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Showing content with the highest reputation on 02/01/2019 in all areas

  1. 4 points

    Magic School Stuff

    This is gonna be a hella long ad This is directed to all you Harry Potter fans, Name of the Wind fans, and the rest of you sickos who actually enjoy school. If the idea of playing a student at a magical academy doesn’t interest you, then scooch your oogly googly butt outta here. Otherwise, welcome <2 What is this? I’ll get straight to the point: a couple of friends and I are going to attend Bronte. That’s the Academy of the Arcane, situated in Umbra, that @Jotnotes created a while back. The purpose of this is to have a grand old time, living out the life of college students learning magic, and we want you to join our gang of troublemakers. And yes, I said the school year. This is important. There will be a good amount of time skipping. A lot of our focus will be dedicated to smaller arcs and notable events, with less emphasis on back and forth role-play that would typically occur in shorter periods of time. That’s not to say there won’t be room for character interaction; I assure you, there’ll be plenty of opportunities for that. All I’m saying is we’ll be dedicating more time to moving the year along, instead of lingering on conversations for, like, fifteen posts a pop. Though if you want to go for that kind of stuff, you can always participate and create your own subplots in separate threads. What’s going to happen? On that note, you might think sticking around for a whole year IC sounds like quite a commitment. And that’s okay! You’d be right. It is quite a commitment. That said, we’ll be happy to accept anyone who want to join us for short periods, maybe leave and come back, do a cameo, or anything of the sort, baggage-free. But if you’d like to stick around for the long haul, take note: there will be a lot of active collaboration and planning. This is to ensure everyone’s goals and ideas fit into one seamless narrative, though I’m sure there’ll be bumps along the way. For instance, I’ve got a checklist of the events I want to tackle (e.g. frosh week in September, Halloween in October, discover the gang’s hangout spot in November, character development stuff in December, etc.). And then there’ll be your list, and someone else’s list, and we’ll have to work together to see what fits into the main story. Anything that doesn’t cut it can always go into your own personal subplot thread, just to prevent anything from going to waste. Fuck, that sounds like a lot of work Yeeeeeaaaaaaah… Oh, and here’s another important tidbit: this will be all set in the past. Specifically, the Year 1 thread will start in 590 WTA. That’s primarily because I want to explore my character's past. I know, selfish me, this all so Wade could flesh out his character. Even so, I want to let you know that my friend Damien isn’t the star of the show. This is the story of everyone involved, and Damien’s is but a part of it, regardless of me using it as a driving force. We are, after all, assembling a gang of school friends. If this interests you but you don't have time to play with us as of this moment, no worries. The adventure will continue via a Year 2 thread in the future. Alternatively, you can just shoot me a PM whenever you're free and we can talk business. The Cast Right now, just me, Vielle and SweetCyanide. I don’t really have a cap on who can join, but this is not necessarily first come first served. It’s possible I’ll be selecting players based on reliability if this somehow gets crazy popular (which it won’t, let’s be honest). Your character should be a student at Bronte. Otherwise, we could try to work something out so long as the concept’s feasible. If you already have a character sheet or idea on hand, send it my way. Wade: Damien @vielle: @SweetCyanide: Candie @Csl: Elias @Thotification: Teddy The Rest In terms of posting speed, well, I'm not sure. 3 days a turn might seem fast for a thread of this nature. We'll see how things go first, and then we can determine what works best. As for when we start, I dunno. Soon, hopefully. Planning needs to happen first. Feel free to voice any questions or concerns, comment or suggestions. Seriously, I'm probably missing something here. You need info, I'm your man. Wade, you need to learn how to make these things shorter I know, I'm sorry. Thank you to you poor souls who made it this far. ~spicy boi out~
  2. 4 points
    Deus Ex Aizen

    Hyperion: Rise With Us!

    Whispers from the shadows "Ask, and you shall k n o w . . . "
  3. 3 points

    Strangers in a Strange Land

    The journey all began with a story. It was of a world within a world, a place of power and the unknown. Its true origins, the details of its landscape, its full history; these were all mysteries bundled up in stories of places and people largely untouched by the Terranfolk that lived on the other side of the veil in Ursa Madeum. The siren song that pulsed through this story was not that of sheer exploration, though this was one of its promises, but that of a hunt. For a woman like Ioreth, how could she resist? There was an artifact in this world within a world that ensnared Ioreth Rhavon’s attention as the pinprick of a rabbit below captures the sharp eye of a hawk, illustrated in fleeting mentions of dense text. She tracked it through subscripts and scrolls and she plucked the strings of Book|Ends’ web to lure out rumors and tales. Flying imps drifted in and out of her cabin with tomes wrapped in protective parchment until one day Ioreth ceased scribbling notes in a shorthand only she could decipher, slammed her journal shut, and strode out in the daylight to see the priest on the hill. “There is something I need,” she told him, with an intense clarity that sang out through the tangle of unkempt silver hair and the sleepless shadows that blurred the edges around her violet eyes. When Constans asked if it was a proper day’s rest, she let out a snort and dragged him down to his quiet room beneath the church’s ruins, casting wary glances over her shoulder as if to ensure that no one would follow. Only in there did she inform him of her plans to find the left horn of the Mork’Outh King, with no small effort on his part to steer the conversation away from the riddles and half-thoughts that served as portents to alert the other as to when the intensity of Ioreth’s emotions threatened to sweep them both into a tangent on whatever ran in the undercurrent of her mind. Her plans, when one sorted through the impromptu lectures on interdimensional theory, were simple in essence. She would leave for the islands, hop through a portal, and find what she desired by following the trail leaked by its magical signature. Supplies had been packed, transport had been arranged, and her brother was in the process of combing through mercenaries available in Ursa Madeum for added protection. There was, however, one issue. “I need Viscerex,” she told him, ignoring the way Constans’s face stretched and then squashed to hide whatever it was that he knew and she did not. “It took months to track this down and I will be damned if it does not return here. Imagine what we could do in the face of another attack. The horn could transport warriors in and carry away those that cannot fight. Think of all the cities you want to see.” Stars softly shimmered in her eyes as her hand swept to the east, to the place beyond the mountains. “The ocean, the North...all there before you can blink. Should I fall, he could bring it home.” Home. A significant statement for a wanderer. The priest and the scribe laid a trap for the barbarian chief, a necessary task for Viscerex still avoided crossing paths with Ioreth. Constans lured him out of the forest with a request to discuss what he summed up as “god things.” It was not a holy discussion that awaited him, only an elf with an adventure that would take him to the other end of the country and into another world. To her surprise, he accepted. Together, they set off on horseback to a port along the southern seas. A monotonous melody hummed of hooves pounding against the earth, the twang of a bow string, an arrow hitting animal flesh, fire crackling, the thump of a bedroll hitting the ground, the snorts of horses, the sound of water splashing in clear brooks and of passing wagon wheels, where both man and elf looked over their shoulders to cast an appraising glance at the wares clumsily hidden in the back. By the third day, Ioreth craved a conversation that existed outside of the constant stream of noise that surged about inside her head, yet found herself reluctant to pose any questions to Viscerex due to the still fresh memory of him simply staring in response to previous inquiries. She settled with periodically pointing out the Duendaic names for plants that they encountered, along with their uses, and did not expect any response more than a possible grunt. By the fourth day, curiosity met frustration and planted a whispering seed that encouraged a test of Viscerex’s boundaries. Rather than setting up camp in the wilderness and willing herself to rest during the time she should have been awake until the barbarian came back with a fresh kill for supper, she slid off her mare, passed the reins to Viscerex, and told him to make camp. “I will hunt tonight,” she said before she slipped away into the darkness. Barely two hours passed before she returned with a sly grin, a satchel full of herbs, three fat Terran rabbits, and a handful of wild onion and taberroot. She tossed the rabbits into his lap. Each had their necks snapped by the tall grasses they had thought would hide them. “Your turn to cook.” She thought of spying a glimpse of his face beneath his metal mask while he slept and even crept close upon his slumbering form, before something unspoken made her stop. His dark hair blended with the night sky. Let him keep his secrets, she decided, and turned back for her nest by the embers of their fire. By the sixth day, she had settled into his silence. When they encountered an inn to stay for the night, she paid for separate rooms and retired to hers almost immediately, locking herself in with her books and whatever watery gruel they served from their unwashed kitchens. He had caught her once in a tired settlement’s rundown stable singing a song in a language more fae than elvish with a low, smoky voice as she brushed away traveler’s briars that clung to her mare’s legs. A note wavered and stumbled, the only indication that she was aware of his presence and chose to ignore him. It was only on the ship that she allowed glimmers of her soul to peek out from her internal barriers of obsidian and bone. After the initial adjustment of the land being swept away from the soles of her feet and replaced with hollowed wood floating on salt water, she emerged from the underbelly of the cargo ship to lean against the railing of the upper deck and absorb the sight of the setting sun sparkling crimson and violet on the ocean’s surface. She laughed in delight at the large golden fish that twisted and leaped along the waves, her first true laugh since she witnessed supernatural horrors overtake Asheville. “How beautiful! What are they?” No answer was expected from her taciturn companion, yet the briny tang of the sea drew out a story from her lips. She told him of an elf from ancient times, as beautiful as those leaping fish, one that wandered near the ocean as a boy. The tides lapped up against his shins and the ocean decided that she would keep him as her own. She dragged him down and taught him how to breathe water as though it were air and fed him kelp and pearls. Though he would swim to the surface, the waves would never let him free. One day, when he was grown, the moon spied a glimpse of him and decided that she would keep him as her own. But first, she had to release him. Each night, she lowered herself closer and closer to the ocean, singing to the sea of the sights she saw from the heavens. The tides were soon held under her sway, captivated by her music. One night, when the moon was completely visible from the darkness that lovingly surrounded her, she convinced the tides to part without the ocean’s permission and plucked out the elf from the sea. As a man, he was still beautiful, but it was a strange, pale beauty, no longer golden from his time spent at the bottom of the sea. They disappeared into the night sky together. Though he liked her songs, he knew he did not belong in the sky and he asked her to set him free. When she grew full, she lowered him to the forest where he was born and promised to watch over him. What she did not realize was that his soul was split in three: he was born in the forests, yet they were unfamiliar. He grew up in the ocean, yet he was its prisoner. He was given asylum in the night sky, yet he was not meant for the heavens. “He felt his soul break,” Ioreth concluded, in a wistful voice that was as soft as the evening breeze, “and he walked for many nights until he found a place along the shore where dead trees from foreign lands washed up on the sand. Sea foam clung to his feet. He waited for a full moon before he laid down and slept until he turned to stone.” Whatever window once opened now closed. She excused herself and went back into the belly of the ship to check on the horses. During their travels together, he undoubtedly would have noticed the staff she wore on her back with its slender scythe of a crescent moon on the top and its knife like blade at the bottom. He may have even noticed the name engraved upon it: Moontide. Their journey swept them along the seas to Gold Harbor where they met their guide, Rion Boureaux, a woman as loquacious Viscerex and as friendly as a warhammer to the face. She had a habit of rubbing her scalp through her closely cropped red hair as though being in their company caused an uncomfortable amount of pressure on her brain. Her sneers had graciously been saved for Ioreth, and she was generous with her disdain for the elf. “Did you know,” she remarked during their ride to Andelusia, “that our former king made it a point to eradicate any non humans from our island?” Ioreth’s answer was a cold stare that would have made the dead wolf on Viscerex’s head proud. Despite Rion’s disinclination towards fair folk, she managed to lead them to Ursa Madeum’s capital city without being transformed into a goat. Their meeting spot for the mercenaries hired by Book|Ends led them through the city’s shining gates and wide cobblestone streets. Buildings, freshly painted and recently patched with brick pressed against the walkways, decorated by wooden signs hanging on light chains that swayed in the wind and flower boxes that bloomed with vibrant colors. Their horses trotted past offices for shipwrights and notaries, pastel cafes and dainty tables set out in the shade of their awnings, dressmakers and tea shops, butchers and brewers. Even in the midst of winter, the sun shined brightly over Ursa Madeum. Ioreth had long since stripped off her cloak and the layers of furs necessary to keep warm further north. She pushed up the sleeves of her dusky grey tunic, revealing the tattoos that covered her skin, and squinted uncomfortably in the midday light. “Your portal,” Rion said, guiding her horse around a fishmonger’s stall, “is known as the Blue Hills portal. As agreed, I’ll take you to it tomorrow. Lunaris is the only place worth mentioning. Look at a map and its the only Gaia-damned dot there.” Her horse slowed to halt before a tavern built into one Andelusia’s painted buildings, this one a peeling shade of pale blue. Rion let out a scoff and slouched in her saddle. “Why is it always taverns?” “It’s a tradition,” was Ioreth’s serene answer. She spared no parting glance for Rion as she slipped off her horse with a fluid grace, dismissing the scarred former soldier with, “You shall receive your pay when you take us all to the Blue Hills tomorrow.” After their horses and supplies were stowed away safely, Ioreth walked into the main room of the Stuffed Pheasant and blinked in appreciation at the dim lighting. Even in the sun’s afternoon glare, a haze of pipe smoke and bitter dreams diffused any stray sunbeams that managed to creep through the dusty windows. It was not a place selected for its mediocre range of wine nor its mysteriously greasy pies. A forgotten piano lingered on a haphazardly constructed platform near the stairwell. There was a noticeably head shaped dent in the bar top. No, this tavern had been selected for its manner of adhering to a code of silence and its predilection for attracting travelers and those that preferred to keep their habits quiet. Those hired by Book|Ends were issued a simple command: to meet with an elvish woman with silver hair and distinctive tattoos on this day, introduce themselves, and be ready to enter another dimension where they could quite possibly be eaten by undiscovered species or torn to pieces by hostile inhabitants of Taen’s unexplored lands. Ioreth selected a wobbly table in a grim corner and waited. @Vansin @Thotification @Dreamer
  4. 3 points

    The Light, Extinguished (OOC)

    Once, there were seven great Archsages. Wielders of holy light magic, their purity of faith and the power they wielded allowed them to triumph over Neque the Shadow King, destroying his body and shattering his soul. The pieces of his soul were cast into a great abyss, and the abyss was sealed by holy power. A treacherous dungeon was then built atop the seal, one that would keep out wandering adventurers and ensure that the Shadow King's seal would not be tampered with. Yet, in spite of all these precautions, Neque has risen again... and his eyes burn with the crimson flames of vengeance. Hello there, people! I have a tale in the making for you today, one of revenge and of tying up loose ends. For those that would like to join me, I have two groups for you: The first, for those whose characters might like to incur the favor of the rising Kingdom of Aligoria. You will accompany the lovely Sibyla and her faithful Warpgolem bodyguard, There, on a mission to kill the two remaining Archsages, and the direct descendants of the other five, in whom their vast power has manifested (you'd think that power would manifest in more people, hmm? Well, let me just say that a dying curse cast by Neque ensured he would have a (relatively) easier time enacting his revenge by limiting the Archsage's power to only surfacing once, and only once, in a given generation). Helping the Shadow Princess in this task will grant you high standing in Aligoria, along with gold and the promise of future favors. And well, the Archsages/their descendants probably have some sweet magical loot on them/in their homes. Kill them and they're free for the taking!* *Well, there might actually be traps and/or magical guardians to contend with first, but surely you're prepared to deal with those? As for the second group? Well... I'm looking for people wanting to play the Archsages! I can get away with NPCing all seven of the suckers, of course, but if anyone has characters they'd like to have fulfill those slots, I'd love to have them! Granted, they're most definitely going to be on the firing line, and the first group will not stop until they lie broken and bleeding on the ground. So, I highly recommend that you don't put any characters into these positions if you're not okay with the risk (and rather good chance) that they will die. As for group numbers, well, I haven't quite decided yet. Suppose we'll see after seeing how much interest this gets.
  5. 3 points

    For the Good of My House

    “Hardly an altercation,” Andross replied. “And you’re far from old, Marcus.” A bit gray in the hair, perhaps, but the former Lord Commander was far from old. He let what that meant for Ikora’s perceived tardiness hang, sure both understood. There was no shortage of rumors concerning Andross’s favor of Ikora, and there were times (some might consider now a perfect example) where he would intentionally fuel them, if only to see her rise above the quips and comments. What he saw in her, even she couldn’t see—and because of that fogged, greasy mirror, she worked twice as hard as any of the other members on the Honorguard. The sweat she’d missed wiping with her gauntlet; the dirt still clinging to her tabard; the scraps on the heels of her boots from sweeping motions and quick stops. Out training again, Andross thought as he studied her with a brief glance. Marcus stole his attention then, using one of the phrases his father had all but drilled into him and Alexandros as they grew up. “If you want peace, prepare for war,” Andross answered. “It’s one of the phrases father had us study when we were learning the art of war.” Though, he’d been the only one to take a real interest in it. As the older twin, Alexandros was expected to focus more on the political landscape of the realm, as he would become head of their house when their honorable father finally passed. War, dueling, defending Skyfall—that fell upon Andross’s shoulders. “But must it always be like that, Marcus?” Andross frowned, glancing down the corridor Vivienne had taken moments prior. All things considered, he barely knew anything about the woman, and yet, he’d never felt a rage like that which had scorched his veins the moment Vhoori struck her. It wasn’t possessiveness, for despite their affairs she did not belong to him. But something more—perhaps even something that should not have been born from several romps around the estate. “We’ve done good business with the Ul’Daniir for years. I’m sure we could have come to some kind of arrangement if only they would have spoken with us—treated us as equals. Instead, they decided to use decep—” He shot a look Marcus’s way, already nodding his submission. “I know, I know. Never trust an elf.” How many times had the old Lord Commander uttered those words over his youth? Hundreds, if not thousands. Andross had never bothered to ask about the wars in Genesaris, and Marcus never made a point to discuss them. What he and his father had seen, what they had done—well, spare for minor mentions of victories and defeats, the details had all been left out of the expansive Histories of Skyfall and its Lords. Andross always suspected there was a good reason for that.
  6. 3 points

    Reunions Across Space

    @danzilla3 Relief washed over her in waves. A calming sensation that eased her troubled and fractured mind. The fact that Jack had not run away or was gripped with unease and fear went a long way for the woman. Unlike so many others, Jack was not afraid of his lover, he was not afraid of the dark reaches of her soul that lashed out to hurt and destroy others. So in response to this, Miss Blonde just continued to lean against him. Extending her hand to push a button on the vehicle’s door panel, the windows darkened in tint to a near pitch black. Soon she reached up to her mask and pressed a button on its side. With a snap hiss of pressure being released, she removed the mask slowly and tossed it almost carelessly to the floor. Her golden hair and piercing blue angelic eyes revealed themselves to Jack and in that moment she felt a serene calm. Anxiety and fever to find what was lost melted away, and within that moment there was just the two of them. Slowly removing her coat and undoing her tie, the small petite form of Patrica pressed up against Jack. Her fingers interlocked with his and pressed them against the back seat. Normally this was the type of moment where she’d cry and Jack would comfort her, but after what he had said and how he had accepted her for her flaws and regrets. She wanted nothing more than to be as close to him as possible. ”I don’t deserve you.” Then she pressed in. She kissed Jack hard on his lips. The black car would swerve from lane to lane as Orange continued to drive. ”Nice.”
  7. 3 points
    I'm kinda happy internet is finally returning after four long months of not having it due to the company being idiots. It means I get to waste even more time not writing. Should be up and running in the coming days Hopefully... ❤️
  8. 3 points

    General chat thread

  9. 3 points

    Which Tabs do you Have Open?

    While researching the LEGO Movie on FB today (for science purposes >_>), I found a burger joint called "Pablo Escoburgers," who was under fire for putting lines of salt garlic on their burgers and pretending they were lines of cocaine. That cracked me up so I was like "damn where is this place," only to find that it's in AUSTRALIA. Which is why I started looking for 1 bedroom apartments in Australia, before realizing Aussie is hella expensive and deciding to just browse 1 bedroom apartments near me 🤣
  10. 3 points
    As the sun dipped, a final obeisance to the day, Isabelle luxuriated in the shudder and sighs of the woman beside her. Finality curling in the chorus of rustling clothes, and the whisper of silk; the worshipper taking her warmth with her as she stole away from between the sisters' arms. She was the wife of the brewer, Mark. And quickly becoming a regular visitor in the temples. She'd wander around, visit the bath houses, kneel by the great fire and request for Eleanor some days, Isabelle the others. But, try as they might, she had refused to talk to either of them about what ailed her, until today. Today, the blonde woman asked for both Isabelle and Eleanor. It had taken the better part of the afternoon, and more cheese had been consumed than she thought healthy. But, she cracked. She cracked and sobbed, about being unable to grant this Mark happiness; and about how he now visited the inn far more often than he visited her. The poor woman had been too embarrassed to go Father Constans, and too bashful to ask the village's women for help. Isabelle and Eleanor assured her with soft words and kisses and laid her under the shade of an oak and taught her the great warmth of God's love. They left impressions of love instead of fear, and surety instead of doubt. And now, the woman disturbed the tranquility of rapture, nestled between the arms of the priestess. There was not a peep from her as she stirred, just a faint bloom of color dusting her cheeks. Isabelle, propped up on an elbow, among the scattered remnants of cloth and food thought of how beautiful she looked. The dying Sun offered a last blessing, the brewer's wife looked almost divine in its warmth. Truly, the Cothite's God was a wonderful one. Isabelle considered waking her sister up, curled into the strange shape which she called 'sleeping', but decided against it. The cold would wake her up soon enough, there was no need in disturbing her from slumber just yet. To be fair, she does drape a discarded robe over her. They could never tell which was who's; and it was only as she stepped into the transepts of the temple that she felt the stretch of fabric too tight against her hips. It didn't matter much, two acolytes brushed past her, on their way to clean up after Eleanor and herself. They stopped, greeting her with a chorus of "Good afternoon, Mother Isabelle." She waved them along with a smile, still unused to being referred to as "Mother". Her old clients had called her variations of that, it was spectecular how uncomfortable it was to hear it from the mouths of little girls. "Good afternoon, little birds. Please don't disturb Mother Eleanor today, instead," She smiled, one she hoped looked gracious, a guiding hand on their little shoulders, pushing them past the hallway, echoing with the sighs and groans and slaps of the priestesses worship. "Why don't you go check on Mother Eirene and then the baths, that lady must be in there and we don't want to neglect serving God's worshippers now do we?" They looked confused, at first, but turned around and scampered away. Leaving Isabelle all alone in the Temple's main chamber; a kaleidescope overlayed with green from the ever burning fire proudly burning in a furnace. It felt natural to kneel by the furnace. The flames drew her in, put her in an enchantment too strong to break free. It almost felt as though she felt the fire in her vines, as though it were her, licking wantonly at the air above. Had all the right to be audacious. After all, wasn't this an eternal flame? A quiet miracle, in their midst, always alight. There for anyone to bask in God's love? Isn't that what the Fidei Lena were? An eternity must've passed, days and months- or mere minutes. She's taken out of her stupor with a glimmer of scales, and the soft tones of a voice. "As he should," Isabelle murmured, all but a little beige ball propped up against the furnace now, she isn't exactly sure when or how she moved. But, she was on her feet in seconds. She embraced their priest with gusto, a glorious smile alighting her face. "Father Constans! How do you fare today?" Green was such a wonderful color. @Witches Brew @vielle @Minuet of the Nightingale @Vansin
  11. 3 points
    Aaaand we have them! Like - Oranges! They come in a pair, even numbers are supposed to be more "wholesome"/lucky. @supernal Thanks - Firecrackers. Bangbangbang! Confused - It's the legendary monkey king lol. They always broadcast the monkey king movies during new year XD What - Lion dance head! Legend goes that a monster goes to a village once every year during new year to eat people, so the lion dance was invented to scare the monster away. Superlike - Piggy! It's the year of the pig. Haha - God of fortune. He's almost the equivalent of Santa Claus, but instead of giving gifts, he gives money lol. Think - Lilith with adorable twin buns! @Ataraxy Sad - Angsty Samael in traditional garb. Let's hope he cheers up in the new year! @vielle
  12. 2 points
    The sound of icy slush crunching underfoot bounced off of closely packed stone and timber walls in the narrow backstreets of a small, frozen city in the Cold South. The rest of the continent was warming with the end of winter, but spring in Valjer meant only that the roads were clear enough for a few intrepid travelers to make their way to the city on foot instead of by the small airship port. Ainsworth, a traveler, was neither intrepid nor wealthy, but he was in Valjer none the less. Said traveler, a man with a flame cupped in his palms stepped off to the side of the street to allow a horse and sled to trudge past. It was carrying several blocks of ice from the market and neither draft-horse nor driver looked pleased about it. He called out to the driver. “Any late arrivals to market?” The driver didn’t stop the cart to yell back as he drove past, “Sorry, pal, closed an hour ago.” Ainsworth shaded his eyes and squinted at the sky. The sun was hanging low, bright against the grey, overcast heavens. He estimated he had three more hours until it was gone. Maybe less if the storm moved in. He sighed. With a snap of his fingers he relit the spark that danced an inch over his palm without burning the skin. It wasn’t much, but the heat felt good through his threadbare gloves. Ainsworth walked briskly down the street, his hands preoccupied, giving his mind time to ruminate. Time was running out and so were his hopes of finding what he needed. As someone who relied on magic as a livelihood, the idea of returning home empty handed was intimidating. He had a full silver piece saved in his purse for this purpose, but it wasn’t enough to buy passage to a city further north where such supplies would be abundant. He snuffed the spark and pulled a crumpled list from his pocket. Some items had been crossed off already, but the apothecary he bought the fireweed and reishi from dealt solely in local herbs. After spending the morning at the market, hoping the thaw would attract new business and being disappointed, he took the afternoon to comb the streets of valjer for any shop that sold anything magic at a decent price. Powdered magnesium? Expensive. Ashwagandha? Even more so. Witch stone? It was unlikely he would find something like that this far south, though he still had a few hours to go. He stopped in front of a door. Frowning, he looked down at the hastily scribbled address on his paper. It matched. A local at the market had directed him here, promising a “strange shop” with “strange things inside.” Ainsworth looked at the door curiously. It was worth a try. The gentle tinkle of a bell welcomed him inside. “Hello? I’m looking for-“ the man drew up short when he took in the inside of the shop. “Woah,” he breathed softly, eyes wide in awe of the sight before him.
  13. 2 points
    Edited. Sorry for the errors!
  14. 2 points

    A Rough Start

    Really, he’s surprised. Not in a bad way, not really, just—surprised, is all. “Iyalon. Come here for a second.” Iyalon snaps out of his dazed gaping towards his sister and pulls his composure together; altogether unseemly behavior, especially in front of the Lady Aspen. Nevertheless, he strides forward to hover by Crowley’s side, his eyes affixed on the gleaming sharpness of the blade before him. Next, the Oathsworn calls his sister over to come near them, and the two siblings share an uncomfortable glance at each other before Shirin is offered an outstretched hand in an invitation to a handshake. “Walter Crowley. But you already know that.” He watches Shirin give the Oathsworn an inscrutable look for a brief moment, as if reconciling him with the hero her brother had idolized for decades, before she takes his hand and shakes it firmly. “Shirin Izora, that idiot’s younger sister,” and Iyalon splutters at this, his eyebrows narrowing, “and I know you don’t already know that,” she offers the man a half-smile, one that Iyalon knows is caused by amusement and the faint stirrings of affection. Gods, she better not like Crowley too much; that would be unacceptable— “Why don’t one of you pick up the sword?” The man’s tone is casual, but Iyalon—having followed the story of the Oathsworn, from their good deeds to their evil activities under the thumb of the Tyrant King—knows quite well what the simple act of touching an Oathblade barehanded would do. Shirin and Aspen seem oblivious about the situation anyway, perhaps believing it to be nothing, and he is in no hurry to inform them otherwise. “If you do, please, be careful.” “You go ahead, brother.” Shirin speaks all of a sudden, waves her hand towards Himei. “I’m quite sure whatever happens, it would be happening to you,” she quips, and really. Really. Iyalon knows her better than this. He can read the inflection of her words like a well-worn book: she is hiding something she cannot find it in herself to speak about out in the open, in front of their Lady Aspen and the still-stranger asking them to take up the Oathblade. The emotion that rattles up his throat is ultimately hurt, he cannot lie to himself about that. However, everyone’s eyes are upon him right now, and so Iyalon steps forward, his fingers shaking minutely as he moves to touch the blade— —nothing happens. His eyebrows furrow, even as his hand skims over the cool surface of the sword in the box. The soft hum is still there, drifting ever-so-faintly in his ears, but now, it seems to be mocking him. “I guess not, sister,” he chuckles, but the sound seems hollow somehow, even to his own hearing. He looks over to Shirin and stares; there is a hint of resignation there in the firm line of her lips, which quite frankly makes no sense whatsoever. The knowing glint in those familiar eyes is not making things any clearer. “How about you try it, Shirin,” he asks her, and his voice pointedly does not shake. Shirin looks to the Lady Aspen, who merely smiles encouragingly at her, then to Crowley, then to her brother once more. Her gaze is still trained on Iyalon’s even as she takes her turn before the box, her fingers—soft, unblemished, safe from the clutches of battle and bloody war—reaching down to take ahold of the gleaming metal, the humming growing louder in his own ears— And then, well. Then everything changes.
  15. 2 points
    ^ i feel like you'd appreciate this 😊
  16. 2 points

    Hyperion: Rise With Us!

    Well, Thurgood, Aveline, Vivian, and Nadia will be at Grant's coronation, they'll probably drag Josh Rymer there too: he is their prospect right now. Also, they might open another Mil Dot location there.
  17. 2 points
    Cerik made it out of the woods and back onto the main road without incident, and brought Stormfire to a stop some distance from the trees. He wasn't particularly inclined to wait around for Sera, it was obvious that, barring the event in which she was killed by the griffin, she would come charging up the road behind them before long. No, he was simply going to wait for the rest of the group to catch up to him, and then he would continue down the road... unless the ladies insisted that they waited around for Sera. Though, judging by how even they reacted to her recent antics, he would hazard a guess that they weren't inclined to wait around either. As he waited, a pair of men that the knight vaguely recognized approached him, some trepidation in their faces but striding forward with as much confidence as they could muster nonetheless. They came to a stop in front of the mounted knight, both meeting his narrowed gaze. After many seconds of awkward silence, the taller, lankier one on the right cleared his throat and began to speak. "Uh, hello there, Sir Knight. Please don't draw your weapons when I say this... we were part of those bandits who waylaid down you the road." Cerik's gaze, somehow, seemed to narrow even further. After a couple of moments of strained silence, however, he gestured for the bandit to continue. "But after that, err, thorough defeat you brought upon our gang, my buddy and I took some time to evaluate our lives. We're turning our backs on banditry. I mean, we were starting to become disillusioned already, due to our leader being a fucking moron without even an ounce of sense... then you came along. Everything about you spoke of a man who had fully embraced knightly virtues. And seeing you fight, something about that inspired us. So we're planning to find some honest work after we leave here, perhaps as caravan guards or something. But we wanted to do something good for you before that. Judging by your direction of travel... you're heading into the High Desert, yeah?" Cerik, for a few moments, considered whether to respond honestly, or distort the truth, or not respond at all. Then, he nodded. The tall man smiled slightly, and his shorter, stockier buddy stepped forward. "Well, I've got a hot tip for you. There's a nice little place at the end of this road before the desert. A small market, an inn, all of that. Anyways, I picked up some news when I passed through there recently. There's a sizeable bunch of religious nutjobs who have been gathering in that desert every nightfall, worshiping some kinda glass mirror, or ball, or something. Point is, whatever it is, it's rumored to have a hefty bit of power in it. If you have any interest in it, you'll want to either be prepared to slaughter them worshipers to the last man, or concoct a plan through which to infiltrate their ranks and steal the thingamajig right under their very noses. That's my hot tip for you... Oh! And one last thing, unless you have a solid death wish, don't travel into the desert until night has fallen. The heat will cook you in that armor right thoroughly, and even someone in more regular clothing would likely end up roasted. That's all, good sir. If we ever meet again, I hope you'll see us having turned over a new leaf." With that, the duo of former bandits waved and made their way back the way Cerik and his group had came. After a moment, the knight gave a tentative wave in return, and watched as the duo heard the racket in the woods and adjusted their path to give them a safe distance between themselves and the source of the noise. Cerik stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to see if the others had arrived yet.
  18. 2 points

    Claiming the Furthest Point

    After Dan and the others struck it, the big nasty bullshit monster decided to just dig and appear right at the wagons. Something of that size would destroy them likely in one shot. Therefore, now would be the time to take it down with extreme force. Dan sheathed his black sword, and gripped the hilt of a second sword he had on him. As he unsheathed it, those around him would likely be able to feel the immense power in it, growing stronger as he infused it with his own yet again. Dan breathed slowly. It wasn't often he was pushed far enough to use it. The sword he had obtained when he defeated Havoc. The magic drainer that contained the power of a god. One Dan had christened 'God Shard'. In a flash, he drew it fully, the blade humming slightly with power. Dan sped toward the beast at ludicrous speed, one of his hands to his side, high speed winds gathering in it's palm into an orb. With his other, he stabbed the sword into the spot he had opened up before by destroying the chitin armor on it. The monster roared, in either pain or rage, maybe both? Whatever it was, it swiped at Dan with its massive scythe arm of doom. Dan however, was far too fast to be hit by such an obvious move. He went into wraith mode for but a moment, and passed through the bladed appendage like it was nothing. After which, he rematerialized, and ran in little more than a blur up the creatures arm, aiming for its face. When he was in range, which did not take very long at all, a full second maybe, he jammed the wind orb in the monster's face. The orb immediately exploded with enough wind force to splinter a house. A wooden house, but still. Once again, the Magnus tried to attack him by trying to bite him in half. Using his speed, and flying ability, Dan brought his feet up, and pushed off of one of the Magnus' huge mandibles, launching himself back down where he'd come from. He gripped the hilt of the sword, swung around it once, and set off a second explosion inside the monster, using the sword as a catalyst to double its power. This explosion was mostly contained by the Magnus' body, though the explosion was rather messy and gross. Finally, the Magnus tried to bash Dan with its tail. However, once again, Dan was too fast and too cool to be hit by something like this. He gripped the sword hilt harder, and caused two small scale wind explosions at his feet, blasting him upward in a lazy backwards arc over the tail. Dan landed on his feet, making sure to do so in a really cool and badass way, and sheathed God Shard. After that, and everyone else attacking it, Dan figured there was no way it was living much longer. Attack roll +1. =11. 3 attacks. Counter attack roll 1. Miss. Counter attack roll 2. Dodged. Counter attack roll 3. Bitch you got NUTHIIIIIIN!
  19. 2 points
    Deus Ex Aizen

    Hyperion: Rise With Us!

    Rin has a pretty solid plot point in Hyperion already with seeds. The life of your future half-brother depends on you trumping what's established~
  20. 2 points
    Oh, I think I just misread your post a bit. I mistook this to mean that he was being shot or hit by shrapnel but it was doing no damage to him. The bit about Esben's position was more directed at Jaistlyn. Might be worth it to make a diagram of how I think everything is situated. I might do that real quick... tomorrow...
  21. 2 points
    Great job jaistlyn. I nominate Xavier for the next round of special ones whenever that comes por favor....
  22. 2 points

    Which Tabs do you Have Open?

    i love this omg 😂 I've some free time before my busy school day, so voila: Anyone any good with chacha or samba? 👀
  23. 2 points

    Hyperion: Rise With Us!

    "A hotspot for freed slaves" I have a character with a distinct anti-trafficking agenda that has caused major disruptions to it in Izral and will land the finishing blow on it sometime relatively soon I hope After that I wanted to target slaver's enclave. Is this something that Hyperion would be interested in supporting at the government/kingdom level and if not on its own, is this something I could finagle through the Noble House channel?
  24. 2 points
    Exorcisms/Purification Rituals: Got a ghost? Call 1-800-HOLYPROSTITUTE, they’ll fuck that ghoulie right into Heaven. ( I don't know who wrote that in the lore doc, but I love them. I have a feeling it was Missy)
  25. 2 points

    the Dead Celebrates.

    Near the entrance, a maid named Brinda intercepted Reginald moments after he arrived. In classic style, nobody was unattended for long in the great estate. One difference between the staff coursing through this place and the typical manor, however, was a trademark of all the Dead. A little bit of sass. "Excuse me madam, but some of this customs are still foreign to me...can I...eat that? Is this tree decorated with brightly colored food for a reason? I don't believe ive ever seen a charcuterie like that before!" “Why yes, sir, the tinsel is quite edible! How perceptive of you.” The black and white dressed Brida watched Reginald in excitement for the result of her sass. It is only those who are able to be successful out of dark places, on their own, who find themselves in such masked, illustrious company as the Dead— mostly those who, by virtue of the fact, prefer to work that way. Interspersed with this lone wolf mentality, woven into the very nature of the organization’s existence as a greater entity, sits acknowledgement that these people can grasp even greater success together. The degree to which you are capable to succeed alone or with others, and that to which you want power and fame in any capacity you could wish; these are the two sides of the scale that required balance to work with the Dead. Foresight is the characteristic that grants someone the power to balance them. Foresight was the characteristic that brought all these people into the shadow behind shadows to begin with. The Dead was a machine that churned out scapegoats of the public to serve its operators gathered here. When a scapegoat went down, the Dead graciously provided another. It was foresight, and the ability to really use the Dead’s limitless capacity for freedom, that made a good Skeleton. A good Lieutenant. A good Captain. “Do you really want to know? I feel pretty terrible. My kingdom is gone, and now I’m a prisoner in luxury.” For a moment, it looked like that was all Nica would say. Then he went on. “I’m really shallower than you think,” contemplating the youthful wonder of aspiration, he thought he was surely treading on his final dusk. He wore white, cotton gloves with three black seams along the back. Grabbing a glass of white wine as its tray oscillated past, Sero leaned one of them on the gift table and looked at the strangely intimate gathering; particularly Cain and Riforte, who were just rounding a corner into visibility through a pane of glass separating the Reception Hall from the Winter Garden. “But there’s more to that man, over there,” he gestured with disdain, meeting Bella’s eyes over the glass tilted to his lips. Savoring the sweet, vaguely sour of pinot grigio, he paired taste with sight and drank her in; as if he used Cain to distract her so that he could enjoy her for the first time, unhindered by her watching, seeing, him look at her. “You see, everyone is here because of a thirst for something. This is a particular celebration for those who know how to get that something. My case, however, is that I was a means for somebody to attain something. I may look like that man over there, but I had in mind a world free of people like him.” The soft noise of fabric on fabric drew attention to Nica’s pacing his hand across the gift table. Nica was smiling a smile not of resignation, as may seem fitting for his words, but one of something secret. One that showed there was still something for which he had thirst. “Cain found me because I could do great things. He let me do quite a few of them, but he also used me to do some things in the pursuit of power that I never would have dreamt.” Downing his drink, he raised the empty glass in an imaginary toast. “But hey! It got me on top of the world for a while, even if I had to go into hiding for all the threats on my life.” Setting the glass down, he looked at Belladonna now unashamed, whether she was looking or not. Whether because of the alcohol or the company, he was sinking into this conversation. “Speaking of thirst for something greater. You look like a sweet girl, and it makes me wonder even more. Do you think what they do here— what we do here— is a good thing, or a bad thing? Do you care, as long as you can taste this something greater?” Pleasantly ghoulish piano music plinked on as conversation amongst guests rose to a comforting murmur in the red hued light. Walking among the green on the edges, the First and the Architect walked beside one another. The First Dead had seen a few Architects, but never before walked so connected with one. Tickings this way and that of Cain’s eyes as they walked among the foliage signified his computing of the veritability of this scenario— his mounting motives to justify it. Had not the Dead once been a marriage between his love for Chloe and his love for power? Was it fitting, now, that two loves share the same vessel in her aftermath? Cain didn’t have to revel in silent revelry; Riforte knew him as well as she had known Chloe. "It'll hurt my feelings if you do. At least for a moment, trust me enough to be okay." “That’s just it,” he said, looking at her, searching for the truth in her eyes that even she may not yet have admitted. “Is it fair to be okay, after everything?” Cain felt that it was a different question depending on who you asked. Flashes of the years past filled his mind and, if Riforte knew, hers; of Cain carrying Chloe’s lifeless body from the ashes of the Cabal and demanding Faustus stitch his power into her so she could live on; Riforte and Nefarious clutching at the Full Deck as it swarmed with Cain’s undead, watching as he rocketed through the ceiling with Chloe in his arms a moment before the ship slammed head over heels down onto Casper. Of Cain, standing at Tia’s helm for a decade, alone, tortured. Connected to everyone, and at the same time entirely separate. With the fraying and snapping of the string that had connected him to Chloe, Cain had taken the proverbial plunge off the deep end of his humanity, and now he stared up at Riforte from the depths of immeasurably despair. “If I take your hand, will I only drag you down?” he said quietly. They were in the garden now, walking the enclosure’s pathways arm in arm.