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Artificer

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About Artificer

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  • Birthday April 15

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  1. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    SNIPE "You don't want to know," he said, knowing far to well that the group would never be a match for the seemingly endless armies of wolves at the disposal of their cruel alphas. "Hundreds... thousands... too many to count." His voice had a somewhat bitter tone in it as he spoke his next few words: "And more are being turned by the hour." Helping Beris down the steps, the wolf-man couldn't help but think about the narrow circumstances that led to his improbably escape from that hell hole. Sure, his mind was not twisted nor enslaved like the rest, but his body was too far gone now. He had almost been added to their ranks. Still, he would not speak of it. He would never speak of it. It was not the right time, and he was not ready to divulge any more than the meager words he had just spilled. It was personal, and he did not know this man, or rather know any of these men yet. There was an odd silence as the two descended down the ladder into the basement, joining both Khakina and Dan. "That dog that took your arm was only a runt of the pack.... They only get bigger... and more ruthless." @Fennis Ursai @HollowCipher @Zashiii
  2. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    DROMERUS DAENALDYN Yes, Dromerus, dwarven splendor of the Northern Rim, was still alive. Yes, he was almost mauled half to death for disobeying some stupid wolf. Yes, he had risen from the watery grave to deal cold death upon the scraggly mutts who dared challenge him. Was he just going to be some minor character standing on the sideline and wait for rescue? No. Was he going to fail his mission? No. Could he physically see enough to accomplish said mission (given the darkness and rank clouds of foul gas of the sewers)? Yes β€” dwarves lived underground, and thus have excellent vision in low-visibility subterranean expanses... this was his environment. Dromerus was in his element. And finally, Yes. He was pissed. Eyes slimmed as he focused on the creatures up ahead. The wolves corralling the rider and his dragon were distracted by the man's sudden fall, and so the dwarf axeman decided now was a better time than any to rain down a little hell on these suckers. He'd make them pay. Maintaining his silence as he circled from behind, swimming underwater to mask the all-to-obvious scent of blood, the dwarf held his weapon near the neck of the handle, at the base of the axe-head. As one wolf in the back turned towards the man, the dwarf seized the opportunity and grabbed its hind leg, and with all the force he could muster, yanked the creature back towards the water. The wolf must have been surprised, giving a brief yelp in dismay as it's padded feet slipped on the slicked-slime, all frozen, slippery, and whatnot. Then, with deft movement, the dwarf threw himself over the wolf's back, shoved the dog underwater, and ran the edge of his blade across the creature's throat. One down, many more to go. He hoped the rider was ready to fight. @roboblu
  3. Someone help -- a week off has put me into a creative slump. I have lost my inspiration, and I need to find it ._.

    1. Witch

      Witch

      🐦

    2. Frostbinder

      Frostbinder

      Elaborate please, Peter.

      But otherwise, here’s all I’ve got:

      Bosses! Wolves! Obstacles played just like PCs! Gorey deaths! Sacrifice! Injury! Pain! Heartbreak! Heartache! 45 minuteΒ shadow clone jutsu!

      Alright, that’s all I’ve got πŸ˜„

    3. supernal

      supernal

      What kind of stuff usually inspires you? I don't want to send paintings to someone that prefers music!

  4. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    SNIPE The fall seemed to have taken the wolf-man by surprise, and the way to boy landed knocking all breath out of the beast. The damn kid wasn't heavy, but the gun had pushed hard against Snipe's throat whilst the boy's elbows dug in between his ribs. Skull knocked against the floor hard, sending a constellation of stars straight into sight, and then, before the werewolf even knew it, the kid had crawled off his body. Touching the palm of his hand to his brow, Snipe gave the boy a glare as Frygg skulked down the stairs, out of sight and out of mind. He was somewhat impressed that the kid even had the power to overtake him, but then again, the Lady was extremely distracting... in all the wrong ways. Speaking of which, he turned back towards the woman, eyes widening ever so slightly as her hand down the dire wolf's throat. Only Valjer knew what the woman was doing, arm plunged deep into a fresh kill. Normally, when such game is killed, you'd butcher it and eat the flesh, but it seemed that the woman had other ideas in mind. Ears caught the faint, unearthly gurgling noise emanating from the dead dog's corpse was a hint; however, Snipe didn't want to entertain any theories as to what was happening. Head turned towards Beris, the man who had both saved Snipe and was saved by Snipe. His one hand clutched a knife glowing red with the heat of the hearth, and on the other side where his arm was torn soon glowed all the same. Magic. It was comforting to know that they had one well versed in the arcane arts that was not a teenager. Surely, the man would have more wisdom than such party. "I've been better," Snipe admitted, giving a dogged half-smirk as he got up calmly. His legs still stung from whatever blasted winds had hit him earlier, but he still had much energy left in him. Additionally, now was not the time to show weakness. This was the Cold South, and the Cold kills all the weak. Still, there was the several issues that pressed him in the back of his mind. What were they going to do about the two injured party members? Could the new group trust him β€”a werewolf? What were they going to do with the pack closing in? Knowing all to well of the dangers that were coming, he gave Beris a dead look in the eye: "We get away from here β€” get somewhere safe. Where is your mage heading?" The teenager was descending the flight of stairs with Khaki in tow, so surely the kid had some sort of escape plan. Snipe could help fend off a few wolves, but he wouldn't be able to protect both of the injured.... he needed that mage. No double, no cheap familiar. The wolves of Cobran were ruthless, and they'd kill the stragglers with ease as they almost had accomplished with the shaman and the lady. Limping over to the one-armed man, he extended his clawed hand out. The man was going to need some help getting down the stairs given his injuries, no? @Fennis Ursai @HollowCipher @Zashiii
  5. @Fennis UrsaiΒ @HollowCipherΒ @robobluΒ @ZashiiiΒ @Deus Ex AizenΒ @Grim WolfΒ @FrostbinderΒ @danzilla3Β @GrubbistchΒ @HumanBean03Β @Acies ab VesaniaΒ @TwitterpatedΒ 

    First of all, for those of you who have been waiting on me to post, let me apologize for my prolonged absence and lack of communication for the past few days. Things have been a bit hectic lately with regards to my schedule as I've been busy sorting out things. This entire week I've been getting ready to move into my new apartment as well as prepping myself for the upcoming semester, so I haven't had too much free time for myself. I will be getting posts out for Wolf Masquerade, Dragon's Circle, and Floracle soon (~1-2 days), so please bear with me. Again, thank you for your patience! I'm not disappearing abruptly like I've done in the past πŸ˜‰Β β€”Β I'm here to stay this time!

    - Your Friend,

    Arti~

    1. Deus Ex Aizen

      Deus Ex Aizen

      You're good, fam. I'm on vacation and by the time I get back we'll both be in school. You're in the server, I gotchu elsewhere. If you ever need anything just poke at me. Do all the great things, and I'll catch you on the flipside.

    2. roboblu

      roboblu

      I resent youΒ 

    3. Artificer

      Artificer

      Update: setting up this apartment with my roommates is turning out to be longer than expected.

  6. If this is any excuse, my recent inactivity is due to my ceaseless consumption of the Kingkiller Chronicle. Please forgive me -- it is a great series ._.

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Artificer

      Artificer

      ^^^^^^^ IK T_T

    3. Artificer

      Artificer

      What's their plan? What's their plan?

      Chandrian, Chandrian.

    4. supernal

      supernal

      I forgive you partially for having good taste, but the rest of the not forgiving is for want of more robust time management skills. You can have both!

  7. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    FRYGG FYNNVARTHR Finger still on the trigger, Frygg raised his weapon with reluctance, grasp trembling. On one hand, his mind was screaming to shoot the horrid husk that was Lady Khakina, but on the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Her voice β€” the same quality as so many who have fallen to the plagues of Whispernight before β€” sounded genuine and human despite grotesque appearances. Then again, who could say if she was a fiend in disguise β€” a monster with a stolen voice, one that did not belong to her, but rather used as a lure to ensnare said victims? The ooze had so easily eaten a wolf more than twice its size, and just looking at the frozen expression of terror on the dead dog's face was enough to elicit fear in the boy. Still, would his teammates honestly fall prey to such vile filth? His breath was unsteady as his heart was still pounding, hands shaking with aching trepidation. Speechless β€” utterly speechless as he snatched his bag. He couldn't take this. Khakina was his teammate, but then again, a complete stranger. Same with the rest of them. As much as he wanted to help, he couldn't stand to be in the abomination's presence. If his team members were to trust both a lycanthrope and a being who was clearly not human, then so be it. Dan, having disappeared into air and reappearing sometime shortly, could take care of them, right? Sure, the boy was just a teenager; however, he seemed so sure of himself and was confident in his abilities. Frygg didn't doubt the boy could hold himself, even against the sinister forces of Whispernight. Stepping off of the werewolf he was sitting on, the rifleman stumbled, backed away against the wall, heading towards the stairs without breaking eye contact with Khakina, keeping the wolf-man in the corner of his vision. He felt bad for the one-armed man, having to have killed the white wolf which burst out unexpectedly... the shaman was clearly injured already, but still, he had no hesitation when it came to doing what needed to be done. If only Frygg had that kind of quality β€” the ability to do what was right when it needed to be done. Everything was so comical. While he was already in his twenties, it didn't seem like he had aged a bit since childhood. The gun was just a show, wasn't it? A simple facade, a mask of bravery. He wasn't qualified at all to be a fighter, he was was still just a boy who still grieved for his family, still shedding tears months after the fact. Fists tightened as he realized how stupid it all was. Thousands of children across Genesaris have lost loved ones to the terrors of Whispernight, forever scarred by its relentless assault. Who was he to think that he was the only hurt one on the continent, that he was the only one in pain? Was it selfish of him to even embark on such a journey, a self-entitled boy on a quest to try to get revenge for his brother β€” his mother... for Kuratel? Everything that he said he was standing for, he questioned. What the hell was a metalworker doing out in monster-infested ruins anyways? The woman's eye's were glassy, as if desperately fighting against her fate, and yet Frygg could not bring himself to sympathize with her. Too deep did his own scars run for him to even trust such a creature. He was not naive like those so desperate to find humanity in the savagery of Whispernight. Sorry, Khakina. He will never trust you. Whatever they said now would fall on deaf ears, the boy having already made up his mind. Walking down the steps, he did something stupid, and took towards the front door. He would take this journey back home, where ever that was now. Thoughts of the white wolves became second only to his desire to leave. Foolish, yes, but Frygg was a fool, one who walked into the raging blizzard. He would go on his own, and no one was going to change his mind. The rifleman would rather die fighting against monsters than trust a single one. Never again would he place his faith in something that pretended to be human... not after what happened in Kuratel. Like a dagger to his heart, the memory pained him. "Brother." @Fennis Ursai @HollowCipher @Zashiii
  8. REYNARD SVEN GRAYWACKE 'Click.' 'Tap.' Pain. 'Click.' 'Tap.' Pain. Laughter, at least when the children ran by, smiles plastered on their stupid faces β€” as they ran, yes, ran. Reynard's eyes narrowed at the sight of them; he would have killed to be sprinting as fast as those vagabonds, hell, he would kill just to walk normally like everyone else on two legs. Every step, every stride was a reminder of that wretched day, his hand now glued to a cane which he could not afford leaving the house without. It was a gnarled branch at that, and in his opinion, was somewhat tacky with its elvish looks. Looking down at the branch, the former mercenary relented β€” he looked like an old man walking around with the damned thing. Three times that day, people had asked if he needed assistance with the huge bag he was rolling around. He told them they could 'piss off.' Months of endless pain had made him somewhat bitter, nights ending with drinks of alcohol which no longer numbed the pain. God, it was all infuriating. Then, a large, intimidating gray hound cut in front of him from behind β€” a fearsome beast at that, standing higher than his waist β€”, and yet, with that, Reynard smiled. It was Seb, his loyal companion. Gripping the knob of the cane tightly, he bent down on his other knee as combed his hand through her long, shaggy fur. "Who's a good girl," he murmured, until she had the gall to lick his face. "Gah, get off," he said with a chuckle, nudging the pup off before getting back up onto his good leg. She was the only thing in his life that didn't leave him, and being with her numbed his pain, at least, for a bit. Suddenly, there was a crippling pain which shot straight up through his thigh as someone bumped him from behind. "Oh, sorry!" the person yelled, as they ran by. "Aghh... Watch yourself!!!" Reynard hissed, grabbing his right thigh in sheer agony. Every time when something touched it, there was always a throbbing, shattered fragments of his femur jostling at the slightest disturbance. His eyes threw daggers at the offender. Kids didn't care about anyone but themselves now, did they? It was people like these who made him hate going to the market. Granted, he had just arrived in Casper but a few days ago, and it was a change of pace for the mercenary β€” the idyllic life of living in the city. He had thought that this would be an ideal place for getting back on his feet being a port and all. The man needed some form of income, and he thought that his trade would make it easy living out here β€” adventurers and whatnot passing through every so often. No one told him that the godforsaken city was built on a slope. Regardless, he would never make it living in the new area without first proving his skill in his craft, so he needed materials. He had already stopped by the curio shop earlier, procuring pickled organs and other such trinkets for brewing. Now, all he needed were plants... and not just for his customers, but for himself. Word around town was that the local apothecary had just reopened with a gamut of plants, flowers, and other herbs, and he was going to take advantage of the opportunity. The opening of a shop usually means sales... at least from his experiences back in Shrine City. Walking up to the nearby intersection of roads, he stopped briefly as the bustling crowds crossed. Rummaging through his side pocket, he pulled out a thin strip of paper which he had written the name of the shop on earlier. On it, in messy inky handwriting was the name: 'Floracle.' Eyes shooting back up, he turned his head side to side, searching for the shop's sign, until he spotted an assortment of multicolored bouquets adorning the front of one shop, fresh herbs lining wooden baskets in the distance. On the front of it, he could barely make out the big, stylized letters: '~ F L O R A C L E F L O W E R S H O P & A P O T H E C A R Y ~.' He was there.... Now he just needed to cross the street.... Where the hell was Seb? β—† β—† β—† SEB With a puff of smoke and a few sparks and embers, the somewhat huge mastiff had suddenly appeared between a few aisles in the strange shop full of flowers and herbs. Wouldn't her master be surprised to find that she had beat him to the place? She couldn't wait to see the look on his face. Seb was a smart cookie. With a confident, excited gait, the dark gray mastiff bounded out, tongue lolling out from her mouth as she panted with elation. The building smelled wonderful! So much different then the dingy, old house of the two's previous abode! Then again, she missed the other master, but regardless, it was a scene to behold. Running around, knocking over a few small saplings, tripping over vines, and even breaking a pot of two, the dog ran around in the new exciting jungle. There were blossoms, fruit even! It was so amazing! Talking? People! Talking people! Seb loved people. Quickly dashing out into the main divide, the mastiff nearly slipped as she turned with great haste, toppling some perennials. Eyes locked on a man who looked somewhat glum behind a counter. His eyes were pretty, bright blue like the sky. Was he bored? Perhaps he wanted to play? Was that the human who just talked!? Caspian!? No way! Was that his name? No matter! She cared not β€” whoever the man was, the two were going to be best friends... right? She would cheer him up! Breaking into a full sprint, the massive dog bounded across at great speeds with tongue in the wind, flecks of saliva flying from her face. Then, with her two powerful legs, she leaped at the man behind the counter with front paws extended, ready to give the man a hug of a lifetime! Yes, she would land on him and make him submit with a torrent of kisses! She was smiling as much as a dog could, air forcing her cheeks into an even wider happy-face. This was going to be great! β™₯ Ο…Β΄β€’ ﻌ β€’`Ο… β™₯ @carrionjackal @roboblu
  9. * boops *

    1. Wade

      Wade

      chicken shawarma

    2. Artificer

      Artificer

      Bibimbap barrage!

      440px-Dolsot-bibimbap.jpg

  10. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    ONE-EYE β€” [Ξ±] As he led the group forward, the alpha caught the faintest tinge of some scent on the air. Taking a breath in, he knew what it was almost immediately: Blood. Fresh blood. While the smell was normally reinvigorating, there was no elation from said presence. No, this blood was not that of a human, but rather that of wolves. His wolves. Focus shifting towards whatever lay down the dark passage, the beast could feel fury beginning to rise. Then, around the bend of the sewer way, at a junction of four tunnels, he saw four corpses: two half-submerged in the icy slush, one in front of him, and another on the opposite side of the room. One eye opened wide in disbelief; these wolves had been some of his best men. Killdeer, Lightfoot, Threeleg, and Redcoat all lied there, eyes glossy, bodies rigid, perfect coats now marred with long, wide slashes. Seeing Lightfoot's head hanging by a third of the neck was no solace. "SSSTOP!" he bellowed to both the wolves behind and the human slave, voice trembling as if barely holding back his unbridled rage. He walked around, walked on ice, paced around the entire area. He nudged Killdeer, the wolf who lay in front of him with his snout. Dead. These were good soldiers β€” good men. Ice began to expand in frosted lattices from his feet, power humming with power, crackling with microcrystals which grew, shattered, and reformed. Whoever did this... they would pay. "Find... the killerrrrr!" he roared, voice booming, flecks of saliva flying from his lips, furious command echoing off the sewer walls. He was beyond the point of anger. The alpha stormed around the corner to the right, and with that, his men slowly but surely followed. They were not leaving the area until they found the trail of their new query. Lifting his head up, One-Eye sniffed the air, probing for the scent of whatever living being had did this. β—† β—† β—† ARON STONEHEART The thing about dwarves is they were small, unassuming, and could hide in the darnedest of places. The nexus where he had slain the four wolves was roofed by a ribbed vault, four passageways meeting at the hub. He knew the godforsken alpha was still with whatever was left of his men back at the old hideout, and he knew if he waited above on the impost block of the archway, the damned beast would most likely come down that way. Then came the sound of footsteps which echoed down, and with that, Aron, crouched, still and unmoving like a gargoyle on its perch, axe in one hand, sword in the other. His clothes were drenched in the frosted sewer waters, serving the sole purpose of masking his scent. Eyes were narrow with contempt as he saw the alpha wolf by, caring not to look up, but rather down and around. In the darkness, Aron could just make out the silhouettes of a few figures, pupils still adjusting to the minimal light that was present. Still, even with supposedly excellent eyesight, the alpha wolf was too stupid to use it properly. The killer was up here, he wanted to say β€” taunt the mongrel for what he did to his men. When the creature barked, he didn't even shudder. All that he could think about was driving five inches of cold steel into the beast's skull, the skull of the real killer. As the wolves scattered below, the warrior was ready to drop in for the attack, but then he heard a lumbering gait, one which did not belong to any dog. It belonged to a massive creature, and for some reason, it was somewhat familiar. Ears then caught a familiar, metallic clanging, the scraping of some metal prosthesis. Carefully moving his head past the pillar, Aron looked down, confirming his suspicions. "Wren," he thought immediately, eyes open with surprise and relief, "The damn rider is alive." Looking on the man's shoulder, there was a hooded figure, but the dwarf could not make it out in the slightest given the darkness. With that, thoughts of self-sacrifice, martyrdom, and revenge were tossed out the window. He was not originally planning on escaping the hell-hole alive; however, seeing one of his men gave him a new goal: escape. Silently, he prepared to descend on the hounds in the rear, hopefully giving the dragon the ability to move freely after said liberation. He wanted to signal Wren to get ready, but then again, anything unnatural would most likely end up in disaster. It didn't look like the man had a weapon, so it would be difficult. Aron had to be careful: one wrong move, and everything would go to hell. They were outnumbered, and even if Wren did have a dragon, they were against six wolves, one whose unparalleled taste for viciousness made the pack as dangerous as twelve. This was not going to be easy. @roboblu
  11. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    WHITE WOLF β€” [Ξ³.1] In his blindness, there was freedom, bindings of mucus sliding away β€” he was halfway out from what he could tell. His senses were dulled, but he knew he was out, slicked body hitting the floor with a thud. Quickly, the wolf scrambled to its feet, but slipped, coughing out the insidious black disease which had crawled its way into his body. Then, out of nowhere, he heard dull thuds, the quality of which was muffled from the liquid in his ear canals. Something was coming, but he could not react to it for he was still recovering. A human arm wrapped itself around his neck as legs bound him by the sides. The wolf struggled, twisted, and turned, but could not get whatever was on him off. Then came a singed hand on his neck, and the wolf could not take it. He howled, yelped, growled, made all sorts of noises. Such torture was horrific. To first be drowned, and then immolated. Such was the cruel, cruel method of death, and finally, succumbing to his injuries, the wolf perished on the floor. (And with that, all three of the wolves of the initial party were dead. [Ξ³.1], [Ξ³.2], and [Ξ”.1] have fallen. Their coats do not have any magical qualities like that of the alpha wolves, but materials can still be salvaged. [Ξ³.1] is in the attic, [Ξ”.1] is close to the base of the building, and [Ξ³.2] is farther out, in the snow. Such materials include, but are not limited to, meat, claws, teeth, eyes, skin, etc. Seeing how rations are low, food might be recommended) @Fennis Ursai @HollowCipher @Zashiii
  12. Artificer

    The Wolf Masquerade

    FRYGG FYNNVARTHR When the aeromancer carried both the lady and the archer up into the second-floor garret, Frygg was initially relieved. It was only on closer inspection of Khakina's slightly torn garments did he notice the interplay of red and black which splattered her collar. There was an abnormal distension around the woman's neck, and it took him but moments to note the almost fluid-like quality of it, as if she were made of the same material as her shape-shifting companion. In fact, the skin all around the area seemed to flow like oil, except thick, congealed, while still retaining a shimmering quality under the light of the fireplace. Something wasn't right, and the otherworldly effect made him anxious. Thoughts of the eldritch creatures of Whispernight came to mind as he stared at the woman; something was definitely not right with her. He loaded a bullet in anticipation. So many times had those foul creatures fooled him in the past β€” he would not let it happen again. Then came the sounds of scratching from the outside walls, the kind that was likened to that of the wolf who had assaulted Khakina. The beast had climbed with feral claws hooking into the side, and ambushed the woman. Was the same thing about to occur? Quietly he stepped back as Dan tended to Khakina, and raised his firearm towards the open window. If those beasts knew how to scale stone walls, then the group was not out of danger yet. His trigger-finger was twitching, itching even. Whatever monster was coming would meet a silver bullet, and that was a promise. A head popped up into view; however, it was not that of a wolf's: it was a man. Face unshaven, expression somewhat crazed, and drenched in blood, Frygg couldn't help but focus in as he was lifted up into the attic, furs dyed crimson, one arm missing from his side. It was the same person who was fighting outside, earlier β€” the one who originally had roused the group from their slumber. "Are you okay?" the rifleman asked, lowering the barrel, eyes widened. This was ridiculous. "How did the man even get up here?" Soon, that question was answered; whoever had helped the man into the group's temporary shelter was now pulling themselves up. Frygg's eyes narrowed in at the hands which were gripped onto the sill. They were covered in hair, fingers adorned with sharp nails. Then, he received a shock of his life: a fanged face, muzzle and all, crowned with pointed ears popping up into view, fierce yellow eyes reflecting the flames of the hearth. Frygg couldn't believe it: the being who had helped a member of their group... was a werewolf. After ensuring that the injured fellow was in the building, the shaggy gray beast had brought himself into the attic as well. Frygg was speechless. It was not that he didn't care to mention it to Dan, but the mere fact that no one had taken notice to the huge beast in front of them. The monster was standing a few feet from him, Dan, and Khakina. At this range, it could attack any one of them. Breath strained, and slowly, ever so slowly, he walked backwards, careful not to elicit the attention of the creature. With no rushed movements whatsoever, he once more raised the gun, eyes down the sight, gripping the firearm firmly in his grasp as he took aim. Its legs were ravaged by wounds, and he could have shot right then and there. He willed his finger to pull the trigger, but his body didn't respond. Frygg couldn't resolve the conflict of emotions that came over him. Clearly, the creature was a denizen of Whispernight; however, despite its heinous nature, it had saved one of them. The boy's mind was at war with itself, not knowing whether to take the shot or lower his weapon. β—† β—† β—† SNIPE The wolf was breathless, laying against the wall: Beris was not a light man. "You owe me nothing, human," the werewolf replied, warmed by the man's geniality. "You saved me firrst." "As forr my legs, they'll be alrright β€” been thrrough worrse. You should be morre worrried about yourrr arm." It was true, the man's shoulder was a bloody mess. The fact that the man was even able to stay conscious through all of that pain must have been a miracle. There was something strange about this man, the way he walked, talked, acted around these wolves. What did he mean by 'the days when he was able to heal faster?' He didn't look too old, despite a grown adult. Snipe would have to inquire about said behavior later. The man had a feral spark in him and a lust for battle like no other. Could he too have been... no... perhaps? Still, the group didn't have time for banter, the rest of the pack was fast approaching, and they had to get out of there before they were surrounded. Snipe lamented: he wished he hadn't told Frost to go back. He could use an extra set of eyes, watching his back, especially in these stranger waters. Could he trust these people β€” like he had trusted the ones he had met before? It was impossible to know if there were any wolves in sheep's clothing among the lot, and it certainly was a risk to even be here in the attic. Still, it was better off that Frost wasn't here β€” he would be safer on the rooftops, out of sight, and out of trouble. Eyes turned towards the figures in the room: there was a floating man, a woman, and downed man, and an individual backing slowly away, gun aimed straight at his face... wait. The brown haired boy had quivering green eyes, and had the sights locked on the werewolf. This β€” this was not a good situation. "Hold on," he muttered to the shaman. There was a situation that needed to be dealt with. "Kid," Snipe said, getting up from his comfortable spot. "You misunderrrstand," he sighed, dusting off his pants as he limped slowly towards the kid. Whether or not he shot was up to him, but Snipe was definitely not going to go down after saving one of the rifleman's comrades. Closer, closer he walked, a somewhat careless expression on his face, but amber eyes locked on the kid's fingers. If the boy shot, it wouldn't be good for the pristine, white walls now, would it? Now even the hovering mage seemed to take notice, drawing his sword. It figured why no one trusted Snipe β€” he did look just like the enemy. The withdrawn blade would be a secondary concern of the wolf's: a drawn gun kills faster. Closer, closer he approached, and when the boy was in an arm's length away, his expression changed to that of fierceness. Kid wasn't so smart now, was he β€” backing himself into a wall? Swiftly he grabbed the muzzle of the gun, and aimed it upward, a bang resounding as the gun went off. Noise didn't matter at this point, the wolves were already coming. Next, he turned the muzzle to the kid's chin, and pushed him to the wall, using the rifle to trap the man by the neck. "But firrst, don't point that thing at me," he growled. Sure, Snipe was once human, but as a cursed being, sometimes his new nature got the best of him. He was annoyed, on the edge of becoming angry, but he restrained himself β€” just for the kid. His inner-beast told him to tear the boy in two, but Snipe knew better... for now. "We arrre on the same side okay?" he sighed, "Can you agrrree to that, you know, putting it down? Don't want anyone to get hurrt." Turning towards the shaman, he gestured with his head: "Look I helped your friend," he sighed. God, he immediately relented. Stupid move... absolutely idiotic. Now, he undoubtedly just showed them that he was no different from the lycanthropes that prowled the streets.... Then something stole his attention away from it all: a huge, protrusion from a woman's belly. Perhaps she was impregnated on the journey here, Snipe surmised. Then again, such violent movements were not necessarily indicative of human offspring. Next came a harrowing surprise, a clawed paw and black jaws erupting from a tangle of flesh and strange black bile. What the hell was this woman? β—† β—† β—† FRYGG FYNNVARTHR There was a brief moment in the wolf's choke-hold where the werewolf faltered. This was Frygg's chance. With a rush of force, the boy pushed forward, knocking the wolf over with surprising strength. Sure, he may not have had the strength of the wolf, but he used the creature's lack of attention and leverage against the wall to his advantage, putting both feet on the wall as he shoved the front of his body and arms forward against the monster. Down the two toppled, human atop the downed beast. Grabbing rifle back up from the creature's clawed clasp, he knelt up, and prepared to shoot, until something caught his eye: Khakina's form warping into something even more demonic than the unnatural beasts that roamed Cobran. Indescribable, terrifying: a blackened wolf erupting from what appeared to be an undead amalgamation of human and tar. Now he knew why the werewolf had been distracted β€” Khakina's body ballooning, literally doubling as her entire being stretched and contorted. The woman was not human β€” the lady was no lady. Khakina was an actual monster, straight out of the pages of Kuratel. Frygg jumped back, and brought gun up, not knowing whether to shoot Khakina or the emerging wolf first. @Fennis Ursai @HollowCipher @Zashiii
  13. Artificer

    Whose Line? Bi-weekly RP Challenge!

    I did it β€” finally submitted it on time. (edit) I chose my username because, well, I like fantasy magic systems, and I feel like artificing is a great method of encapsulating said system. I used "artificer" and "robotic blue." Your welcome for the cameo, @roboblu πŸ˜‰ Anyways, here are the specific passages:
  14. FRAENIR, SON OF SIGURTHYR Vacuous? Egocentric? Headstrong? Inconsiderate? There were a gamut of words that could be used to describe foolhardy child; however, none of them would be able to express his dissatisfaction with Layelia. All she thought about was herself, never thinking about the dragon as a dragon. He assumed the woman would rather think of his kind, generous tolerance of her as subservience. It was simply outrageous; he was no pack mule. Unlike creatures of the equidae family, he was intelligent β€” wisest of the wise, and endowed with great beauty in comparison to other, lowly species. Her death would not be remembered, but his death would be a great shame to the world, and if Layelia perished, then so too would he. Pity that they were inextricably bound to each other. It was known to both that they shared a deeper connection than most dragons and their riders, but sometimes, Fraenir sometimes wondered whether or not the girl remembered. Perhaps if she were a bit more thoughtful, she would consider his situation instead of her own, petty interests. ... Then again, there were many times when he questioned if the novice artificer had a brain. This woman β€” what was she exactly to Fraenir? Why did he always put himself through the gauntlet just to save her, he wondered as he narrowly dodged both flames and wreckage. Diving with the earthbound ship was not easy, and yet here he was exerting himself just to get to her. "Top of the ship," he repeated, "Top of the ship is what the scrawny brat said...." Shrapnel and other metallic projectiles were scattered among the sky, as if floating and moving aimlessly with the rest of the ship. If he were in a box, the dragon might have assumed that the force of falling no longer applied; although, it was apparent that everything was just falling at the same rate. They would eventually stop floating when they crashed into the ground, but for now, the dragon just had to deal with the suspended, burning, obstacle course. Then came an explosion from every window, flames suddenly bursting out in explosive fervor, streams of hot air disrupting the flow on Fraenir's wings. Flames licked his turqoiuse scales as he was knocked aback β€” he could have been sent down from the sky if it weren't for his fast reaction. He could hear the turmoil of screams of those inside, their bodies most likely rent to boiling flesh from the sudden intensity of the inferno. Perhaps it was the alchemical engine rupturing, or maybe it was something else entirely. There was a tinge of magic in it all, and the dragon would make certain to remember it. Either it was remnants of his god's divine flames, or a threat none of them had taken into account. Regardless, the scene was a circus β€” a disaster on flaming wings. He could have been far away from this mess by now, but no, Layelia apparently had something more important than living. Now beneath the ship, he had finally had enough room to make his way back up. Time was of the essence, and he could waste none, ground approaching dangerously closer every second. Gliding out, he extended his membranous wings, slowing down his own descent, and in turn, going "up" relative to his half of the ship. Slit pupils caught something dire from a shattered porthole as he ascended β€” a silhouette among the damned fire stabbing another with flaming blade, arcane essence reminiscent of the entangled embers that danced with the dragon-fire. This was all madness, he thought, sincerely hoping Layelia was not on this side of the ship. Having finished climbing alongside the colossal ship, he had reached the main deck, or rather, half of it. Amber eyes scanned the scene, but could barely make any details past the black smoke. "Child," he thought, "Where are you?!" Mind dove deep into her conscious thoughts, but all he heard was panic. There would be no line of rational communication, so he had to find her himself. Three times, he entered the black smoke in search of the woman, but to no avail. Finally, at his wit's end, he called out: "LAYELIA!" No response; was she not on the main deck? Higher he rose, past the blackened remnants of the zeppelin canvas, seeing if he could gain a better vantage point. Then, from the corner of his eye, his attention was capture by a glint of metallic green or robotic blue that cleared smoke at the other half of the ship β€” what looked to be a mangled pillar flying through the air. Pupils focused in, looking at a cluster of figures emerging from what appeared to be the primary bridge, eyes widened. A flash of violet was there, eyes wide with dread, and flaxen hair colored with the golds of searing light: it was her. There was no time, he had to be fast. With all the strength he could muster, he flew, horned head cutting through the wind and smoke as he dove past the point of terminal velocity. "Faster, faster," he concentrated, noting the the individual treetops that layered the evergreen canopy were suddenly distinguishable at the current distance. Past the hurtling screams of other crewmen, past the mottled corpses of burning flesh, past he burning rubble, he flew. It was all a blur, and he dove forward recklessly, but all he could think about was Layelia. Swooping in from above, he plunged below the girl and company, and rose up, catching them on his back with impeccable accuracy. Sure, it would not be the smoothest of landings, and his scaly back was less than comfortable; however, the girl would live, and with that, so would he. Whoever she brought with her did not matter β€” as long as they behaved in flight. Layelia was safe. Turning at a slight angle, he began to put distance between the ruined aircraft and himself. It was a relief: he wasn't going to be dying today. @roboblu @Grubbistch
  15. Artificer

    Whose Line? Bi-weekly RP Challenge!

    @roboblu, I just realized that I've been silently doing your challenges, and that I've literally not been posting my stuff here ._. * sad face *
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