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      Vote for Valucre [August]   05/16/2017

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Damnatus

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About Damnatus

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    Disciple
  • Birthday 10/24/1985

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    cognitive_genome
  1. Took me seven years to do it since I came here from Gaia, but I have finally gotten my own board. Even made a religion shamelessly inspired by WH40K.

  2. Port Caelum Festival Free Thread One

    The Beyond loomed before him; without hesitation, he unfettered his mind and plunged into its depths. The currents that immediately seized his thought-form threatened to shred apart his identity, the eddies pulling and twisting at every fiber of his being, like a million fingers plucking away at loose strands in a sweater. It was not a sensation he was unprepared for; rising through enumerations of thought, he flexed his will and steeled his existence, becoming a bulwark in that cosmic maelstrom. The Empyrean raged on, but his mind was inured to its adverse effects, and at its current state it could no sooner erode him away than a true storm an island. He knew not to dally, of course - beings far greater than he patrolled those metaphysical waters that could undo him with a stray thought. Beyond the unthinkable predators that swam that infinite ocean, he understood the perils of familiarity, and how glimpses of distant, untold futures could draw him away from his path, ripping his subtle body away from its present tethers. With a metaphorical roll of his shoulders, he began his work in earnest - he projected his will outward at first, dredging deep to grasp the threads he sought. He perceived it as taking some time, though understood that sensation to be a failing of his mortal limits - time was a conceptual joke in the Empyrean, which was partly the reason it was possible for him to engage in his current task. With each passing Fateweaving he performed, the manner in how it manifested changed. The Empyrean was a realm built on metaphors, or at least insofar as his mind was capable of perceiving - even with its current changes. He grounded himself as well as anyone could for all matters Empyreal, using himself and a specific object as the loci of his delving - a peculiarly-shaped skull totem, marred from countless years of burial and a distinct, trepanning-esque hole at the center of the forehead. The foci alone allowed him to sift through epochs in the blink of an eye, disregarding subject matters so far flung that their apotheoses would only come after the stars in the sky guttered out like banked furnaces. The threads he grasped thrummed; no, writhed, as he reached the destination of his scrying. His mindscape shifted, a whorl of indescribable color, until he stood before a vast, withered forest. The trees bore neither leaf or fruit, and in their masses they shuddered and shook, as though huddling close from the cold. The bark was intersected with veins that pulsed and sluiced with viscous liquids, terminating with branches that wriggled like the feelers of a sea anemone. No memory surfaced of this flora, despite his myriad journeys through spacetime, and he briefly wondered just where that totem had been peddled in its spanning history. His thought-form dwelt among the withered forest for a time, his senses reaching out to brush against each tree he came across. Visions rushed before his sight, speaking of potentials that his alien mind devoured and sublimated, sifted through for meaning and purpose. They were furtive glimpses, but were sufficient to know he had pulled forth what he needed - a cathedral housed within a primeval woods, impressions of individuals he sought, a broken and insectile ouroboros. The stench of the Outer Dark clung to these phantasms, but his surprise was not at that revelation. An image had surfaced in those moments of scrying, a familiar face that he had not expected. The Mutant. It was curious; he had only met the man once, barely interacted beyond a fleeting conversation with the mage. He had assumed he would never interact with the Mutant again, but his current endeavor swiftly disproved that assumption. His gifts were not the equal of a true seer, though, and his Fateweaving was limited to impressions and potentialities. The Church of the Broken Circle was fixated upon the existence of the Mutant, integral to some conspiracy that portended something dire. He had intended to deal with the Church in its totality in due time - their existence a blight upon all realities - but knowing of what loomed in the future, his plans had to be changed. His mind coursed through the forest, seeking paths and courses through the analysis of every tree it brushed. Each alteration within the bark and veins, each twitching branch, represented potentialities to be disseminated. His subtle self raged through them in swathes, processing them faster than any human mind could hope to match. In each he glimpsed horrid fates for the Mutant and those associated with him; had it not affected his own path, they would have been discarded. Yet, should the Church prove successful in their plans centered around the Mutant, then his own goals would fall to dust through his fingers. This new development was a burden he would normally never allow, but his hand was forced. It risked further immersion into the Empyrean, throwing his life almost needlessly into unthinkable danger, but he had paid such costs readily in the past in pursuit of his plans, and would continue to do so until they were complete. With a spark ignited in his mind, he burned the nearest tree to cinders with prismatic fire. Before long, the mindscape was in the grip of a shimmering inferno, and would not stop burning until all paths he desired were found. ******************************* As the evening wore on, his initial concern of being early slowly transmogrified into wondering what was making his compatriots late. Fortunately, Hastus was a patient individual; wholly dedicating oneself to the Ars for decades was a necessary byproduct of such endeavors. It was with earned wisdom that he understood that some things simply took time to come to fruition, and he knew better than to question what could keep the members of the Noose at bay. For all he knew, they could have been stricken by a detour of whimsy, plunging themselves into an island tomb that had suddenly risen from the very sea. Perhaps they could have been assailed by pirates, or some yet more nefarious force, and currently were locked in an epic struggle for their very existences. Their vessel could very well have sprung a leak, and he held some reservations on whether or not nautical repair was a skill learned by any of them. A veritable host of possibilities were arrayed before their lot, so who was Hastus to judge for such tardiness? No, he would not judge or condemn. He was more than satisfied with his current status of patiently waiting, even as his ears discerned some trouble afoot in the revelries behind him. That was none of his business as well. He was sure that whomever was back there would resolve their disagreements amicably in the end. Everyone present were responsible adults, were they not? That brief distraction served to trigger his mind, his eyes widening slightly as he recalled the nature of the event. Hastus was not one wholly enamored by the pleasantries of such gatherings; while they didn't necessarily grate upon his choler, he much preferred the solitude of his study to the bustle of socialites. Still, his presence this night was a stringent requirement, as Arthur and Xartia both informed him, and he perused his attire for what he felt was the seventh time. His three piece suit consisted of a fitted umber frock coat, framing his six foot even, one hundred and eighty pound self almost perfectly. The silk waistcoat beneath was a shade deeper, matching the gold-and-brown patterned ascot tied about his neck. His dress shirt was a simple, white cotton button-up, his trousers matched his waistcoat, and wore black leather congress gaiters for his shoes. He nodded astutely after analyzing the attire, confident that he had picked a wardrobe appropriate for the event. He'd take criticism in stride, though he felt such doubters would simply not appreciate more anachronistic choices. He didn't have a mirror on hand to check his features, but he doubted anything would have changed dramatically so soon after cleaning up. He appeared as a venerable gentleman of an indeterminate age - clearly past his fifties, but aged impeccably-well. Hastus pursed his lips as time wore on, now procuring a gilded pocket watch from his coat's pocket. He hummed in thought as he noticed the hour, surmising that the members of the Eldritch Society of the Surreptitious Noose clearly must have been occupied with a truly vast distraction. He recalled the gifts he had prepared for the evening's hosts, and frowned, realizing that his offers would likely pale in comparison to his fellow guildmasters. The Society losing such face, so early on, would be most unfortunately. Hastus clicked the watch shut and returned it to his coat, his hands clasping in front of him. The sea air that night was refreshing, and with a hearty breath, he placated his worries. His friends would undoubtedly be here shortly. There was no room to compromise on this event, and as such he put his faith in the abilities of his comrades to meet their nearing obligations.
  3. *flails about leaving critters in her wake*

  4. Hnnngh. Where to begin.
  5. The Welcoming Ball for Predators Keep! [ Open to all! ]

    There we go. I'm pretty satisfied with that post.
  6. To Invite the World to a Ball~ [ P.K Party/Ball ]

    Fear was, as always, an intriguing response. For Hastus, emotions were not just a mere chemical reaction brought on by external stimuli; his world was defined by it, a living kaleidoscope of concepts - concepts that manifested to his still-human mind as 'colour', in a crude sense. A mind exposed to the Empyrean was not a mind left unchanged, and Hastus' was a twisted reflection of the psyche that had started on this path so long ago, and it allowed him to perceive concepts and abstractions that simply could not be processed normally. Some emotions were expressed in colours that defied all natural expression, and were found most often radiating from the Neverborn. Fear, though - that was a universal vernacular, a concept mired within the psyche of all things since the dawn of time. Of the origin of fear, of whatever blasphemous amalgamation that lurked in the farthest corners of the Outer Dark that had turned its illimitable intelligence upon all sapience and instilled in it the oldest of all emotions, not even Hastus knew. Whatever laid beyond those blighted infinities, beyond all reality and sanity, was not something even he wished to dwell upon at any great length. The Warp Sorcerer, instead, contented himself as the role of the voyeur, disseminating the whorls that painted a canvas a mortal artisan could only hope to create facsimiles of - the nauseating purples of creeping dread, the panicked reds of the eternal fight-or-flight response of the lizard brain, and the fathomless blacks of mad terror. The sorcerer had beheld fear in his pupil, and for it, he respected the Aspirant even more. Fear was the healthy response of a man who knew his limits. It was a response that was no stranger to Hastus himself. A droll smile crept to the middle-aged man's lips. Briefly, he attuned his attention to a passing waiter, motioning wordlessly to pass him a glass of white wine. As he afforded himself a tiny sip, he mused on the boldness of the Aspirant, especially in regards to the superior pupil - if only by tenure, not necessarily drive. +Deuteronomy is away in Blairsville, assigned to several tasks that he will be most apt at executing. My current companion is a new addition to my retinue, and one whom you will come to know over time. As for my arrival, it may be as such. One can never be so certain when the Architect of Fate has His endless eyes upon you.+ The thought of it brought an invisible shudder to the Warp Sorcerer. No matter how much one felt they were acclimated to the Empyrean, the Neverborn, the Dark Gods, the revelation that you were naught but a pawn in some incomprehensible game was always right around the corner. Many could claim Hastus was mad, but he was not so mad as to think he could outwit the Changer of Ways. The hidden symbol upon his right palm was testament to that unerring fact. +My reasons are my own, Markus, but as you have likely surmised, one such reason is to personally assess your project. I wish to know how the puppet monarchy fairs, for its well-being is still a consideration I hold of most import. We cannot have these Will Workers stray from their path, for they know not its twist and turns, and of what awaits them should they become lost.+ For the ignorant, the differences between psion and psyker seemed like an expansive gulf. One was an art honed from birth, of being able to bend one's will to the reality about them, and forcing it to capitulate; the other art involved delving into an abomination realm, where immeasurable power could be drawn at an ultimate price. What the uninitiated did not know, though, was that they were one in the same - the key difference of a psyker being that they channeled their mind through the Warp, knowingly and willingly, to enact their supernatural powers. A psion's existence burned just as brightly in the Sea of Souls, and should they turn their minds to such lofty heights, they risked drawing the attention of predators unimaginable. A realm dedicated to housing such individuals, lead by a rather potent one in of herself, was a veritable tinder box. Hastus understood the implications of what would happen if these wayward souls strayed, and thus had sent Markus to ensure they remained ignorant of the greater, more perilous calling they could answer. With his query administered, Hastus allowed the Aspirant to continue in his revels; not only was he not so dour as to take the man away from his earthly pleasures, but it served them both well in further occulting their hidden dialogue. Instead, he turned his attention to the woman accompanying him. The Warp Sorcerer merely gave a light sigh in response to her prod, expected as it was. Epphie was not a creature to be denied of such trivialities, and thus attempting to combat the bound entity's will for such trifles was a complete waste. No matter how thorough his enchantments were, no matter how secure his grasp upon her True Name, she was still a being of singular power and drive - more than a match for any Neverborn he had ever bound. Daemonology had prepared him for the necessary prerequisites for the work he had wrought, but bending a demi-goddess to his will had nearly cost Hastus everything. Forcing her to be utterly subservient in all things was akin to completely halting the tumultuous path of an avalanche. "My focus is strained enough as-is to invite distraction in the form of needless displays of posturing. I do believe you understand I have no need to prove anything, my dear Epphie." He fixed the bound entity with a pleasant smile, with but a trace of arrogance. Hastus knew to never underestimate the thing, but she knew intrinsically who her master was now, and it had been at her own folly. The Warp Sorcerer waved a dismissive hand at the massed crowds, the displays of violence and anger and confusion flourishing about them. "As I mentioned, just about every single soiree I have partook in involved some form of mayhem breaking out. As you can surmise, it is likely to occur here, and you are more than welcome to dine on whomever deigns it appropriate to accost us." As if to punctuate his observation perfectly, Hastus witnessed as an entity materialized behind the baroness and began to engage her in dialogue. The thing possessed an incredible aura in his Witch Sight, and there was a noticeable draconian quality to it. +Indeed it is. You will grow acclimated to the insanity that manifests from such events. The Red God will be watching this night with rapt attention, and I do believe He will sup before it concludes.+ Hastus observed his apprentice as he engaged a particular woman in word and dance, striking up phantom memories within the corners of the Warp Sorcerer's psyche. He did not communicate his disapproval in any fashion, but he briefly wondered when Markus would turn his attention to the chaos that was coming to a boil all about them. He had not looked down those future tracks that night, so he could only guess at what laid ahead of them. Still, it was not his place to intervene in his pupil's work; if his hand was forced, it would likely reflect poorly upon Markus, unless something extraordinary were to manifest. With such potency culminated in a single locale, Convergence was a concrete possibility. Leaving that thought to the side, Hastus renewed his focus on the conversation between the two dancers, being able to perfectly glean it through his connection to Markus. The woman spoke of the ability to subvert wills by touch - a potent tool, but not an uncommon one. The number of creatures that could count that as part of their repertoire of skills was myriad, and Hastus pitied the girl for her ignorance. It was hubris to believe one could surmount everything, when in fact there would always be something greater than you - some so vast, attempting to perceive them was akin to asking a blind man to describe the stars above. What made Hastus lean forward in his chair, though, was the path Markus had branched off into. +She knows not what she speaks of, but you now walk a fine line, my friend. You traverse it at your own peril, and yet...+ A slow, knowing smile crept upon the man's features. +...can we claim that anything of true value can be taken without chancing Fate?+ As soon as the apprentice established a connection in the physical with his partner, an altogether different, wholly intrinsic one rippled through the Beyond. The woman's will was strong, a potent thing brought on by her birthright, and it was enough to even make the apprentice struggle for dominance. Yet, like the apprentice, the woman had taken a leap of faith of her own, damning the cryptic warning that had been spoken in soft words to her at the beginning of their chanced meeting. The risks had been deemed acceptable, and her plunge took her past her dance partner, past the stygian depths of the Tutelary that lurked beneath, and to somewhere else altogether. The sapient mind was not meant to dwell upon such matters for any length of time, such was its fragility - like a robin's egg beneath the heel of a boot. Yet, in her Empyric journey, contents hitherto unknown to her psyche would correlate, forcibly twisted together like a violent, catalytic event, and bring her a glimpse of the Primordial Truth. The universe shuddered, tilting and warping off of its axis. Images of vistas outside of existence flashed across her vision like a sped-up phantasmagoria, flashing and blending together in staccato bursts. Entire worlds could be seen, touched by the presence of the Heavens, they and their inhabitants forced to undergo unending change - bodies, minds and souls vacillated infinitely. Concepts made manifest by man's follies, held not in check by the petty fancies of time and space but by the mad potential of sapience, spoke out to her - voices that drifted from the Empyrean, unsynchronized, unintelligible, yet conveying malevolent and obscene lust beyond the barriers of causality. The Outer Dark loomed above, alien constellations glinting balefully down at her as one, by one, the legion of stars smeared against the black began to writhe and invert, opening into eyes that gazed down at that infinitesimal planet within the cosmos, and noticed her. And, in an ephemeral, blessed instant, it was over. With a sickening lurch, reality rearranged itself back into the coherent structure that so many countless lives relied upon. Such was their weakness, endlessly suckling at sanity's teat. The glimpse might not have been enough to shatter her mind, throwing all preconceived notions of self agency and self worth to the bitter, cosmic winds that had once keened through her psyche - but it would leave its mark. For no man, woman, or thing could ever come out Unchanged after viewing such sights. It would be enough for her to recall those soft words Markus spoke to her, quite possibly assumed to have been spoken in light jest; yet, after the Revelations delivered unto her by her brief connections with the Warp Sorcerers, no humor could be derived from the statement that would become all to factual: There are frightful things. @Mickey Flash @Voldemort @Selini
  7. To Invite the World to a Ball~ [ P.K Party/Ball ]

    The flow of party goers was like ice melt trickling down from the mountains as winter relinquished its grip upon the land, spring then heralding its arrival with the chill water that sluiced its way through dried riverbeds. The event's attendees arrived as such, beginning as a slow current that gradually began to fill the winding streets and patios of the burgeoning city-state. While the fledgling nation was more than wary when it came to the security of its figureheads, the myriad guards and observers could not hope to keep up with the teeming masses that had begun to filter in. Their task was to ensure no harm came to the Baronness above all other considerations, and thus their area of influence was spread to ensure no one could find their way to her without the utmost of scrutiny being leveled at them. With such keen but narrow focus, it made it all the easier to allow oneself to be carried in by the throng and avoid notice, being just another piece of detritus upon the ever-flowing river. Hastus, for all of the revelries and festivities, was not there to partake in such pleasure. His path was a matter of business. He played the part of the average, well-to-do attendee rather aptly, though that was less to do with the event itself and more how the mage dressed himself in any formal occasion. Earthen colors were favored, reflected in his overall attire that evening. He wore a three piece suit, the jacket being a dark brown, pinstripe suit, a waistcoat that matched the color and alignment of the pinstripe suit, and finally a white dress shirt with a pale golden tie secured about his neck. In congruence with his suit and waistcoat, Hastus' slacks matched his attire, terminating in a pair of off-shade brown dress shoes. The man's appearance was that of the nebulous, venerable but eternally healthy quality - well in shape at six foot even and around a hundred and eighty pounds, his flesh lightly tanned, sculpted features, sharp forest green eyes, and pepper-colored full beard and widow's peak hair style. A single signet ring adorned his right index finger, the sigil upon it a curiously-styled tree limb, or twig. Hastus' lips were a favorable neutral, not smiling, but close enough to it that he put on the appearance of a rather affable man. He was almost as handsome a match for the striking creature that matched his every move at his side, but in such a massive crowd, they were but yet another pair of attractive, affluent arrivals that none would spare more than a passing glance at. Indeed, it was enough that it allowed them to, in time, meander their way towards the western quadrant of the city, and to the epicenter of the event itself. The pair were able to weave in and out of the current, their movements bordering the preternatural in how they honed in towards their objective. As they reached the ring of tables and chairs that surrounded the dance floor, they managed to catch the dire commotion that had gripped the event. Hastus' gaze swept the open floor, eyes quickly darting between the various figures arguing and gesturing hopelessly at each other, putting on displays of bravado and taking on bellicose demeanors - and all for what, exactly? "Hm. I always did wonder as to why parties bring out such madness in men. Almost every time, at that." Hastus allowed himself a moment of reminiscing before giving a nonchalant sigh, letting such mysteries to be discerned for another day. He moved himself to a nearby cafe table, somehow vacant despite the sheer number of party goers, and seated himself down in it, moving the chair next to him aside so that his companion could join him. The chair was comfortable enough, but more importantly, it offered him an ample-enough angle to keep an eye on the proceedings, but was content to keep to himself - hopefully for the remainder of the night. That, and he did not need proximity to engage in dialogue with the man he had traveled so far, so long, to meet that night. +Quite the spectacle, is it not, Markus? I do hope I have not come at an inopportune time.+ The telepathic sending was as subtle as it was direct, morphed even to have its voice, its quality, differ from the originator's true one. Hastus' thought voice was like the quiet of a storm that had yet to break over a parched savanna, and though it was not one Markus was used to hearing, he would recognize it nonetheless. His master had many guises, after all, and it was well enough that an apprentice come to learn as many of them as possible. It was a private dialogue, sent through twisted channels no other mind at this gathering could hope to elucidate, for none but the sender and the receiver could be said to be enlightened of such Empyric matters. It would simply not do for any other to intrude upon their exchange.
  8. The Greatest Illusion Ever Cast (Quest)

    Thus, Biter's arcane might was revealed, to the awe of -   Wait, where was the awe?  There was supposed to be jaw-dropping awe!   Face still contorted in grim concentration, Biter quickly turned the divination ball around, his expression morphing into confusion at what he beheld.  He gave a whining grunt as he shook it violently, his movements blurring through the air, before taking a gander at the answer again.  "Humm, 'tain't right..."  [i]Swishswishswish[/i] "Meh, reck'n it could'a been better..." [i]Swishswishswish[/i] "Oh pff, now t'ain't that jus' plain [i]rude![/i]"     Biter's gaze snapped back to the orc's, his visage one of utter indignation.  "Why, ah never!  Suggest'n that ol' Biter's that durn cheap!  Ah tell yeh what, ah shell'd out THREE silver pieces fer this-here ar-tee-fact!  Biter t'ain't gots no time fer copper-grade tomfoolery!"  He huffed, his face screwed into a pout.  The hedge wizard went back to finagling with his item, shaking and prodding and flicking it, before the arrival of their mysterious patron interrupted even his single-minded focus.  A sharp whistle escaped past his lips as the raft meandered into view, resting itself along the shore.  The mage's beady eyes narrowed even more as he focused in on the sight, humming oddly to himself in thought as the woman spoke to them of the scenario they were all there for.  Biter rocked back and forth on his makeshift seat, absentmindedly picking some thick wax out of his ear and flicking it like a stray bullet through the night air.  His humming steadily grew in pitch, as though the few cogs left within his noggin were putting minute numerals together.  Before long, he made an important connection - well, at least to him, anyway.   "HEY, AH KNOW DEM RAGS!  BESSIE-ANNE, THAT YEW, MISSY!?" He suddenly thundered, waving his spindly arms around in a flurry.  "Gurl, ol' Biter done haven't seen yeh longer than it takes an elf ta grow their nether forest!  Ah did'un know yeh came outta da sticks down yonder 'ere!"  Unfortunately, by that point, the woman's pilot had already heaved off down the river, much to Biter's growing dismay.  "HAY LADY, DON' DO THAT!  DAG NABIT BESSIE-ANNE, WHY YEH ALWAYS GOTS TA BE A COMIN' AN' A GOIN' LIKE THAT!?"  Biter's lamentations warbled through the night air uselessly, as the subject of his keen interest did not turn back.  The hedge wizard threw his hat to the ground and stamped on it, grumbling to himself.  However, as quickly as his memory had connected whatever dots in his head that led to such a serendipitous moment, Biter's attention was just as swiftly drawn to the new tasks at hand.  He gave Coldmarrow a toothy grin, returning his deformed hat to his skull, which reformed to its natural state with a sudden [i]pop.[/i]  "Ah hee-hee, don'tcha worry there, sonneh, ol' Biter's gotcher covered, ah hee-hee!" The old man reached into one of his myriad pockets, retrieving a hand of off-colored sawdust.  He blew it throughout the wagon, and though it filtered up and into the faces of everyone in there, it somehow did not present a choking hazard.  Biter began to speak immediately after blowing the odd reagent, his voice a low, tumultuous mumble of arcane words.  The sawdust glowed subtly for the briefest of moments before sinking into the very wood of the wagon itself.  The spell he had cast was one of simple disinterest - while Ymira handled the possibility of being remotely watched, Biter handled the mundane, his spell making it so that anyone looking upon the passage of the wagon would not even bat an eye at it, forgetting it as simply as they would forget any typical wagon they'd behold in their daily routine.    Chucking to himself, Biter seated himself back onto his crate, producing a harmonica from somewhere before beginning to play a surprisingly melodious, almost haunting tune as they began the short journey to their lair.
  9. The Greatest Illusion Ever Cast (Quest)

      "Oh, says who, eh!?  Reck'n they might'a gotten their wag'n stuck inna mud.  Also reck'n they dun could'a been bushwhack'd by them Heenehan boys out inna sticks jus' yonder.  Them boys always up ta no good.  Or ah reck'n they might'a even dun been eat'n by a tarrasque..."   The difficulty in teaming up with traditionally-isolationist hedge wizards that hailed from 'the hills' (where these hills might be varied upon the time of day, weather, temperament, or how much moonshine was present) was that they never did receive much in the way of company.  Whether it was because people tended to avoid the domiciles of such individuals whose pastimes involved discovering the most efficient ways of turning lawn ornaments into delayed blast fireballs, or because these wizards often forgot that they had guests and mistakenly introduced the aforementioned lawn ornaments to them, the fact of the matter was that they often found themselves lonely.  Such was the life of many an arcane caster, but that particular breed of hedge wizard derived from communal environments.  Blood and kinship were hard yokes to throw, and whenever these Hillomancers got the chance to properly socialize with those they were able to strike an accord with...well, they just wouldn't shut up.   "...reminds me o' th' time ah bag'd me on'na 'em big boys!  Did ah ever tells yeh about it?  Hee-hoo, ah tell yeh what, they dun leave a helluva mess..."   Biter was not an exception to this rule.   Of the four mages within the wagon, Biter was by and far the shortest.  At 5'7" and wiry as a spring vrock, most of the wizard's mass seemed to come from the hunched mass about his shoulders, hidden away beneath his patchwork poncho.  Most usually never discovered what was beneath there, given that they usually stopped him after he began to fully disrobe to satisfy their curiosity.  His thaumaturgic vestments were a queer amalgamation of arcane practicality and the particular style of 'his people.'  Beneath his poncho, Biter wore a set of rugged overalls that were lined with varied, mismatched pouches and packs - likely to carry spell reagents, given how some of them smelled and others squirmed with things trapped inside of them.  He wore wyrmskin boots that went up to his calf, though given how the scales flaked off, they had seen far better days (if any at all.)  A wide-brimmed straw hat lay across his head, surprisingly in decent condition.  The hair was a ragged mess, like a mane of steel wool that would probably poison the water if he somehow got ambushed by a rogue shower.  His right eye was wide and wild, shockingly blue in its intensity; the left was covered by a strapped-on system of rotating monocles that he swore allowed him to gaze into any plane in existence, despite the fact that he crafted it from a set of old ale mugs.  His hands were gnarled, like tanned leather that had been chewed up, spit out, then left to dry in the baking sun.   The name itself was often a subject of question, but whenever asked, Biter would reply 'WOULD'A LIKE TA FIND OUT?', and much to his dismay, the matter was always dropped.   After rambling on for some time, perched upon a barrel deep within the wagon, the hedge wizard slowly began to narrow his exposed eye.  He gave Ymira a pointed look, singling her out of the three somehow.  "Yeh don't believe me, do ya!?  Crazy, ign'rant folk never believe Biter, psh!  Ah'll show yeh!"  He began to hum, emulating what many take as 'mystical' noises, as he reached into the folds of his ponco, never taking his good eye away from Ymira's gaze.  "BEHOLD," he boomed, his raspy accent somehow amplified and resonant, and displayed a large sphere before the orcish mage.  The material was hard to discern in the dark of the wagon, but it was expertly painted to look like a baleful eyeball, with numerous occult diagrams and script etched into it.  Biter's free hand waggled its fingers above it in a circular motion, his attention fully upon the arcane implement.  Inexplicably, the ambient temperature began to steadily plummet.  After several moments, the intensity was shattered by Biter vigorously shaking the eye, sloshing some sort of liquid within it.  He leaned over, quick as a lightning imp, and thrust the opposite end into Ymira's glowering features.  A glass portal loomed before her, a murky object just past it floating to the surface, divining forth information from the abyss...   'Reply Hazy Try Again Later.'
  10. *Sits in a box on your profile feed* :P

  11. Just when I thought I was out...

    @ Flaming: Thanks for the welcome!   @ Supernal: Hey, neutral is good!  Neutral means no issues, no drama, nuffin.  I know you can't please everyone, but I've been pretty adept at keeping out of drama throughout my RP adventures (even when in some pretty significant limelight), so I can work with that!  And yes, Elli is the best.  Don't know if she's still around here or not, but would love to RP with her again if she were!  And I definitely will - have a few in mind already, but they can come later.   Now if you'll excuse me...   @ Kat: GET OUTTA HEAAAAA -  
  12. HURRO AGAIN, FOLKS.   Some of you will remember me joining back around 2012'ish, which was due to Elli/Elliterate inviting me over.  I'm another Gaia transplant, go by the name [ Cognitive Genome ] over there, as well as Damnatus.  I faded away with inactivity after Elli, Erinn, and my wife (FactoryKat) all left a bit later, and went back to Gaia and didn't accomplish a whole lot.  Well, a few months ago Roen gets me into a Valucre chat for more of his army shenanigans; it wasn't my cup of tea, but I didn't leave the chat.  I later learned that more people were joining Valucre again, so I had some interest, but not enough to take the plunge.  It was Gaia's lack of cohesion (Valucre is the same in regards to there being mixed tech levels on many continents, but at least there's coherent setting information, canonical events, and other stuff that matters) that really made me disillusioned with the site in conjunction with people leaving.  Finally, my wife told me that she wanted to do something different, and brought up Valucre; then one of my good friends, Brian/Voldemort, effectively said the same thing.   SO I GOT PULLED BACK IN.   I think I'm planning on staying for the long haul, now, as Gaia has really fallen by the wayside entirely.  I have other friends who'll likely be joining me in some of the plots I plan on starting, too, so the one thing that honestly kept me over there is a null factor.  I'm already about to join a quest with Brian, hoping to con some mob bosses with our new characters, so that'll be some fun.  Anyway, it'll be good to see faces I've met here last time again, and looking forward to meeting and roleplay with new ones as well!
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