Jump to content

DocterDuck

Members
  • Content Count

    26
  • Joined

  • Last visited

About DocterDuck

  • Rank
    Apprentice

Recent Profile Visitors

295 profile views
  1. The series of events leading upon a dealing between the "Duck" and the manufacturers of droid-like allies has arrived. The tribulations of searching throughout the depths of Lacrimosa, posing throughout groups of pirateering fiends has concluded. The staging of assaults by the ravenous thieves of the hunting has arised, only to form that of a confederation in arms towards achieving what the beast desires. Yet, of what will the beast desire? The desire, that of it's own twisted liberation across the realm fruits into the dealings of this current barter, a barter sparked throughout the combination of both hostages and the abductive negotiation of the titan. The setting of the negotiations, a cavernous landscape beyond the woodlands of Lacrimosa's cityscapes and other forms of urbanized population. The ceiling of the cavern, shaped into that of a dragonic maw of sorts, would be jutted outwards upon the harshened barrage of bark around. The interior of the cavern, laced with teeth-like stalactites and stalagmites stapled around, would be cleansed of any formations of life. Only that of grizzly remains, diseased and drunken by the chemicals of the colossus, would be strewn around as though pouches of garbage. Flurries of dust flicker by across the scene, dormant and dirtied throughout the hollow. The "Duck's" own peepers, putridly pointed across the depths of the darkened environment, would gaze awaitingly towards any signs of life or dealership to enter. The commands of the colossus, written throughout a goading letter of sorts, would detail the specifications to arrive upon the coordinates set by the behemoth. The coordinates in question, generally estimated by the beast's position in congruence towards different cities around, would be set towards the entryway of the cavern. Perched upon a nearby boulder's cornerstone, heaved through several volcanic processes that formed the domain of the staggy cave, the colossus would attempt to fuel it's attention whilst waiting upon any arrival of organisms. Yet, to have an accompanying hostage of sorts, Break would've been abducted into the grasps of the goliath's gargantuan-gauntlets. Though, the question of how the capture took came. The capture in a sense, was done through mostly scavaging around for any randomized merchants, until, nonchalantly taking notice of a beaten Break across the grounds of battling. Retrieving said robot, a relatively simplistic task, allowed the titan to begin taking a hide beneath the clutches of a cavern. The tinkership, a valuable and trying trait of the titanic terror, would've kept Break sustained from any mortal-wounds following his combat. Though, mortality wasn't the question of either the titan nor the robots in this equation, only that of waiting for bargains. Lashing a lingering laugh of ozone throughout the hollows of the halls, the behemoth would tramp tritefully around it's rock of sorts. The boots, raised upwards with a fierce snapping of steel, would clash back onto the flooring below. Swept dust would be singed aside, stinging back into the crevices of pebbles, as though a founding of flinging mosquitoes. Buzzing, rushing, and running, the pebbles would clang into the silhouettes across the night of the internal hole. The hole, forming a ravine behind the ravager, would cast a massive and muddling resonance from each of the ravager's thunderous steps. Now, with the turning of an eye back towards Break, whom had been bounded against the frontier of the boulder, via a few steely-chains of sorts, would remain. The chains themselves, fetched by the blacksmithing of the beast, would relay something of craftsmanship to keep any potential fleeing from the surrounding location. Though, to counteract that of the roaming silence around, the titan would proceed to monologuely proclaim; "So.. 'tis hast been mine prey of the automatic? Something of a mere assassin.. a foolish fiend of the steel, yet, it'll doth... shalln't it? Yes.. yes... say, mine cowering boy of the bouldering and brash, care to speak? Nay.. forth, only thy silence'll hath such fruits of fortune.. a crate to carry, that of a bargain's bunker... say, perchance thy associates'll arise?"
  2. Hello peoples, may I join in?
  3. Yo, may I join into this thread? I've got a character that could probably handle the radiation and poison from the demon
  4. Alright, thank you for responding, however you don't need to necessarily indulge in 'evil'-based activities. Selling drugs and illegal market items would be fine too! 😀 @Sanonymous
  5. I'd like to thank everyone who's participated in this. Anyway, if anyone has any open-threads or plot-lines in need of the "Duck's" character and such, just post it down. Right now, I'm searching for ways to build up a more theatrical and political threat in the roleplay. Subjectively evil/evil people can vary, but I'm mostly looking for those committed towards assisting more morally wronged acts. If you people have specific plots or character aspects that would differ, just hit me up with a message, and I'm able to figure out things to do for those specific stories. I'd also like to re-instate that this thread is for gaining threads and character interactions. If there's discussions going on, please move them to another thread, to clear up space. @Ataraxy @amenities @Fennis Ursai @Tyler @Dolor Aeternum Anyway, thank you @Phoebe for organizing this.
  6. AKlGsGes9VigAAAABJRU5ErkJggg.png

    fem duck fem duck

  7. The “Duck” prowls ecstatically along a rooftop’s ramparts of rock. It’s gauntlets, grappled around Waldo’s upper-overcoat, jitter feverishly upon the propeling excitement of the chase. The gauntlets’ fingers, cleaving and clashing into the man’s clothing, drill down towards the flimsy flesh beneath the weighty overcoat. The target of the assault, that of the upper-back regions, would be pinched by the plundering palms. The coating crumples and convulses beneath the colossus’ pressure, whilst it’s seams are teared by the tremendous terror of the titan. The fingers continue their fanatical plunging throughout the layers of the clothy exterior. Following a few moments, due to the shortfall of struggling caused by the disease, the fingers strike their polish-plucked pads onto the greasy skin beneath the man’s clothing. The fingers, establishing a firm grip onto the man’s gashed suit, dive down into the dermis of the man’s upper-back. Tendons are scarfed aside, as the scarlet blood within drenches down onto the padding of the behemoth’s fingertips. Promptly, taking notice of the ichor of the aristocrat, the goliath’s gaping visor would draw down towards the horrid husk of an intoxicated-scab forming around the surface. Though, the tendons’ nerves would suffer the brunt of the bradawling fingers. The reddened and runny ichor continues pouring along the palm, as Waldo’s consciousness begins to loop into the primal feeling of pain. The pain, terrible and throbbing with the flaky flesh, would signal into the man’s most primitive pulses. Detached from anything remotely cognitive nor of the respiratory system, the pain would clash off as customary. Yet, the pain becomes something of a monstrous meddling, a thriving terror laced across the man’s neck and spinal-nerves. The power of the pain, the retching wriggle of the blood, courses back into the man’s throat. A gasping of sorts, involuntary to the point of an animalistic rhythm, would gust off from the mucus-logged depths. The spasms of the joints and muscles creep inwards, simultaneous to the man’s sounding screech. The screech would shriek off throughout the dusk’s atmosphere, ringing off as nothing more than that of tortured trauma. The shrieking curls into something akin to that of an ape’s howling, more than of a human being’s own cries. The fingers above the clamoring, colossal and cold with steel, would raise themselves back from the coating. Of leaves in the breeze, pierced patches of clothing and scarlet would be flicked off from the goliath’s palm. Although the sudden release of friction from the skin furthered the blood flow, the beast’s intent was skewed from the luster of lunacy and the hunt. The skewing was driven by the arrival of another figure. The beast’s violet and vehement visor swerves back towards the bottom of the building’s base. It’s palms continue swishing off splashes of the reddened remnants, whilst it’s eyes remain fixated upon the noises of the stairway and ladder below. Swiftly, the goliath gyrates it’s gauntlets against the man’s shoulders, with the fingers plunging back onto the coating around. Yet, instead of the gruelish gripping of the velvet used to paralyze the man’s motion, the goliath would plunder it’s palm back around its own belting. The belting, rustling and tugging with the titanic towing of gauntlets, would be frantically frisked for any writing-utensils. One utensil, that of a duck-feathered quill pen, would be located by a thumping thumb. The thumb’s padding would pull back across the waving feather, before flinging it outward a bit. The feathery trails through the thumb’s gloving, before seating back into the overall palm’s basin. The feather's edge slides upwards, before being clamped beneath the pinching of pincered fingers. The fingers hold themselves steadily across the pen’s surface, before aiming back towards the shouldered-region of the nobleman. The beast’s eyes remain swung down towards the man, as its other and leftward-gauntlet spirals upward. The gauntlet’s setting and quarry, that of the trumpeting and ozone-puffing gills alongside the humongous helmet’s plates, would be tracked. Speedily, an index-finger is rocketed up towards and into the jaws of the gilled cluster. The felty gloving tears down into the cavernous clasp, before scraping onto the chains of the ‘mucus’ chambers. Moments upon the minute pass by, as ‘mucus’ is dabbed down onto the gauntlet’s fingertip. The fingertip’s leftover scarlet is sundered beneath the substance, as it begins back towards the quill pen. The pen is opened outward, with the feather brushing back from the ‘mucus’ mass. Thereupon, the titan would curtain the edge of the pen into a quagmire. With the bustling of a buffalo, the pen is pierced down against the shoulders. The grip along the pen, though a rugged tattoo artist, would be firmed against the fabric around the area. The behemoth proceeds to write into the clothing, with the writing of a messy-cursive combined in slurred Arabic. Though alienated and abstract from any conventions of English, the writing would read the same with a Shakesperian flare edged into its statements. The statements, listed to be an abductor’s wishes and vile resolves, would proclaim a harsh threat: “Leave mine sights amongst the vindication of greed, forth we shalln’t require their tormenting terrors of politics! Follow along mine tracks, forth the rising of carcasses lain upon the streets ahead! The constabulary shall be dealt off!” Following the delirious threat of the titan’s pen, it would begin back towards the building’s edge. Its boots would bumble briskly across the rocky coves of the rooftops, with pebbles shoveled aside by the force of the goliath. Its eyes wring themselves back against the cavernous chambers of their visor, with the violet-stained edges wiping into the obscured abyss. The cowl behind, theatrical and phantomous to the behemoth’s overall silhouette, would sway speedily along the charging motion. The titan’s visor picks pressingly around the general location, searching any sites or locations to find, before taking over towards the regions of presumed constabulary stations. The threat laid before would only serve towards goading any guardians of the streets, a thrill preserved by the titan’s waiting silence. The mushing courses onwards, as it’s gauntlets grapple their fingers along their cowl’s wearing. The fingers plunge their tips against the fabric, as the cowl strengthens it’s holding beneath the duo of palms. The cowl’s bat-wing-like felt spreads outward into a pseudo-parachute, capable of containing the colossus’ weight within its grasp. The rushing of the dusk’s breeze settles into the motion of the cowl, as the colossus sails over towards the rooftop of an alchemy-dealing pub. The talons of the titan’s boots would sink their edges back upon the landing, before presuming the distant standing of the beast, as for taking any eyes towards the chaser. @Phoebe
  8. The “Duck” stands alluringly amongst the armada of angered aristocrats.The goliath’s gauntlets, peppered with an oleaginous polishing, are tucked back around the behemoth’s own utility-belt of sorts. The belt, built of a rough and steely burlap, wraps tightly around the titan’s waist, as though a coiled cobra. The pocketing, formed of the same burlap around, is entwined with latches digging back into the stitching of the belt’s steel-laced threads. The threads would be of a spider’s web, with their strings coated down in a coat of thimble-thick chainmail. The chainmail would cover around the threads, with the chains coursing across the azure ocean of coloring. Yet, above the ordered facade formed by the belting, an enormous index-finger would thunder against a latch’s grimy knobbing. Swiftly and ignored, as a minute action surrounded by nagging noblemen, the knobbing would swing aside from the felty fixture of burlap. A clicking of sorts, that of crashing and clanky coin, would signal off from the belting. Afterwards, the latch would be sprung outward, tantamount to that of a sundering tsunami. Polish is flicked aside and dust is sprinkled off from the container beneath. The container being that of the beast’s disease, the ‘Duck Disease’. The container holds hungrily within the catacombs of the colossal pocket. The container’s glassy exterior, corroded a bit from frequent usage and a laziness towards hygienics, would glimmer beneath the darkened depths. Above the glass, lies the firmly-tucked lid of a pickle’s jar. The lid, oiled from seeping polish above the webby burlap, would bounce off the searing glist of the glass. Though, underneath the luminescence of the languid and bouncing beams, remains the riling disease. A haunting and vile virus, the disease would lay waiting within the container’s capture. Formed of the mammoth’s ‘mucus’, and a few other ingredients for gaseous metamorphosis, the disease would have something of sentience. The sentience, though, would be of only pure predation and devious division. Upgraded and developed immeasurably from the weakened asthmatic-reactions carried out before, the disease would be a corruptor. The diseased container in question, would house the novelly formed fashion of the monstrosity. The disease’s effects upon inhaling would follow with an immense torment of the internal system. A test of will and physicality, would be the disease’s drive. Such tests would be delivered upon the grounding of aristocrats, with the tempered terror brewing below. The behemoth’s peepers remain awatch across the crowding of those deemed corrupted and incurable inside the consciousness. A deepened and daring hatred would be sewn across the peepers, whilst they hang stalactite-like within their vexed visor. The aristos, arguing and harassing the goliath of it’s estranged title, would dance pompously around the street. Before the tiding of the titan’s position, it blankly entered down from the mountainous-crash landing of portalled plummeting. Though, the titan wouldn’t be freed from the fixing of the nobility. Nor, would the cry of crazed and drunken folk discard its craving. The colossus was stranded without any achievements or fear, only the mockery presumed by the rioting raffles of talkers. Civility was shred over the mere sight of the rich, bringing back the longing addiction of the colossus. A promise commanded since the beginning of the beast, that would rise to the arms of jousting justice. The plundering palm, looming above the diseased container, would sink downwards. The behemoth’s visor remains tugged tightly along the galloping gaggle of grandees. The noblemen, decorated in fine dressings concurrent with their city-wide politics, would continue their speaking amongst one another. One of the men, adorned with a gallery of golden rings, swung around the knuckles of his leftward-palm, would be named as Richard by the series of talking. His ringy and supercilious hands would grapple back against his pants’ pocketing. The pocketing, a far cry from the mammoth’s metallic moling, would dangle off with the chains of an eyeglass-like watch. The watch, ticking torrently along the moments of the greyed dusk of the day, would hold heavily inside of the leathery hollow. The nobbing upon the watch, silvered and brassy from a fine-fishing applied daily, pokes prodfully against the rubied tick-marks. Above the watch, an overcoat would be draped along Richard's torso. The coat’s pocketing, leathery as the pants, would blanket down into the silhouette of a carnival’s magician. Yet, where’d there be magic in a magician, Richard and his coterie of ‘watchers’ would have money. Such money would be prominent throughout their figures, dangling off from their waists and tanned belts. Though, the behemoth hadn’t known ever the name of the indifferent Richard, his wealth and heritage shown. Unlike the rest of the six jeering ones, he wasn’t grouped nor was he a jockey. An ordinary man mentally, yet, opulent physically. The crowding shifts around with the vigor of threats and curses soaring through the air. "I don’t need no craptastic clown walking around Lacrimosa! Get yer sorry arse out of here!” "He’s a frickin terrorist! He’s got bombs on him!” "Look at the damn duck! Squablling around like ma grandma’s puss!” "What kind of parents name their kid a duck?! What’re ye? Something of a brainless one?” “Listen, all we’re asking is for you to go screw off, we’re not into your stupid threats!” “Sir, we’re asking you to get out. I don’t think you’re really making anyone-” The titanic titan would briefly brush aside a nearby man, with the base of the beast’s palm swishing against an unchecked shoulder. The shoulder, shocked and spastic from the brute’s bustling, would slide back across the ribs of the cautioning figure. His arms are flailed behind the cascading of his coat, whilst his legs crash behind his initial position. The wobbling of the man’s waders would splash off bits of spilt alcohol, sewn into the streetway’s cracks by a dancing drunk. Following the boots, arrives the crashing of the man’s elbows. Spread outward, during the shock of the striking goliath, the elbows catch their pads against the craggy streetway below. However, the behemoth continues advancing onward. It’s gauntlet, tied back against the collapsed container inside of the pocketing, would furiously fish the glass into its grasp. The fingers, boney and pincer-like to an alienated degree, would slip around the briny exterior. The palm pitches back onto the lid, readied to open on the pronto for Richard. Swiftly, the titan would slink throughout the outcry of the crowding, surrounding the scene. The disease is drawn ahead, blind to Richard. Promptly, with the punching and plummeting of a crashing train, the titan’s container would be slung outward. The container sails throughout the gusty airs of the local’s aisles, with the lid springing off from the glassy-gauntlet of gas below. The gas would be a fighting falcon, with its plume pressing off from the chambers behind. The container would continue railing onward, before striking down against the rightward-cheek of Richard’s beard. The man’s hairs are scraped aside from the shattering glass, as the man is slugged down onto the grounds below. The gaseous disease, daunting and dogging, would shroud the man’s sunken torso in a smokey wake. Although the man was injured by the glass, he remained very much alive to the delight of the devil’s demonstration. The disease ripped down through the man’s nasal-cavities and mouth, with sputters of dried spit thrown away. Subsequently, the spores of the gas would lock down onto the man’s throat, internal-veins, and lungs inside. The spores would itch around, as though scalping and scurrying scorpions. The retort of the flocking viewers would be slim to none, as they’d frantically flee the spreading of the gaseous fog. The behemoth would become a phantasm of the virus, watching Richard’s descent into the deviling dunes. His lungs would become dried and crisped, with flourishes of mucus spraying off from his facial-holes. His hands would become dried, as well, with sweat drenching down to nerves beneath the skin. A wheezy huff of breath would escape his mouth, as his eyes sag downward into a tired torment in front of the titan. The man’s visor hazes into a maddening squawk for assistance, only to be met with the monster’s paralyzing silence. A few other aristocrats, drunks, and the gazing civilians would be whiffed into the terrible tomes of the titan’s disease. They, as Richard before them, would begin crashing down into a gallery of silhouetted bodies. They’d remain alive, though unconsciousness beyound the spastic responses of breath and shock displayed by their fidgeting. The diseased plume remains coursing around the streetway, whilst the goliath’s gaping visor drifts around the aisle’s corridors. Shrieks of fear and whines of whimpering wanders would drag alongside the titan’s trailing. Taking note of the counting of civilians along the flooring, a deal of dread would graze across the goliath’s metallic countenance. Though, the adrenaline of a hunt lost to politicians would resume, the beast would truck back towards the edge of the aisle. It’s gauntlets would swipe downwards, before clasping onto another aristocrat. The aristocrat, named Waldo by his recently ran and crumpled peers, would be taken into the arms of the behemoth. His mind though, briefly battered by the toxins, would remain someone sentient as he’s abducted. The “Duck” retreats back towards a nearby building’s bricked and mudslacked wall. Along the wall, rests a railed staircase of sorts. The staircase, finished with a grizzly and half-completed paint, would drip distressingly as the titan and Waldo approach it’s supports. Without a waste of time nor thought, the goliath would gallop across the stairway’s studied holds. The holds would jib and jab around as the titan eventually makes way to another entrance. Yet, the entrance would be that of a coal-smogged and rustic ladder. The ladder, hanging by a few rough nails pelted into a wall’s stones, would be nestled down by the goliath’s scuttling. Eventually, following only moments of the diseased-plume’s breaking, the behemoth would arise onto the rooftop. Silhouetted as a naval phantom, the goliath would clasp the aristocrat self-righteously. @Phoebe
  9. The “Duck’s” gaunt, ghastly gaze of violet remains garnered onto the sight of the rocketing robot. It’s helmet puffs off another plumage of malodorous, odory ozone, from within the reaches of it’s trumpet-like gills. The gills rumble around, as though a seismic tremor broken beneath the clasps of a continent. The plates around, soaking the gaseous impact into their felty and furnished facade, convulse with harsh buzzing of rattly rataplan. Above the plates, remains the clasping of the cowl’s canopy. The canopy, drenched over as though a steely liquid of naval-azure, covers the colossus down along the cliffside of the peaky plateau. The boots beneath the cowl’s clutches, hold their vulture-like talons firmly onto the craggy, coarse crust. The winds below the winding trail of red are heated, with a tinge of oily ozone brewed in the breeze. The “Duck’s” gauntlet, remaining grasped upon the makeshift and splintery flare, waves luringly around the cliff’s crags. As though a coiling cobra, the flames of the flare swish around into a spiral of both fury and faith. The bellowing fire courses down throughout the canals of the breeze, before ultimately sinking back into a smoggy smoke of sorts. The smoke’s grayed hue, a darkened and cross cloud, lurks above the burning below. The smoke carries onwards into the zealous zephyrs, with a serpentine silhouette of the eroding exhaust rising into the ranges above. Yet, beneath the rapid rhapsody of the riling smogs, lies the sounding of steps. As of a minuscule mouse upon the silty sludge of the mountain, a few startling steps beckon off across the rocks. Icicles, surplused and spectacular before the mothership’s impact across the planet, lay scorched across the stones behind. A few remnants of the frigid frost remains, as though a leeching moss of sorts, tied upon various stones far below the crashed creator. Fragments and fissures of the ship lay strewn behind, containing rich dura-steels used around the mothership’s outer-panels. Other sorts of minor gadgets lay strewn below, with their charred carcasses of machinery controls and over sunburnt-panels buried beneath patches of frosts. Hundreds of discarded weaponry, containing that of blasters’ barrels and radioactive explosives, lay inside of crashed storage-units. The storage-units are designed to be miniature warehouses, each built with a grisled garage-entryway. Yet, between the ruined remnants and the coming droid beyond, remains the steps of a man. The man, carrying along the steppings of the split steep, is of Lance Galaxus. The “Duck’s” eyes, though, take nothing of the sighting along the plateau. The rustling ramparts of the plateau comb downwards with a hint of frost, brushing off from the remnants of cryomancy used around. Taking such remnants of artificial snow, the winds would waver the discovery over against the rightward shin of the goliath. Moreover, the mountainous monster would swiftly take notation upon the revealing of sorts. A gargantuan gauntlet, tethered against the titan’s leftward-wrist, would dive downwards upon the frost’s sight. With the interest and hunger of a peckish pigeon, the gauntlet’s thumb would pluck up the frost. The frost would hang across the thumb’s ironed-nail, with droplets of snow pelting back across the rocks beneath. The “Duck’s” helmet briefly huffs off another rasping of ozone, whilst it waits slightly upon the sight of frost. Taking notion of the unexpected presence, both from the riling heat of the droid and the mothership’s impaction, it would search it’s gaze around the general location. Seconds would strike, as the behemoth eventually settles it’s eyes onto a nearby counteface. The counteface, being of Lance, would drive a hint of anger into the grotesque gauntlet of the goliath’s ozone. Promptly, the marching and brassy voice of the beast would arise. “So… something of Addison’s mutts hath arrived? Well.. well… perchance thou hath taken amongst the tolling triumph of vengeance? Perchance… yet, of whom shall bring thy approach and notion amongst mine landing?” @DaiPie @The North Wind
  10. The “Duck”, tinkering deliriously upon the radio-emitting antennas attached around the transitional machine’s roofy rod. The titan’s fingers continue fumbling around the slitty panels around, as the frequencies are swapped around to produce longer ranges for the radio’s signals. Yet, above the franticness of the fingers, lies the frigid facade of the beast’s helmet. The peepers are trimmed hungrily onto the radio’s boards, as though contemplating the chances of direct discovery. A bolting of ozone, parched and vehement for vengeance against the alien assaultants, sounds off from the goliath’s gritty gills. The breeze of the mountainous plateau passes across colossus’ cowl, slithering wildly into the winding winds beyond. Only the silence remains, until the thunderous arrival of a droid. As though a launching feline, the titan’s torso rises from the transitional machine. It’s shoulders lunge upwards, with an anxious tightening following into their joint-like plates and crevices. It’s boots stomp their heels once against the course, callous crags beneath. It’s peepers, in a swift swiveling around their visor’s catacombs, lock themselves onto the reddened remains of smog behind. Another ghastly galloping of ozone beckons offward, as the beast bumbles over towards the cliff of the peaky plateau. Once arriving upon the cliffing, the titan’s talon-dug soles, that of a vulture’s own feet, pierce their steely spikes into the gritsy grounds. It’s eyes dig themselves onto the fumage of smog, with a hint of intrigue held into their depths. The goliath’s gargantuan gauntlets tug tightly against a boundful belt, tied tautly against the titan’s waist. The belt, cluttered with an extravagant assortment of pockets and other utility hatches, consists of a leathery coating. The pocketings, each tacked with a button-like latch, are sprawled around the continental circumference of the belt. A variety of vile contraptions mostly of the “Duck’s” diseases and other hand-held weapons, are contained beneath the pocketings’ clutches. Yet, nothing of a raging brute arises, as the leviathan watches ruminatively upon the reddened haze. Briskly, as though a bustling breeze, the behemoth grapples around one the belt’s pockets. The gauntlets’ index-finger and thumb frisky frantically around the breeches of the buckles. After a few moments, the pair of the palm eventually settle onto a jagged pocket of sorts. Swiftly, the button is plucked off from the seams of the belting. A shrieking of felt, gelid and metallic, sounds off into the winding winds of the cliff. The goliath’s gauntlet touches around a few splinter-like matches inside, before grappling a coal-stoked one. The splinter, the rising gambles of the goliath, draws upwards into the beast’s grasp. A dripping of oily polish, supplied freshly from the belt’s own drenched interior, is glazed around the splinter. The “Duck’s” eyes remain fixated onto the rocketing rumbles around, as it slides the splinter over towards it’s leftward-gauntlet’s knuckles. With the blunt and strength of a torrential bull, the splinter is slid across the helm of the fist. A fiery plume emerges, rifling and raw, after around the fourth strike of the motions. The fume pellets off throughout the zephyrs of the zealous winds, whilst the flaming splinter rises upwards. The beast would take the hope to alert the arriving droid that the sender of the signal was said beast. @The North Wind
  11. (The following is a teaser of sorts, the real roleplay will take place in Lacrimosa, using "Alien Abduction: The Hunt" as it's title.
  12. Alien Abduction Arc: Prelude The hazy, haunting eyes of the “Duck” lay scorched upon a capsulated threshold between dimensions. A hissing, hungered heaving of ozone gas brushes off from the gill-like valves alongside the behemoth’s helmet. It’s eyes dig their violet-churned peepers down towards the spiraling vortex of the portal, whilst it’s gargantuan gauntlets raise the portal upwards throughout a laboratory. The laboratory, drenched in the velvet and ashy smoke of nearby factory wells, circles around the behemoth’s standing. Machinery of all sorts, ranging from that of the Enlightenment's beginning to the 1860s, is burrowed throughout the laboratory’s labyrinth, as though festering jungle greenery. Contraptions of automatons, with hints of amoeba-like DNA hinged around in bottles, are dashed dormant around the room’s interior. Collections of firearms, containing that of Greek-fire to dragoons, are laced around chlorine-rumbling racks. Vines of rusted pipes hang from the ceiling’s silhouetted crimson, as though skulking serpents of sorts. Yet, central amongst the room’s mechanical quagmire, lies the “Duck’s” own pompous ego. The “Duck’s” ego, being of a tumultuous and titanic one, drives the invention of it’s homebrew portal. Taking notation to the original source, delivered by the Observe “Duck” Dimensional Squadron, O.D.D.S. or more commonly of the D-Squad, the beast proceeded upon a fever of experimentation. Hundreds of containers, delivered by nearby disease-drunken canines and other goons of the goliath, are scattered along the floorway behind. Speckles of glass panes, each with a razored-lining of steel, are strewn around, as though in a ravaging of anger. Though, for this very moment of the beast’s holding, it has succeeded upon the last trivalation. Generators, powered by a motor of magnesium, are tentacled around the circumference of the threshold’s capsule. The lights around, decorated by oily candles and other cathedral-like chandeliers, glinter spontaneously as another gust of ozone is pelted around. The goliath’s gargantuan gauntlets seat the capsule back against a countertop, cluttered by varities of automaton parts and design-documents. The threshold has become readied in the last capsule, a thickened-container of glass used to container any instantaneous combustion gasses. Only the dealing of an ego lies, awaiting threshold’s activation. Without a moment’s spinning nor pondering, the goliath grapples a gauntlet against a lever’s hilt. The grappling, being of a viceroy’s victorious holding, draws across the level’s greasy gutters. Metal is clanged as bells of tempered-steams are shot throughout the nearby pipelines. The motors rumble with a rancorous rhythm of magnet pulling, used to act as a compass for swiping northern and southern poles across dimensions. The experimentations, served as long and hard days in between political escapades and other monarchy-meddling held by the goliath, have fruited as the threshold rings. The ringing, a serene cacophony of a tempest’s winds, beckons off throughout the crackling halls of the laboratory. The spiraling glimmer of the threshold, holding an angular and distorted doorway of another eartherian realm, courses across the chambers of the hall. The colossus’ visor draws ahead into the expelling blaze, whilst the threshold begins to invert its own container. Being of the first successful, though careless by the distractions of political orations, experiment drawn by the beast, it spectacularly failed in respects. The capsule around dents downwards, as though eating away as its own insides. The glass cracks, much to the ignorance of the goliath’s jubilation, before combusting inwards. The threshold plunges outwards, with the spiraling matter of it’s interior busting into their beast’ own domain. As though to draw only consciousness, an element forged beneath only the soul of physicality, the threshold locks down onto the “Duck”. The “Duck’s” gauntlets lower themselves slightly, from the maniacally cackling of a victorious experiment, as they wrap around a nearby tabletop. The tabletop, being drenched with mechanical oils and other polishes used for automaton construction, doesn’t hold to the behemoth’s grasp. Moreover, the beast’s gauntlet slings off from the table before sailing back towards the threshold’s vacuum. The cavern graved laboratory, relatively discarded by the threshold’s imbibing, contrasts dramatically with the “Duck’s” frantic fidgeting. The “Duck’s” gauntlets vigorously rattle around, as it’s boots plunge their steely vulture-like talons into the grounds below. Shrieks of metal and ozone course down throughout the hallway, yet, only to be met with the silencing vortex of the threshold. The gallows of the goliath’s eyes gaze down upon the threshold’s wrath, as though to impose their own stubbornness to nature’s consequences. Though, and ultimately, the beast’s punching peepers fail to scare off something of only matter. With nothing of a consciousness nor heart, the threshold forces the goliath’s grasps away. Subsequently, the “Duck” is drawn into another dimension. The “Duck’s” gauntlets are released into the obscured origins of the threshold. The blitzing, bleary blazes of light and matter course around the colossus’ torso. Holding onto the mucus-like substance within, the titan’s armor would be transported alongside. The beast’s helmet fires off another sundering of ozone, whilst it crashes down throughout the threshold’s infinity and isolation. A gauntlet's rotating wrist, freed by the struggles of absolute will, scrapes across the unyielding luminosity. The wrist’s steel continues scraping onto the blanket of fulguration, as another wrist rises around the hatched hollow. The wrists fire off thunderous thumps of sparks, as they continue shredding down onto the dimension-shifting transportation. Following the wrists, contested anonymously by the uselessness of time inside the portal, strike the lengthy leggings below. The legging’s bounding boots press their humongous heels onto the tunnel’s ravine. The talons below, coiling upwards as though a bramble of seaweed, strike onto the infinity around. The beast’s velocity decelerates, allowing for the armada of armor to cease any frictionized flames. The cowl behind, curtained as though that of a theatrical phantom, edges it’s own hooks onto the hollow’s own hinged infinity. As though a thunder of both time and space, the beast ceases it’s motion into the cosmos. Yet, the magnetite’s compassing has ceased by the lack of non-conscious matter being transported. The “Duck’s” eyes sear off throughout a vent of the celestial tunnel, lined around with several others behind, as though a musician blowing into a flute. Due to the ceasing of motion, the exitways have appeared as though internalized inside of their own portal. However, with the hastied hushing of the “Duck’s” own compass, the beast lays stranded onto a randomized hole beyond the intended region for a dropoff. The intended region, being of nearby the opposite gateway proposed by the D-Squad, remains lightyears away from the “Duck’s” own position. Taking account of a lack for any more extraordinary moment or rocketing, the goliath proceeds to gallop down throughout the exposed hollow. Following the gallop, a harsh and laser-like bleating of noise pulses offward, as the threshold compacts into absolute oblivion. Albeit the portal remains vanished into the cosmos’ clutches, a brightened and sprawling dwarf-planet lies beneath. The planet, covered in a naval-azure of atmospheric clouds, drags the “Duck” in with it’s own magnetic pulling of sorts. Hence, the beast proceeds to fire down towards the planetary shrouding of blue and the bleak. Thunders rage onwards from nearby clouds, precipitating fierce and furious fountains acid rain. Skylines, covered by an undercoating of mint-green refractions, deflect off their sunburnt rays onto the “Duck’s” armory. The behemoth continues crashing downwards, as though a mountainous meteorite, as it catches the attention of a sky-patrolling service. The sky-patrol, led by a singular mothership of carbonized titanium, takes an alienated alert upon the sight of the plummeting “Duck”. The “Duck’s” armor, built to withstand that of hydrogen explosions dealt by phoenixes, withstands the initial gravity of the atmosphere. The ‘mucus’ within crashes back against the armor’s shelling, as the g-forces pile onto the speed of sound. The mothership continues spectating onto the mountain, as a captain starts by an emergency beacon of sorts. The beacon, cluttered with an array of buttons designed for contacting different security ports of the mothership, bleats off a beckoning ring of emergency. The goliath becomes a conflagerating spear, searing the sun’s shading from it’s flames. The captain, a naked ant-like being with two bulging eyes, starts by the command center of the cockpit. The signals continue sounding, with texts devised in morse-code being presented onto a radio device of sorts. Lines of other ants, considered as Muraveys by their species title, drill down across the cockpits corners. All the ants, toned differently by shades of their exoskeletons, face onto the screening below. Shocks of horror and an utmost urgency to cease the cascading colossus’ crash, which would possibly lead towards a catastrophic fissure for the planet at the dropping acceleration. The captain, aged by a fine dealing of meteoroids, gazes down across the shooting star beyond. With a simplistic flick of his abdomen, he proclaims “... - --- .--. / - .... .- - / -.-. .-. .- .--. / ..-. .-. --- -- / -.-. .-. .- ... .... .. -. --. -.-.--”, yet with beeps filling the dashes and boops filling the dots. Promptly, with a stressful vigor of naval sailors, the rest of the Muraveys shout “.- -.-- . / .- -.-- . / -.-. .- .--. - .- .. -. -.-.--”, before flinging themselves back along the hallway of the cockpit. Arms are raised, with laser blasters and other stereotypical weaponry, as the sailors storm across the hallway. Their weapons are drawn across a hanger of sorts, holding around three starfighters of sorts. The starfighters, smaller versions of their mothership, model that of a standard, space-sprung saucer. Swiftly, without a moment for leisure, sailors mount themselves down into the saucers’ own cockpits. Engines are roared with a combustion of carbon, as the saucers drill off throughout the entryway of the hanger’s hanging. The saucers, racing at that of mach ten across the bounds of the atmosphere, sail along without any sound-based explosions due to their internal vibration-compression softwares. The saucers continue blasting bombastically across the rainy torrents of the trembling skies. After only moments, the saucers catch their crosshairs onto the sight of the “Duck”. Plummeting for only minutes after entering the atmosphere, the “Duck’s” eyes are sunk against the edges of their visor. Remaining conscious by the sheer volitionalism of the ‘mucus’, the beast’s gauntlets are spread in an attempt to parachute it’s cowl downwards. However, before any rushing ravanging constructs into ideas, the Muravery fleet catches the colossus down into a wedge of the starfighters. Following the catch and the absolute shock of the mountain being a sentient organism, the fleet begins to contain the beast. The “Duck”, brawling vigorously against the ravaging aliens, ultimately fails to cease the capture as it looms thousands of miles above the planet. Promptly, the goliath is contained into an iron-maiden like container, without any of the protruding spikes. Following the moments upon its own capture and abduction into the reigns of alienated foes, the “Duck” nonchalantly leans back against the containment. Rumbles of oxygen pounce off into the swab, yet rustic, hanger of the mothership. A screeching of the saucers, sinking back into their initial formation for slumbering, clashes off around the garrisoned gallery of the hanger. Moments continue passing, as the “Duck” is mobilized along a thin corridor of lightning lights. The lights, steep and icy with dust, line with a bluish hue. Seconds strike across the hour, as the clock for the captain’s steering time rings around a cockpit’s coliseum. Briskly, taking notice of the captain’s presence, the sailors stand at ease, whilst the captain ambles over towards the “Duck’s” containment. The “Duck”, hoisting gallons of vexation from the brief containment, rattles around inside the contaiment’s cellar. Taking notice of the container’s erratic budging, the captain orders “--- .--. . -. / - .... . / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . .-. / .- -. -.. / -.- . . .--. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --. ..- -. ... / --- -. / .. - -.-.--”. The sailors, loyal to anything testing command in their meritocracy of a worldwide society, lock their blasters onto the containment’s corners. A singular sailor clasps his boney, insectoid fingers around the sequence behind the container, before opening it for the inspection of the captain. Seconds continue building into the tension of the cell, as a plumage of puffy ozone strikes off from the containment’s bolts. The electrical wiring beneath, used to house and contain anything for outdoor presentation, grasps the “Duck” down ahead of the sailors. The captain steps by the “Duck”, with an awfully surprised countenance, as it raises a blaster towards the beast. Briefly, overshadowing the light mumbling of the nearby and lower-ranked sailors, the captain barks “-.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - .- -. -.. / --- ..- .-. / .-.. .- -. --. ..- .- --. . ..--.. -.-.--”. The “Duck”, confused horridly by the mismash of beeps and boops pronounced by the captain, locks it’s own violet-dug peepers onto the ant-like captain ahead. Afterwards, the visor would curve around the other forces of the Muraveys, with another gaseous gust of ozone plunging off throughout the cockpit’s corridors. The tension of the titan remains, as it jests an eye over towards the captain, taking note of the inquisitive posture and voice of him. Following brief internal remarks around the room, the “Duck” would leisurely call “I shalln’t hath anything of thy language! Shall thou speak of ancient English’s glorious tongue?!” The captain, taking the same confused marking of the “Duck” following the beast’s statements, would direct it’s buggy eyes back towards the rest of the sailors. The sailors would take the titan’s shouting and overall confusion for resentment, therefore, they’d begin sealing the container. The buttons would be pressed back against one another, as the locks file into their ravines. Yet, the colossus’ draped cowl and felty coverings would take resistance to the electrical shocks. Having not prepared for anything of electrical immunity, as most of those sorts of resources are a scarce rarity in the civilization, the Muraveys lunge backwards. Their blasters point themselves back towards the jockeying “Duck”, as the metallic mountain wrangles it’s wrists against the wiring around. Moments pass as the blasters’ bolts are loaded down with their laser-beam mechanics. The barrels are plugged with the heat of electricity, as they hold their aims onto the maddened monster. The chamber choruses off, as the beast’s helmet huffs off another raucous rhythm of ozone. The tension explodes, as the electrical wiring around the behemoth does. Sparks are flung across the domain of the chambers, as the behemoth’s gargantuan gauntlets strike off from an explosion of fiery smog. Sirens sing off the iron-maiden container, whilst the titan’s torso jolts off the remaining wires. The truest wrath and fury of the beast arises from the locking of the cell. The sulfuric, smothering smog drowns across the aisle of the “Duck”, as it begins across the cockpit’s corridors. It’s visor swings swiftly across the grouping of seven sailors, with the captain centered into the middle of their swarm. The blasters, exploding off with the tension, fire their beams towards the “Duck’s” own steely armor. Consequently, a thunderous inferno bursts off into the cockpit’s controls. The oily polish of the armor withstands the numerous blaster fires, as the plates below are stained by the scorching and cracking chaos. Only the violet visor of the beast remains deviled across the reigning room, as the controls are crumpled by ricocheting bolts. Sailors are launched across the domain, with their exoskeletons bruising down around the muddled technology. On the nail, expecting the worst of a whack, the captain rises from the gashed grounds of the cockpit. His blaster draws another bolt into it’s chambers, as the “Duck” charges piquely towards the captain’s position. A gargantuan gauntlet is raised upwards, as though a blacksmith’s slinging sledgehammer. The boney, pincered fingers tighten themselves into their palm’s basin. The knuckles, rigid as though an alley of trash-cans, prop their needles ahead of the gloving behind. Without a moment’s checking and only the tempering heat around, the fist fires down into the captain’s exo-skeleton-head. The boney exterior is slung aside by the punch’s two-tonne weight, as the behemoth weighs it’s might onto the captain’s torso. The cracking of a stew-can sizzles down throughout the bruiser’s blow, as the captain is flung across the room’s interior. Speedily, taking notice of the captain’s own blaster, “Duck” leaps onto the Muravey’s arm and flings the firearm from his grasp. Thereupon, the titan gains a grasp across the weaponry, yet it’s bolted down another reign of fire. The crew continues blitzing throughout the fumes of ashy smog, with sparks of electricity crashing across the room's center. Yet, unknown to the figures inside, the ship’s loss of control has sent it towards a thunderous streak of shrouding and has raised into the breeches of space. The brawl continues battling onwards, as the “Duck’s” cowl is tattered terribly by the blasting bolts around. Its armory is pounded punctually by the rising might of the Muravey’s machinery, compared to the luster the “Duck” believed. Although, the contest of wills remains drawn at a stalemate of warfare. The crowding of sailors slowly sieve towards the beast, with their blasters loading down another batch of beams. The clocks of the nearby thunderstorm tick onwards, as the mothership’s directional-warning systems blare off throughout the ship’s hundreds of Muraveys. Another gargantuan gauntlet rises into the arena, as the “Duck” darts towards another sailor. It’s own hijacked blaster, remaining unfired, is swiftly pistol-whipped against another sailor’s skull. The sailor, struck by the weaponry, is slung into a shielded window. The rest of the sailors start into a furied frenzy of combat, taking all the stops to cease the ravager’s rampage. Another bolt strikes against the beast’s side, sending it onto a kneecap’s plates. Another screeching of metal breaks and reverberates throughout the chambers of the mothership. Another screen for navigation is torn down, this time by the goliath’s emptied palm. Subsequently and rapidly, the screen is rammed down into a sailor’s thorax. Throughout all of the raging combat, the mothership cruises into the thunders. A striking of lightning, the size and mass of an aircraft carrier, pummels down into the mothership’s center. The saucer’s gadgets and gizmos, connected by the ports filtered into the main computers along the chasm within, are instantaneously shut down by the thunder’s countering. Hence, the mothership has become stranded across the outer regions of space’s grasp. The atmosphere of azure leaves for the sunburnt sands of the cosmos, as another pouncing of lightning crashes from below. The mothership’s controls spazz violently as it begins rocketing off towards the outer limitations of space. With the wreckage of controls inside, the compasses have taken their targets towards the next livable planet, that of the realm the “Duck” attempted to search. Now, the fruits of the fighting have concluded as the mothership begins a meteoring down towards the clutches of the eartherian world. Asteroids are crumbled by the sheer friction of the ship. Comets are swung aside by the lightspeed engines behind, now crazed by the intrusion of thunder. As the heat beyond spirals into madness, the heat within has closed into only discorded disaster. The “Duck’s” gauntlets grapple a sailor’s scalp down, whilst two of the other sailors launch themselves around the behemoths’ body. Supporting reinforcements, designated with Roman-gladoritorial armor, hurry hotfooted into the closing chambers of the cockpit. The raging brawl edges onwards, as the gravity within the ship begins sinking back towards the eartherian realm below. Machinery is canceled by the new poles of magnification. The mothership fires downwards into the atmosphere below, as though it's its own colossal comet of sorts. Debris, such as the saucer’s outer crust and the engineering platforms around the exterior’s electronics, is flung across the trailing skyline of the mothership. The breakneck speeds of the falling phantasm conclude into a singular, seismic plowing into the mountainous regions of Lagrimosa. With the mothership’s armor having shielded qualities, those of stopping any external blows or heavy fissures from friction, it would simply sink into the dunes of the mountainous rocks. Though, the mountains would rivet and rumble furiously upon the eventually landing of the vessel. After moments of shaking, only the silence would remain between the dusk and the evening beforehand. The “Duck’s” peepers pounce out into the dusty dusk of another morning, with the mountainous regions sundered in two by the vertical vessel. The goliath’s gloves-gauntlets press their palms against a shore of stones beneath, as it’s kneecaps spring upwards from the soot of stone. It’s antennae like horns, jabbed at by the radio frequencies of the mothership, now lay tuning onto the distant breezes of the mountains. Rays of smog remain dragging off the mothership’s tail. Hundreds of surviving sailors have arisen more thirsty for vengeance than ever. The painting of the brave new planet has been driven into the beast’s own vengeful visor. The brawling of it’s ego, struggling from the failures of experimentation and the superiority of the aliens, brings the ceaseless of the colossus’ own schemes for revenge. Its eyes have taken a liking onto the aliens’ transportation, the mothership. Yet, without the proper resources, the beast remains stranded across the mountainous ranges around. In consequence, the colossus pries it’s pupils around, taking an eye onto anything for technology. Hours pass as another evening grows dim onto the mountainous scaping. However, at last upon the evening’s sundown, a rampart of rubble has been discovered. The “Duck”, taking an eager and immensely curious approach upon the technology, scuttles swiftly upon the sight. It’s fingers scourge themselves down across the rampart’s plates, taking discovery to a set of transmitional machines used by the aliens for communicating amongst their starfighters. The transmitional machines are as though 1950s radios, with the same dials and styling. Using the gambles of the radio technology, the beast began a keen testing and experimentation of different frequencies. Using a sample of its own electrons, taking note towards the magnet differences between the portal’s suction and the electrical currents found to power the blasters, the behemoth takes control of a machine. Hours of tinkering follow by, whilst the tension of looming shoulders skulks by across the winding winds of the mountains. The electrons, inserted via a discarded armor-plate of ‘mucus’, are drugged into the machinery’s frequency detonation. Using the frequencies, the beast would bleat off signals for assistance, immense fortunes, magical spells, and any other telemarketing generalities. The signals, taking part towards the electrons specific to the “Duck’s” origin realm, would sound off towards anyone who’ll be persuaded to join the hunt. The “Duck’s” alien abduction hunt has begun.
  13. Alien Abduction Arc: Prelude The hazy, haunting eyes of the “Duck” lay scorched upon a capsulated threshold between dimensions. A hissing, hungered heaving of ozone gas brushes off from the gill-like valves alongside the behemoth’s helmet. It’s eyes dig their violet-churned peepers down towards the spiraling vortex of the portal, whilst it’s gargantuan gauntlets raise the portal upwards throughout a laboratory. The laboratory, drenched in the velvet and ashy smoke of nearby factory wells, circles around the behemoth’s standing. Machinery of all sorts, ranging from that of the Enlightenment's beginning to the 1860s, is burrowed throughout the laboratory’s labyrinth, as though festering jungle greenery. Contraptions of automatons, with hints of amoeba-like DNA hinged around in bottles, are dashed dormant around the room’s interior. Collections of firearms, containing that of Greek-fire to dragoons, are laced around chlorine-rumbling racks. Vines of rusted pipes hang from the ceiling’s silhouetted crimson, as though skulking serpents of sorts. Yet, central amongst the room’s mechanical quagmire, lies the “Duck’s” own pompous ego. The “Duck’s” ego, being of a tumultuous and titanic one, drives the invention of it’s homebrew portal. Taking notation to the original source, delivered by the Observe “Duck” Dimensional Squadron, O.D.D.S. or more commonly of the D-Squad, the beast proceeded upon a fever of experimentation. Hundreds of containers, delivered by nearby disease-drunken canines and other goons of the goliath, are scattered along the floorway behind. Speckles of glass panes, each with a razored-lining of steel, are strewn around, as though in a ravaging of anger. Though, for this very moment of the beast’s holding, it has succeeded upon the last trivalation. Generators, powered by a motor of magnesium, are tentacled around the circumference of the threshold’s capsule. The lights around, decorated by oily candles and other cathedral-like chandeliers, glinter spontaneously as another gust of ozone is pelted around. The goliath’s gargantuan gauntlets seat the capsule back against a countertop, cluttered by varities of automaton parts and design-documents. The threshold has become readied in the last capsule, a thickened-container of glass used to container any instantaneous combustion gasses. Only the dealing of an ego lies, awaiting threshold’s activation. Without a moment’s spinning nor pondering, the goliath grapples a gauntlet against a lever’s hilt. The grappling, being of a viceroy’s victorious holding, draws across the level’s greasy gutters. Metal is clanged as bells of tempered-steams are shot throughout the nearby pipelines. The motors rumble with a rancorous rhythm of magnet pulling, used to act as a compass for swiping northern and southern poles across dimensions. The experimentations, served as long and hard days in between political escapades and other monarchy-meddling held by the goliath, have fruited as the threshold rings. The ringing, a serene cacophony of a tempest’s winds, beckons off throughout the crackling halls of the laboratory. The spiraling glimmer of the threshold, holding an angular and distorted doorway of another eartherian realm, courses across the chambers of the hall. The colossus’ visor draws ahead into the expelling blaze, whilst the threshold begins to invert its own container. Being of the first successful, though careless by the distractions of political orations, experiment drawn by the beast, it spectacularly failed in respects. The capsule around dents downwards, as though eating away as its own insides. The glass cracks, much to the ignorance of the goliath’s jubilation, before combusting inwards. The threshold plunges outwards, with the spiraling matter of it’s interior busting into their beast’ own domain. As though to draw only consciousness, an element forged beneath only the soul of physicality, the threshold locks down onto the “Duck”. The “Duck’s” gauntlets lower themselves slightly, from the maniacally cackling of a victorious experiment, as they wrap around a nearby tabletop. The tabletop, being drenched with mechanical oils and other polishes used for automaton construction, doesn’t hold to the behemoth’s grasp. Moreover, the beast’s gauntlet slings off from the table before sailing back towards the threshold’s vacuum. The cavern graved laboratory, relatively discarded by the threshold’s imbibing, contrasts dramatically with the “Duck’s” frantic fidgeting. The “Duck’s” gauntlets vigorously rattle around, as it’s boots plunge their steely vulture-like talons into the grounds below. Shrieks of metal and ozone course down throughout the hallway, yet, only to be met with the silencing vortex of the threshold. The gallows of the goliath’s eyes gaze down upon the threshold’s wrath, as though to impose their own stubbornness to nature’s consequences. Though, and ultimately, the beast’s punching peepers fail to scare off something of only matter. With nothing of a consciousness nor heart, the threshold forces the goliath’s grasps away. Subsequently, the “Duck” is drawn into another dimension. The “Duck’s” gauntlets are released into the obscured origins of the threshold. The blitzing, bleary blazes of light and matter course around the colossus’ torso. Holding onto the mucus-like substance within, the titan’s armor would be transported alongside. The beast’s helmet fires off another sundering of ozone, whilst it crashes down throughout the threshold’s infinity and isolation. A gauntlet's rotating wrist, freed by the struggles of absolute will, scrapes across the unyielding luminosity. The wrist’s steel continues scraping onto the blanket of fulguration, as another wrist rises around the hatched hollow. The wrists fire off thunderous thumps of sparks, as they continue shredding down onto the dimension-shifting transportation. Following the wrists, contested anonymously by the uselessness of time inside the portal, strike the lengthy leggings below. The legging’s bounding boots press their humongous heels onto the tunnel’s ravine. The talons below, coiling upwards as though a bramble of seaweed, strike onto the infinity around. The beast’s velocity decelerates, allowing for the armada of armor to cease any frictionized flames. The cowl behind, curtained as though that of a theatrical phantom, edges it’s own hooks onto the hollow’s own hinged infinity. As though a thunder of both time and space, the beast ceases it’s motion into the cosmos. Yet, the magnetite’s compassing has ceased by the lack of non-conscious matter being transported. The “Duck’s” eyes sear off throughout a vent of the celestial tunnel, lined around with several others behind, as though a musician blowing into a flute. Due to the ceasing of motion, the exitways have appeared as though internalized inside of their own portal. However, with the hastied hushing of the “Duck’s” own compass, the beast lays stranded onto a randomized hole beyond the intended region for a dropoff. The intended region, being of nearby the opposite gateway proposed by the D-Squad, remains lightyears away from the “Duck’s” own position. Taking account of a lack for any more extraordinary moment or rocketing, the goliath proceeds to gallop down throughout the exposed hollow. Following the gallop, a harsh and laser-like bleating of noise pulses offward, as the threshold compacts into absolute oblivion. Albeit the portal remains vanished into the cosmos’ clutches, a brightened and sprawling dwarf-planet lies beneath. The planet, covered in a naval-azure of atmospheric clouds, drags the “Duck” in with it’s own magnetic pulling of sorts. Hence, the beast proceeds to fire down towards the planetary shrouding of blue and the bleak. Thunders rage onwards from nearby clouds, precipitating fierce and furious fountains acid rain. Skylines, covered by an undercoating of mint-green refractions, deflect off their sunburnt rays onto the “Duck’s” armory. The behemoth continues crashing downwards, as though a mountainous meteorite, as it catches the attention of a sky-patrolling service. The sky-patrol, led by a singular mothership of carbonized titanium, takes an alienated alert upon the sight of the plummeting “Duck”. The “Duck’s” armor, built to withstand that of hydrogen explosions dealt by phoenixes, withstands the initial gravity of the atmosphere. The ‘mucus’ within crashes back against the armor’s shelling, as the g-forces pile onto the speed of sound. The mothership continues spectating onto the mountain, as a captain starts by an emergency beacon of sorts. The beacon, cluttered with an array of buttons designed for contacting different security ports of the mothership, bleats off a beckoning ring of emergency. The goliath becomes a conflagerating spear, searing the sun’s shading from it’s flames. The captain, a naked ant-like being with two bulging eyes, starts by the command center of the cockpit. The signals continue sounding, with texts devised in morse-code being presented onto a radio device of sorts. Lines of other ants, considered as Muraveys by their species title, drill down across the cockpits corners. All the ants, toned differently by shades of their exoskeletons, face onto the screening below. Shocks of horror and an utmost urgency to cease the cascading colossus’ crash, which would possibly lead towards a catastrophic fissure for the planet at the dropping acceleration. The captain, aged by a fine dealing of meteoroids, gazes down across the shooting star beyond. With a simplistic flick of his abdomen, he proclaims “... - --- .--. / - .... .- - / -.-. .-. .- .--. / ..-. .-. --- -- / -.-. .-. .- ... .... .. -. --. -.-.--”, yet with beeps filling the dashes and boops filling the dots. Promptly, with a stressful vigor of naval sailors, the rest of the Muraveys shout “.- -.-- . / .- -.-- . / -.-. .- .--. - .- .. -. -.-.--”, before flinging themselves back along the hallway of the cockpit. Arms are raised, with laser blasters and other stereotypical weaponry, as the sailors storm across the hallway. Their weapons are drawn across a hanger of sorts, holding around three starfighters of sorts. The starfighters, smaller versions of their mothership, model that of a standard, space-sprung saucer. Swiftly, without a moment for leisure, sailors mount themselves down into the saucers’ own cockpits. Engines are roared with a combustion of carbon, as the saucers drill off throughout the entryway of the hanger’s hanging. The saucers, racing at that of mach ten across the bounds of the atmosphere, sail along without any sound-based explosions due to their internal vibration-compression softwares. The saucers continue blasting bombastically across the rainy torrents of the trembling skies. After only moments, the saucers catch their crosshairs onto the sight of the “Duck”. Plummeting for only minutes after entering the atmosphere, the “Duck’s” eyes are sunk against the edges of their visor. Remaining conscious by the sheer volitionalism of the ‘mucus’, the beast’s gauntlets are spread in an attempt to parachute it’s cowl downwards. However, before any rushing ravanging constructs into ideas, the Muravery fleet catches the colossus down into a wedge of the starfighters. Following the catch and the absolute shock of the mountain being a sentient organism, the fleet begins to contain the beast. The “Duck”, brawling vigorously against the ravaging aliens, ultimately fails to cease the capture as it looms thousands of miles above the planet. Promptly, the goliath is contained into an iron-maiden like container, without any of the protruding spikes. Following the moments upon its own capture and abduction into the reigns of alienated foes, the “Duck” nonchalantly leans back against the containment. Rumbles of oxygen pounce off into the swab, yet rustic, hanger of the mothership. A screeching of the saucers, sinking back into their initial formation for slumbering, clashes off around the garrisoned gallery of the hanger. Moments continue passing, as the “Duck” is mobilized along a thin corridor of lightning lights. The lights, steep and icy with dust, line with a bluish hue. Seconds strike across the hour, as the clock for the captain’s steering time rings around a cockpit’s coliseum. Briskly, taking notice of the captain’s presence, the sailors stand at ease, whilst the captain ambles over towards the “Duck’s” containment. The “Duck”, hoisting gallons of vexation from the brief containment, rattles around inside the contaiment’s cellar. Taking notice of the container’s erratic budging, the captain orders “--- .--. . -. / - .... . / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . .-. / .- -. -.. / -.- . . .--. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --. ..- -. ... / --- -. / .. - -.-.--”. The sailors, loyal to anything testing command in their meritocracy of a worldwide society, lock their blasters onto the containment’s corners. A singular sailor clasps his boney, insectoid fingers around the sequence behind the container, before opening it for the inspection of the captain. Seconds continue building into the tension of the cell, as a plumage of puffy ozone strikes off from the containment’s bolts. The electrical wiring beneath, used to house and contain anything for outdoor presentation, grasps the “Duck” down ahead of the sailors. The captain steps by the “Duck”, with an awfully surprised countenance, as it raises a blaster towards the beast. Briefly, overshadowing the light mumbling of the nearby and lower-ranked sailors, the captain barks “-.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - .- -. -.. / --- ..- .-. / .-.. .- -. --. ..- .- --. . ..--.. -.-.--”. The “Duck”, confused horridly by the mismash of beeps and boops pronounced by the captain, locks it’s own violet-dug peepers onto the ant-like captain ahead. Afterwards, the visor would curve around the other forces of the Muraveys, with another gaseous gust of ozone plunging off throughout the cockpit’s corridors. The tension of the titan remains, as it jests an eye over towards the captain, taking note of the inquisitive posture and voice of him. Following brief internal remarks around the room, the “Duck” would leisurely call “I shalln’t hath anything of thy language! Shall thou speak of ancient English’s glorious tongue?!” The captain, taking the same confused marking of the “Duck” following the beast’s statements, would direct it’s buggy eyes back towards the rest of the sailors. The sailors would take the titan’s shouting and overall confusion for resentment, therefore, they’d begin sealing the container. The buttons would be pressed back against one another, as the locks file into their ravines. Yet, the colossus’ draped cowl and felty coverings would take resistance to the electrical shocks. Having not prepared for anything of electrical immunity, as most of those sorts of resources are a scarce rarity in the civilization, the Muraveys lunge backwards. Their blasters point themselves back towards the jockeying “Duck”, as the metallic mountain wrangles it’s wrists against the wiring around. Moments pass as the blasters’ bolts are loaded down with their laser-beam mechanics. The barrels are plugged with the heat of electricity, as they hold their aims onto the maddened monster. The chamber choruses off, as the beast’s helmet huffs off another raucous rhythm of ozone. The tension explodes, as the electrical wiring around the behemoth does. Sparks are flung across the domain of the chambers, as the behemoth’s gargantuan gauntlets strike off from an explosion of fiery smog. Sirens sing off the iron-maiden container, whilst the titan’s torso jolts off the remaining wires. The truest wrath and fury of the beast arises from the locking of the cell. The sulfuric, smothering smog drowns across the aisle of the “Duck”, as it begins across the cockpit’s corridors. It’s visor swings swiftly across the grouping of seven sailors, with the captain centered into the middle of their swarm. The blasters, exploding off with the tension, fire their beams towards the “Duck’s” own steely armor. Consequently, a thunderous inferno bursts off into the cockpit’s controls. The oily polish of the armor withstands the numerous blaster fires, as the plates below are stained by the scorching and cracking chaos. Only the violet visor of the beast remains deviled across the reigning room, as the controls are crumpled by ricocheting bolts. Sailors are launched across the domain, with their exoskeletons bruising down around the muddled technology. On the nail, expecting the worst of a whack, the captain rises from the gashed grounds of the cockpit. His blaster draws another bolt into it’s chambers, as the “Duck” charges piquely towards the captain’s position. A gargantuan gauntlet is raised upwards, as though a blacksmith’s slinging sledgehammer. The boney, pincered fingers tighten themselves into their palm’s basin. The knuckles, rigid as though an alley of trash-cans, prop their needles ahead of the gloving behind. Without a moment’s checking and only the tempering heat around, the fist fires down into the captain’s exo-skeleton-head. The boney exterior is slung aside by the punch’s two-tonne weight, as the behemoth weighs it’s might onto the captain’s torso. The cracking of a stew-can sizzles down throughout the bruiser’s blow, as the captain is flung across the room’s interior. Speedily, taking notice of the captain’s own blaster, “Duck” leaps onto the Muravey’s arm and flings the firearm from his grasp. Thereupon, the titan gains a grasp across the weaponry, yet it’s bolted down another reign of fire. The crew continues blitzing throughout the fumes of ashy smog, with sparks of electricity crashing across the room's center. Yet, unknown to the figures inside, the ship’s loss of control has sent it towards a thunderous streak of shrouding and has raised into the breeches of space. The brawl continues battling onwards, as the “Duck’s” cowl is tattered terribly by the blasting bolts around. Its armory is pounded punctually by the rising might of the Muravey’s machinery, compared to the luster the “Duck” believed. Although, the contest of wills remains drawn at a stalemate of warfare. The crowding of sailors slowly sieve towards the beast, with their blasters loading down another batch of beams. The clocks of the nearby thunderstorm tick onwards, as the mothership’s directional-warning systems blare off throughout the ship’s hundreds of Muraveys. Another gargantuan gauntlet rises into the arena, as the “Duck” darts towards another sailor. It’s own hijacked blaster, remaining unfired, is swiftly pistol-whipped against another sailor’s skull. The sailor, struck by the weaponry, is slung into a shielded window. The rest of the sailors start into a furied frenzy of combat, taking all the stops to cease the ravager’s rampage. Another bolt strikes against the beast’s side, sending it onto a kneecap’s plates. Another screeching of metal breaks and reverberates throughout the chambers of the mothership. Another screen for navigation is torn down, this time by the goliath’s emptied palm. Subsequently and rapidly, the screen is rammed down into a sailor’s thorax. Throughout all of the raging combat, the mothership cruises into the thunders. A striking of lightning, the size and mass of an aircraft carrier, pummels down into the Mothership’s center. The saucer’s gadgets and gizmos, connected by the ports filtered into the main computers along the chasm within, are instantaneously shut down by the thunder’s countering. Hence, the mothership has become stranded across the outer regions of space’s grasp. The atmosphere of azure leaves for the sunburnt sands of the cosmos, as another pouncing of lightning crashes from below. The mothership’s controls spazz violently as it begins rocketing off towards the outer limitations of space. With the wreckage of controls inside, the compasses have taken their targets towards the next livable planet, that of the realm the “Duck” attempted to search. Now, the fruits of the fighting have concluded as the mothership begins a meteoring down towards the clutches of the eartherian world. Asteroids are crumbled by the sheer friction of the ship. Comets are swung aside by the lightspeed engines behind, now crazed by the intrusion of thunder. As the heat beyond spirals into madness, the heat within has closed into only discorded disaster. The “Duck’s” gauntlets grapple a sailor’s scalp down, whilst two of the other sailors launch themselves around the behemoths’ body. Supporting reinforcements, designated with Roman-gladoritorial armor, hurry hotfooted into the closing chambers of the cockpit. The raging brawl edges onwards, as the gravity within the ship begins sinking back towards the eartherian realm below. Machinery is canceled by the new poles of magnification. The mothership fires downwards into the atmosphere below, as though it's its own colossal comet of sorts. Debris, such as the saucer’s outer crust and the engineering platforms around the exterior’s electronics, is flung across the trailing skyline of the mothership. The breakneck speeds of the falling phantasm conclude into a singular, seismic plowing into the mountainous regions of Lacrimosa. With the mothership’s armor having shielded qualities, those of stopping any external blows or heavy fissures from friction, it would simply sink into the dunes of the mountainous rocks. Though, the mountains would rivet and rumble furiously upon the eventually landing of the vessel. After moments of shaking, only the silence would remain between the dusk and the evening beforehand. The “Duck’s” peepers pounce out into the dusty dusk of another morning, with the mountainous regions sundered in two by the vertical vessel. The goliath’s gloves-gauntlets press their palms against a shore of stones beneath, as it’s kneecaps spring upwards from the soot of stone. It’s antennae like horns, jabbed at by the radio frequencies of the mothership, now lay tuning onto the distant breezes of the mountains. Rays of smog remain dragging off the mothership’s tail. Hundreds of surviving sailors have arisen more thirsty for vengeance than ever. The painting of the brave new planet has been driven into the beast’s own vengeful visor. The brawling of it’s ego, struggling from the failures of experimentation and the superiority of the aliens, brings the ceaseless of the colossus’ own schemes for revenge. Its eyes have taken a liking onto the aliens’ transportation, the mothership. Yet, without the proper resources, the beast remains stranded across the mountainous ranges around. In consequence, the colossus pries it’s pupils around, taking an eye onto anything for technology. Hours pass as another evening grows dim onto the mountainous scaping. However, at last upon the evening’s sundown, a rampart of rubble has been discovered. The “Duck”, taking an eager and immensely curious approach upon the technology, scuttles swiftly upon the sight. It’s fingers scourge themselves down across the rampart’s plates, taking discovery to a set of transmitional machines used by the aliens for communicating amongst their starfighters. The transmitional machines are as though 1950s radios, with the same dials and styling. Using the gambles of the radio technology, the beast began a keen testing and experimentation of different frequencies. Using a sample of its own electrons, taking note towards the magnet differences between the portal’s suction and the electrical currents found to power the blasters, the behemoth takes control of a machine. Hours of tinkering follow by, whilst the tension of looming shoulders skulks by across the winding winds of the mountains. The electrons, inserted via a discarded armor-plate of ‘mucus’, are drugged into the machinery’s frequency detonation. Using the frequencies, the beast would bleat off signals for assistance, immense fortunes, magical spells, and any other telemarketing generalities. The signals, taking part towards the electrons specific to the “Duck’s” origin realm, would sound off towards anyone who’ll be persuaded to join the hunt. The “Duck’s” alien abduction hunt has begun.
  14. Pirates: The pirates, having taken witness to the retreating of Howard's brief ballistic brawlers, promptly open fire upon the sight. The waging warfare of the rifles burst off with a ruffling of rigid bullets. The bullets spray fiercely along the war-torn skylines above, striking off smoggy rows of their own powdery plumes. Mounts of the artillery are sounded off with a horrid, mechanical clanging of cannons. The cannons strike off throughout the rows of buildings, with the tension around their hollows snapping apart into the breeze. The sky draws off a fogged hazing of the smokey, blackened dusts. The buildings are painted down with shells of the weaponry, whilst the pirates begin firing off onto the retreating force of Howard's might. Yet, a sensing of fear, a fear for the future of the pirates arising throughout the burrowing heat of the village. Pichelliogo's militia begins to profusely panic upon the sight of Howard's fleeting fields of fighting, with their own weaponry revolving backwards. The minnows behind begin striking back towards the gaggle of goons alongside the rest of the lobsters. The pirates begin their swift retreat from the puncture of their walls, losing their supposed invincibility promised by the likes of Chamberlius. A surrendering to the sounds beyond the village rises, bringing a spirit of self-security over the physical placement of the village's depths. Chamberlius' crustaceans continue following alongside his scuttling side. Their weaponry remains hoisted upwards, with their eyes peeling feverishly around the warfare outside. Their shells cramp down against the tattooed insides of their past savagery. Their pinched, pulsating feet spiral ahead alongside Chamberlius, whilst they conclude their walking along the hallway's hollow. Quickly, having had exposure to the entrance of their village, Chamberlius proceeds to buckle his clammy palms upon a mapping of sorts. The mapping details a widespread, territorial-like graph of the village's area. The nautilus' grapples his grabby fingers around, while he continues darting his eyes around the parchment. A shrieking, gasping burst of sweat pelts off from the commander's shelled facade. Hies hands collapse by his sides, with the crustaceans behind growing worried along the sight. Chamberlius has realized the war concluded for his pirates. Following the surrendering of his security, Chamberlius proceeds to inform his crustaceans of their surrendering terms. The crabs collectively nod in response to Chamberlius, before bustling back onto the streets below. Their arms are pitched ahead, their shells are caved downwards, and their feet are scuttling frequently along the flooring below. Their debts to the owner of such foreign arms have carried onto the wealth of the village, to which they've begun pillaging for their goods. Riches are ravaged as other means of fortune are frowned. The goons continue pouching around their resources, before swiftly slinking down throughout the barred entrance of the town-hall. A flagging of surrendering, marked by a singular urchin, is hung sorely against the entrance of the town-hall. The flag is marked with a whitened, purple-stained cross of sorts. Yet, the brutality of before has left a velvet-tint across the depths of the violet. Concurrently, the crabs rush back onto the streets and begin their final siege across the town. Weapons are reinforced as the crabs raid down throughout the running crevices of the coming night. Ashes of artillery are dropped alongside the buildings, whilst the signal of surrendering beacons off throughout the village's landing. Minnows rest their weaponry, lobster lower their arms, and crabs catapult their honor of the war back into their sorrows. Only the remaining stands of nationalized pirates continue brawling onward. Their arms heave ahead with a bolting of an indomitable rage. Their firearms are flung ahead, with their barrels clocking back onto the town-hall. Swiftly, with an almost cult-like wavering, the pirates begin to siege one another's factions across the village. Fires are sprung from rifles as bullets soar throughout the soggy air of ash. Buildings are bounced down into arson as the pirates continue brawling against their surrendered future. The crabs below continue collecting their wealth, before exiting back behind the town-hall and towards a few cargo ships behind. The cargo ships are marked with the insignia of the pirates, a tattered flag of a marrow-laced skull. Pichelliogo's struggle among his pirates remains of a disappointed anger. Their arms retreat backwards as they begin off along the workshop's grounds. Their march patters peevingly towards their pseudo-capital's grounds. Their artillery focuses back onto the sights of the town-hall, before springing back into their saluting towards Chamberlius. Artillery is raised and fired across the city, leaving the town-hall to suffer to brunt of the brutality. Boulders of the cannons are launched ahead and into the town-hall's corridors, breaking apart the remnants of the ancient village's government. The deed of the village's political structure, the truest greed and prize of Chamberlius, is sundered beneath the tearing of the town. The order crumbles into a struggling of anarchy, with an inferno brewing down into the full-scale retreat and loot from the warfare beyound. The metallic facade remains watching across the crashing ego and security of Chamberlius' political gripes. Only the tearing brutality of the village remains as animals are left from pirates. @Phoebe @Fierach
  15. Thank you people for sending over the quest information!
×
×
  • Create New...