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DocterDuck

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  1. (The following is a teaser of sorts, the real roleplay will take place in Lacrimosa, using "Alien Abduction: The Hunt" as it's title.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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
  5. Thank you people for sending over the quest information!
  6. Thank you, do you know how to get quests? I've seen a few running before in threads.
  7. May I please enter into this thread?
  8. Pirates: The pirates of Launchiol last-standing are cut and cleaved horridly beneath the reigning fury of fountaining bullets. Their scaled, grizzled bodies are sewn with splotches of reddened stains. Their wills are struck and curled by the bashing brutality of their own labyrinths. Launchiol’s fists raise themselves promptly, with their knuckles coil in the stench of the striking vigor. The suffering of the sailors calls beyond the words of the bumbling pirates. The seas of the pirates’ vocation across the ragged, torn streets of the village hurdle ahead. The sails of their own boats, not being of a sea, yet rather of their own patriotism towards the reigns of Chamberlius’ command across the flanking fishmongers. The raging typhoons of their consciences, not without a strain for a gamble at life, but with a slaughtered vengeance to propel. Their weapons are raised once more, with spikes of cutlery and revolvers jabbing around their collapsing crowd. Fishes are hooked from the oceans of life, whilst others carry off a dying brawl against Howard’s men around. Launchiol launches himself ahead against the torrents of the trialed troopers. His cutlery, dressed in a murky polish, is swung feverishly around the flowdering fishes and the looming laments of the assaultants. A bleating, blaring siren of sweat shaves across the fishy flakes of Launchiol’s body, whilst he lunges against a leftward soldier. Cutlery would be chopped and slid, as though a blind-man’s cane, with only the sight of an impending shot hindering the swinging. Frictions of bullets sear across the fisherman of a riot’s scalp, with courses of velvet staining across his rattled facade. His blade continues cleaving around, with his grasp loosening into a flimsy flinging of the blading. However, without an avail of brutality, the fishman tumbles towards the seas of the deceased, as do the rest of the remaining pirates. The rioting fleet continues raging onwards, whilst Chamberlius’ command slips into a chorused chaos. Chamberlius scuttles swiftly along the collections of the town-hall’s hollowed anteroom. His whimsical, winding jeers of pirateering are sung. His shelled, yet jittery, palms are jabbed upwards with a pompous swearing of his own rambling. Rambles become speeches as tension tumults the self-appointed commander’s own victories. His own control of the village precluded with a comforting, collapsible establishment of pirateering nationalists. Yet, as the impoverished find anger within their own spiteful hearts, the chaos of the streets has grown. Launchiol’s slaughtering trims a cord beneath the greedy, distant commander’s shelling. However, only the salted sweat of Howard’s plowing soldiers carries on throughout the storming. The skies above have been drenched in precipitating warfare, with touches of casted clouds arriving onto the scene above. The crustaceans alongside Chamberlius’ jotty walking hold firm across the hour’s anarchy. Their crabby-pinchers of hands are clad with shotguns. Such shotguns are adorned with both a grimy, rusty polish and the markings of previous conflicts. The crabby shells of the combat-crowded crustaceans remain barren with only a wreath of rings. The rings are engraved with titles of croaked crabs and the conflicts leading towards the eventual alliances between crab and fish. Pichelliogo’s own mercenaries command began from the crabs, however, a distasteful for an ancient loyalty brewed into his shelling. To which only the losses of crabs have shown, the losses of those starved by past alliances to less aggressive societies. Upon the present hour, the crabs have gained their loyalties through an agreement of brutality. The warfare amongst the village bustles down into a grandiose gathering of gaggles. Pichelliogo’s own parading party beeches the back of a wartorn workshop. The banners of Chamberlius are tucked behind the cowering minnows, with their arms hoisted around their savior of a brawler. A brawler of which words have pronounced a true usurping of the impoverished for wealth. Rifles are raised ahead, whilst the bunch begins up along a rickety staircase, adjacent to the distanced workshop. An exhausted sweat of toiling calls off throughout the gathering. Weaponry is hoisted alongside a dust-burnished balcony. Drapes are the dusts are plowed aside, while the strength of the pirates’ palms are collapsed against their weapons. Their eyes seep onto the slaughers of Launchiol’s brigade. Only the empathy of a desolated humanity is sung throughout the spectators. Their weapons are propped around the balcony’s edges, with their triggers hoisted. A minuscule, shoddy piece of cannon-like artillery is heaved alongside a few lobsters. Their eyes remain poised upon the brawlers below. The torrents of the evening collapse onto the watching gaze of a metallic mountain. A mountain defined by the revolutionary rambling of Chamberlius’ commands, yet, with only a contrast of arrivals. An oration for an oration, to which neither Chamberlius nor the gandering goliath shall understand. The goliath remains hoisted beyond the main depths of the conflict, with only it’s gaze holding onto the sieging far ahead. Whispers of gases are tossed aside, as the minute spectation comes and crinkles down into only an observation. The combat of Chamberlius’ reign struggles for the village as brutality rises. Pirates plea for vengeance as weapons are armed. Artillery is swung around carelessly, until only the divulging of death is swam throughout their own kin. Only the winding breezes of the skylines above glimmering beyond the rioting below. Pichelliogo’s force prepares their rifles and aims their barrels onto the town-hall below. @Phoebe @Fierach
  9. Pirates: The platoon of a hall-harrowed pirates continue scuffling around their greasy manor. Their crusty, crumbling tracks continue thundering behind Chamberlius' pattering pace. A fervor of pirated patriotism spouts ahead from their grizzly, jagged tongues. Their eyes are swollen with the grime of both slaving solitude towards their soldiered sailors and of an avidity for anger. Such anger has collected upon months to years beforehand, with each pressing punch of poverty striking against the former crustaceans. Yet, only the humongous husks of hermits hold fast upon the coming present. A swelling, swift clamoring for vengeance upon the rich revels beneath the shells of the looming crabs. A fastened, fervor of a hardy heaving breaks off between the six of the selected. Their arms remain raised, with only the notions of their pointy-peepers darting around the hollowed hallway's haunting. Portraits of the former officials line adjacently across the ornate walling. Furniture of vases, embroiled with a dried and dusty polish, are swept around escritoires of the officials. However, only the command of Chamberlius' riled regime presides presently. The pirates beyond the corridors of the town-hall hold themselves within the desolation of damaged homes and market-places. Their weapons remain tightened and tense from the flurries of bullets passed by the hours of the moment. Their breaths are staggered in the hesitation of skulking, bound brutality. The flakes of the fishes seep lightly with a spate of sweat. The sweat, being of a briny and pallor paste, drizzles feverishly around the fumbling fishes. Their eyes hold themselves ahead in the same, ticking tension as of the moments passing by the evening. Their fingers, adorned with tattered gloving and other manners of thieved fashion, tap vigorously around the edges of their molded weaponry. The mold grows as though a chunk of coral, with it's body being crisped down into a hardened husk of which stood across the weaponry. Yet, the weaponry beneath has chiseled around the burnished blotches of mold. The fishing fingers don't take a care towards the mold, with their carved nails scraping slightly against the crusty exterior, as though polishing a trophy of sorts. The Cocongo Pichelliogo continues ramping ahead with his gaggle of goons. The pirates hoist their mantles and placards of Chamberlius' orated quotations highly. Their grasps are drunken with a dirtied, alcoholic touch of an ego. The ego's own findings hold firm on the sight of the triumphant marching, yet a tinging of terror burns downward throughout the platooning posse behind Pichelliogo. Pichelliogo's crusted, coconut-constructed claws are driven upwards into a salute upon the heavens above the tightened battlefield ahead. The ringing of the brash, brutish shots cackle off throughout the horizon. Pichelliogo's party continues onward, with their stance only faltering between a few minnows and trouts behind the behemoth of a crustacean. A quintet of lobsters drive their rifles ahead, with their barrels angled ahead around the sides of Pichelliogo. Having armored himself with a shield of a shell, built with a firm layering of rock, the crab relays only a finding of determined vindication. The vindication shall only have spurred off the prices garnered by Chamberlius' initial bargains for conquering the village and keeping it's capital locked underneath the nautilus' reigns. On contrary to the attitudes of the march's moxie, the silenced streets beckon off the remaining reverberations of the shots. Contrary to the ringing of Howard's sight, the gun-slung squadron wasn't of Chamberlius' prime coup nor of his ordering. Only the ragged, rustling of a lion-fish's armada plumes down throughout the chaotic collapsing of a street's sirens. The fish's name goes by the word of Leonisso Launchiol, with a bit of a tongued rolling lathered upon the slithers of "s'" and such. Launchiol's jittery, jotting palm of a fin holds firm against the bounds of his revolver. The formation previous established by Launchiol, being poorly planned off with an intention of a guerilla's assault, seats it's self into the sunken brawl. Upon a trio of whizzing bullets, piercing one minnow to a grizzled stain of velvet, disestablishes the confinement of the guerillas. Several other pirates had been previously struck throughout the heat of combat, yet without the avail of a singular minnow's peace. Their bayonets spring ahead as they begin to charge madly ahead upon the crowding of bullets. Their tastes for an impoverished justice sear across the battered grounds of the bared landing. Concurrently, Launchiol's flimsy fins of feet spring ahead alongside the crowding. Swiftly, through the ruckus of bullets and driving barrages, the pirates would attempt to drive their bayonets throughout the frontier of the town-hall's corner. In doing such a motion, the pirates would gamble their chances upon breaking into Howard's line, and collapsing their violence onto the soldiers behind. Chamberlius' words of vengeance and retribution for the crimes dealt against the impoverished ring throughout the village's depths. The stinging, trumpeting tunes of a tempest ring throughout the coming clouds of the village. Buckets of artillery and other fashions of mobile mechanisms are flourished down through aisles of the town's streets. Swarms of the hungry, hampered pirates clasp their arms around the fury of floats dancing around their grasps. A tagline of a suspect pierces down throughout the riling orders of the fiendish, with their eyes luring suspiciously towards the anarchy ensuing throughout the town-hall's quarters. Chamberlius remains hiding with a cowardice, claimed only by the notation of tactical intelligence for the impoverished. Only the sounding breezes of a daybreak's destined duels shall chorus across the land. A hinting of a poet's fire looms upon the distance, awaiting the spiraling climaxes of brutality and the theatrics alongside it's riots. The silhouettes of the ghastly sunshine above, decorated with a humid haze, glaze across the figurine's phantasm of sight. Only the riling, mechanical churning of it's exhaust beckon throughout the coming evening. Only the driving of a canopy, drenched in felt and polish, looms aside it's mountainous bargains for either victory or failure. Yet, the blur between it's own victories and failures have been smudged into another's own moments. Only the waiting, pondering philosophies of a maddened beast lurk to spectate the future of any anarchy to plume. As is the way of the brutal and believing. @Phoebe @Fierach
  10. Pirates: The inquisitional inkling of the pirate's ideologies burn throughout their advancing march. Their weaponry remains bound forth without an understanding for the brutality they've dealt nor that they shall endure for their shedding of velvet. A powdery plume of precipitation, yet with the sulfuric smelling of a drunken well, pours throughout the sweaty squad of pirates. The cult-like chorus of their commander's title and vengeance hurls throughout the crowding's own cacophony. The poverty of which they've succumbed to has only left allegiance in a maddened brawl for failure and farces of righteousness. The pirates hold their lives accounted for in greed, however, they shall not hold the belief nor struggling of quietus across their fishy facades. Their armories are drawn ahead with a vigor of patriotism for a cause without sense nor sorrow. Their eyes are peeled upon the greedy heavens promised by Chamberlius' orations of combat and propaganda. The theater of brutality has settled upon the crowding of pirates as they continue settling into nearby buildings. Their gill-stamped, ringed ears are swung upon any nearby motions. Their tastes for themselves and their impoverished brethren has hoisted themselves into only waiting. The pirates have prepared themselves for any chances of a foreigner's assault. Their weaponry huddles around the chambers of glassy windows. Their speeches silence into only a tense echoing of a steeled grindstone, with a hammer scraping feverishly across a smelter's own greasy brine. Their bullets of both subjugation and liberation are armed ahead through the dusty barrels of their rifled revolvers. The atmosphere of the village has taken a metamorphosis to only a phantom's stage, played by the actors of a war's bartering brutality. The pirates hoist their goggling eyes around and towards the crowding nearby their capital of sorts, the town-hall. They've claimed their nation through claiming another's, only to suffer the same rhythm presiding throughout their own individualized songs. The taste of the salty breeze beckons downwards and through the streets. The silence continues humming onward. The pirates hold their weaponry firmly upon the crackled crevices of their barricaded buildings. Their sights have adapted to their only nation, their only knowledge of the lands beyond a tempest of sea. Chamberlius' cry for vengeance and warfare rumbles throughout the waging fury of their arms. The arms carry their sights upon the crowding of Howard's juggling junta within their own eyes. Another piercing of breath phantoms off throughout the village's venerated vertices. The silence of the winds holds ahead as the firearms lock their sights upon the barrage of soldiers ahead. Their crossing telescopes track feverishly around for the direction of Howard's cheering, before signing back onto the attempted ambushing of their commander. A spiraling of hatred ensues throughout the pirating party, whilst they hold their tension to Chamberlius' bells. The Cocongo Pichelliogo's squadron of soldiered pirates continue throughout the brash coves of the village. Their weapons remain pompously pointed ahead, without a care nor fright for the potential arrival of a military. Their ears and eyes have only tasted the luxuries applied by the massacres dealt by Pichelliogo's own mercenary madness. The games of their previous cards have been dealt in their attitudes of spiteful egos. A makeshift banner, with a felt-sewn portrait of Chamberlius, is raised magisterially above the mob. The calling of a brawl sings throughout the crowd as they chant off their own slogans of Chamberlius' unorthodox methods of pushing fishy social-darwinism. Chamberlius remains hidden within the depths of the town-hall. A dreaded sweat of his only defiled nationalist policies towards his pirates carries around his greedy peepers. His shoulders slump downwards a bit as it gasps an eye around the hallway nearby his bunker of a building. The six of his crabby collective follow alongside his tracks, with their feet bounding thunderous with his tentacled-tethered movements. His shelled palms clutch themselves against the deed of the village's ancient political establish. His eyes remain beading upon the paper, with his crunchy voice pouring off throughout the six of his own junta. Chamberlius would proclaim, "We'll hold these grounds until the sun's been salted by the seas! We'll hold our land and fortune for the brave! We'll hold our victories and luxuries for the emboldened! We'll hold our freedom from the torments of the sea! Soldiers of the eighth ocean, this hall holds until our deaths! Understand?!". Only the nodding and speech of a blinded agreeing riles throughout the crowding of Chamberlius. The indoctrination of the impoverish has succeeded throughout the mastery of game. The game has spiraled forth by the eyes of a maddened ideology of egocentric fruitfulness and sufficiency. The coming brawls boom onward as the tension prepares to fulminate. @Phoebe @Fierach
  11. Pirates: The pirate, whom recently managed to slaughter a singular-rogue revolutionist, was struck backwards by the lodging of a bullet's striking steel. A chorus of velvet is struck off from the minnow's chest. Flakes of the sharpened, dried skin are torn aside as the bullet's steel wedges down against the arteries within. A feathery, almost hysterical on account of the pirate's ego, coughing pierces off from it's gills of a jaw. Moments pass by the hour as the pirate staggers backwards upon the street's dusty dunes of both bullet-shed gravel, and the remnants of brutalities beforehand. Concluding upon a bullet's dusk, the thunderous ringing of the shot simmers throughout the coves of the aisles. The pirate's carcass is strewn back across the sediments of brick, with it's crusty countenance faltering to it's own demise. Upon the consequence of a shot's ringing, the pirates soar into prudence. Rifles are raised from the interior of the town-hall's conquered corridors. Bullets are stocked profusely into the powdery vaults of cartridges. A screeching of steel, almost as though a knife slicing an onion along a course plate, sings off throughout the alienated streets of the village. A bell of tension tolls throughout the village as the town-hall is pelleted by a plume of bullets. Windows are crackled apart as glass is shattered across the building's frontier. However, the brick-lathered walls, with a rough-moist mud, hold firm against the plentiful projectiles. Concurrently, upon recognition to the bullets, Chamberlius and his banded militia crash drop their deck. Their weapons are pulled backwards, with their bullets plunged down into the barrels. A gleam of sorrow and fight glazes across the militia as the begin advancing onward. The raucous ruckus nearby the town-hall, swiftly alerts the boundaries of artillery. Pirates, by the dozen, proceed to rush their arms back across ramparts of cannons and other mechanically-oriented weaponry around. Rifles are raised back across the outer-regions as around seventy pirates begin advancing back throughout the command lines. Marches are chorused across the rickety rides of streets. The cannoned ramparts are mobilized, with a few makeshift wheels, before being carried alongside their pirates. Around fifty pirates are alerted from nearby deserted-homes, having been under siege for any fashions of wealth. The pirates are armed to their teeth in readily-armed rifles, plated-vests of a lightened steel, and helmets of another brassy steel. The pirates dash frantically towards the commotion of the town-hall, before raising their weaponry in an alerted pomp. Commander Chamberlius remains hidden within the chambers of his town-hall. His meaty, shelled palms clamber around for a polished pike he gained from a scholar. His hands grasp firmly across the sticky-base of the pike, yet they hold in a vertiginous manner. The waxy polish grinds across the nautilus' palms, as though a sledgehammer scraping along an anvil. His eyes glance nervously upon the entrance of the room, before following with a pompous declaration of pride in the pirates. Swiftly, he signals his band to take cover nearby any furniture. Barricades are prepared with the office's decorations, paintings, desks, and other pieces found through the adjacent hallway. The room lies silenced through the tension, with only the chiming of a dainty bell singing into the breeze. The pirates continue marching upon their grounds and towards the crowding of soldiers. Their weapons are bound ahead, with their triggers clutched tightly. Their eyes are pierced horridly across the heated horizon. The dawn of combat riles throughout the stenches of their fishy stains. The anger of the impoverished thieves rumble through their arms as they take an aim upon the fancied soldiers. Only the silence of the winds traces off as they take shelter within nearby and desolated buildings, market-stands, and other assortments of taverns. The increasingly bounding militia beyond continues tracking onward, with a sempiternal signal. Following alongside their marching, arrives the leadership of a crabby bruiser. Being of a coconut-crab figure, it leisurely looms across the rest of it's pirates. The crab's title is of a professionalized mercenary called the Cocongo Pichelliogo. It's squinty, minute eyes drawn around suspiciously as with the rest of it's flocked pirates. Only the course ringing of "Commander Chamberlius' vengeance won't have any forgiveness for scum!" continues trumpeting throughout the streets. Yet, the singers remain deserted in a distanced chant. The gallows cackle with their ensuing terror of failure. The pirates continue advancing in search of the riling commotion. Their legions survive as long as there's a sense of greed and poverty ridden throughout the planet. @Phoebe @Fierach
  12. Pirates: A garnered galloping of pirates would be leisured around the depths of a village's streets and cornering. The pirates heave their weaponry of cutlery, gunpowder-drunken pistols, revolvers, series of cheapened rifles, and handheld bottles of an explosive alcohol. Their gazes are those of a fishy tasting, with a scaled pox running alongside their facades of a grimy gruel. Chariots of the carousing pirates are sprung around the hollows of the rickety, deconstructed streets. A taste of a darkened ash files throughout the airs as worn gallows rest alongside the upmost peak of the village's centerpiece. The centerpiece lies to be of a forsaken town's hall, to which has suffered a series of an arsonist's onslaught. Windows are chipped of their glass. The stairway upon which a governor's office once rested, only leaves the markings of a battered burrow. Trophies of opposition, being that of local militias and other parliamentary figures of the village, are strewn across the frontier of the halls. A carving of weaponry is blasted throughout the powdery scrapes of a desolated and abdicated atmosphere, The chambers of the streets beyond the town hall fair for a worsened ravaging, yet, the deconstructed halls have become a testament for the pirate's own luxuries. A dozen of the pirates stroll mockingly around the cavernous, dusty dunes of the streets. Rifles are hoisted ahead, with their ends of gunpowder ringing raucously throughout the coves of the roads. The pirate's facades lack anything of humanity's morals nor skin. Their eyes wedge themselves upon a lusting lunging of a greed, with their weaponry floundering around for any sight of a ravaged resistance. The barking rasps of a sailor's swearing, taken with the accounting of their drunken tongues, leaves only the haunting choruses of the breeze to be absolved into a drugged brutality. Yet, the siege upon the livelihoods lingers onward throughout the internalized motto of the pirates' own faction of a self-pronounced commander. The commander's truest title being of a filthy fishy-man, with the facade of a captivated chambered-nautilus. Yet, the only appearance of the commander marks his public oration throughout different settlements of higher-ranking pirates. With his truest naming being of Chamberlius. Behind the corridors of the capitalized hall of the village, lurks the sight of the commander. The commander's position remains of a silhouetted security, with a quartet of his pirates looming by the entryway of his egotistically-appraised room. The room's interior is decorated throughout flurries of skinned trophies, acquired from the batches of feathery resistance movements throughout the streets. A prized and ornamented document of the village's previous governance rests within the basins of his shelled palms. His discontented and inquisitional facade skulks around the mumbled, mired writings of the document. In such skimming, the husk hopes to the finding of any political loophole to satisfy external forces that will potential assault the village. The conjugations of crowds remain brutalizing the village's core. The shaving of freedom has been erased to only the might of superior weaponry and immorality founded throughout the bustling of the pirate's militia. The priming of executions readies as the honking velvet of gallows sings throughout the evening and dawn. The raging ramparts of artillery, armed by most of the crustaceans, roar around the outskirts of the village's providence. Only the looming terror of a purged political statement binds the pirates together throughout the seizing of the government. Beneath the curtains of the terrible inferno, lies an orating minnow-man. His arms are locked against the barrel of a crisped revolver. A bullet is lodged into the powdery depths of a cartridge as it begins firing against the facades of resistances. "Commander Chamberlius' vengeance won't have any forgiveness for scum!" To which the calling answers only the statement of an abolished humanity founded throughout the village. @Fierach
  13. The D-Squad's leadership, following a turn of oblivious mentality in his own agenda, follows alongside the tracks of Captain Rex. The smacking furies of sweat continue dredging down across the man's bitter and pusillanimous facade. His eyes dash vigorously around the bunching of it's group, with their weaponry remaining raised with an intent of the hunt. A rasping coughing, more of a gutty gulping than of most motions, sounds off from the man's course lips. His shoulders slump downwards a bit, with their joints having tired from the consistency of bargains he's past attended. The dawn of today's excavation on astronomical geology lowered the the griping grudge the man already held towards the leadership of being a leader beneath another. On the contrary to his internalized provocation, his saggy scalp nods swiftly upon the orders of Captain Rex. The weaponry beneath the man's grasp is swung back into his' gargled grasp, as though a chimpanzee swiping a slender-stalagmite of granite. The man's grips holds firmly against the weaponry, being of an ornate, lengthy long-sword. The long-sword's hilt is drenched down in a rusted, reddened draping of polish. The wedging of the blade is curved down with indents of yesteryear. The D-Squad's leadership fixes his peeping peepers back across the barrage of his men. The men remain armed to their teeth in the same instruments their leadership shall carry. However, whereas the leadership holds a fixing for a more pristine providence of weaponry and his own guarding of armor, the men are dulled in comparison. Yet, for the agendas of which they've assigned themselves to, their spirits remain embolden in patriotism. They signal alongside their leadership in a brisk bustling, as though a caravan of camels. The calling chants of an excitable rush swallow downwards and throughout the eruption of the crowding. Weaponry is heaved forth, with a cutting of the breeze's damped drains. The barricade of boots stamp feverishly across their worn grounds, whilst they follow alongside their leader's wits. The D-Squad's leadership locks his peepers back upon Captain Rex, with a saddened gaze tolling the tomorrow. An abrupt racket of the man's armor jangles down as his long-sword latches back against his rightward palm. Afterwards, the leftward palm would follow against the hilt before coiling downwards along it's brandishing, as though a creeping cobra. The man's gaze holds ahead as the blade rises to a battering position. "Aye! Aye! Move men, today we'll finally get something for the tales!"
  14. The "Duck's" pugnacious peepers briefly allude themselves upon the sight of Luca. Another ghastly gash of ozone is sprayed off from within the chambers of the titanic temple of a helmet. The violet-rivaled visor remains curved ahead in a jeering narrow of interest, yet with a slight distaste upon the approach of the elvish. The colossus' cowl slithers vigorously beneath the breeches of it's lengthy leggings, whilst the helmet above is jolted aside. The helmet's chin remains hoisted upon an upper-acute angle, yet the pupils above hang downwards with the thrilling of stalactites. The beast's posture holds firmed as sends a singular-stepped approach towards Addison. Yet, the eyes remain bramble themselves upon the elf, with a predatory piercing spreading throughout the irises. Another spasm of ozone follows briefly before a presumption of oration, however, the tongue becomes of a more taunting terror than of satire. "Shall another ounce of nobility's nihilistic barbarians arrive... once more amongst such an hour of the drunken? Well.. well... twig of the doleful aristocracy, I've simply arrived upon a peaking of information... and traversing among another realm for the garrisons..." The "Duck's" erratic eyes hold firm upon Luca momentarily, before switching a briefed glancing upon Anna. It's eyes remain nonchalant for the previous amounts of wheat-heaved merchandising it managed to collect. The absolution of it's eyes hold in a moment of both tension and seeking. Swiftly, the peepers roll around the angular edges of it's visor, as though to take a gander around for anymore discernible facades. The eyes widen themselves slightly upon the crowding of figures, yet with only a second's sparing to be drawn. Another rasping riot of ozone is spouted forth as the beast's visor returns back upon the sight of Addison. The eyes firm themselves back into a more deriding deal as the goliath's stepping concludes. The talons crackle down against the flooring beneath. The gauntlets aside remain crunched into a pairing of paranoiac palms. Another inching of the chin is driven ahead as the beast's pupils loom downwards upon the knight of masters. The "Duck's" cowl brushes leisurely along it's rightward shoulder, as though to barricade it's pupils from the sight of Luca. The felted fabric of the canopied cowl courses alongside the armory, as though a static torrent. The mountain's pace ceases yet again as it's mechanical motions fidget down into a slight-bending of sorts. The eyes pierce ahead with an interest of inquisition. The armory's posture fixes down as though a leaning crane. The duo of pointed, spiking shoulders rivet around before rolling into a swung dance of motion. The smoggy mirages of both of the skylines above and the beast loom ahead as it proceeds to proclaim. "Now... then... I've taken an assumption.. that thy futile civilization of a disgusting creed... shall remain standing upon this horrid hour? Perchance... yet, such negotiations amongst the drunken shalln't bring anything of fruit nor triumph... knight... shall thou understand of an arrival's truest bargains?" @Phoebe @Lucinda Valentine @PrettyCuteAnna
  15. The "Duck" tumultuously tramps through the entrance of the legendary tavern. A feverish and raucous rumbling of ozone is beckoned off from within the duo hollowed respirators along it's humongous helmet. The beast's colossal cowl crashes pompously alongside it's thunderous tracks, with the interlaced hooks of the felt scraping upon the flooring beneath. Ahead of the hooks, lies the bountiful boots of the beast. The boots are clad with a leathery burnishing as they plod their vulture-like soles across the pathway. Above the boots are seated leggings, with a pocket-plundered belt weaved into their waist. In a subsequent sight, an armor atop remains a distant, alienated obstruction of metal upon the colossus' appearance. A pairing of vivid, violet peepers lurk beneath the catacombs of a visor, dug into the helmet's facade. The entranced and mechanical motions of the mountain plow forth beneath the quagmire of the caliginous cowl. Yet, without the hinting of such designs, lies only the searing oration of the gauntlets. The gauntlets' wrists rivet around as feathery fumes of ozone spout off from their plates. The fingers chime forth as their pincer-like pads hold back along the cowl. The "Duck's" eyes dash around the scene's crowding, with a spastic gander of each eye being peeled around. The violet sears searchingly around, as though a python seeking a puny parrot. A series of clanking-clicks proceed from the beast's helmet, with the plates contorting around into a tightened narrow of the visor. The peepers hoist forth upon sight of Addison, with a splash of intriguing rising into their gallows. Swiftly, the beast outstretches it's rightward and gargantuan gauntlet from beneath the brambles of it's mired cowl. The gauntlet's fingers elevate outwards, with their knuckles drawn towards the myriads of mirages above. The needles along the knuckles hold firm throughout the fortitude of the gauntlet's plate plateau, as though a satirical salute. The caped canopy behind brushes backwards along the armored ramparts below, as well. The "Duck's" crunching chin lowers slightly as the mountain proceeds towards the duo of it's finding. It's shoulders are slumped downwards into a hunting hunch. It's eyes weld themselves downwards into a punctuated searing. It's visor curves off a glimmering of oiled-polish from within the crevices of it's caught plates. Succeeding around a minute, the metallic mountain's tracks cease. The goliath's gaze transfixes down upon the woman as another hoarse, wheezy exhaust of ozone is pronounced from the jawline. Only the monotone, though jeering, articulation follows. "Ah... shall the misfortunes of a befallen creed of chivalry lead among... the drunken desires of such a governance's foolery... interesting such thou proclaim? Yes... yes... quite interesting.. indeed..."
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