curious glance. [/i]"He doesn't seem to be lying, JT." [i]She stated to the man that leaned back in the booth. Unlike JT or Hutch, her accent was British, the words conveyed with a thick accent. JT looked back to the woman, before glaring to the man, and uttering a single phrase. [/i]"Diana says you're good, kid." [i]And with that, the trio relaxed. [/i] ((Open))