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About Wanderlost

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    King of Swords
  • Birthday 02/29/1996

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    Lost in History

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  1. The Grey Gateway [Taen & Yh'mi Worldrift Event, Part 1]

    For the great light, Antique had to look away. She shielded her eyes with her arm, but that wasn't enough to ward off the stinging sensation that crawled across her skin. Tiny pricks of pain like every hair, down to the smallest, were being plucked from her flesh took her legs from beneath her, but as the beam relinquished, the sensation faded, leaving the woman to lower her protective stance and place her hands on her knees. She was breathing a bit heavier than she should have been, trying to think through what had just happened. "What the hell was that?" She said to Ezekiel, who seemed nearly alone as one on his feet, but she realized what he had done had caused the enemy to retreat at the very least. "Doesn't matter--" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Just. Careful next time." Looking around, Antique noted their missing member and the skeleton writhing on the ground. She went nearer the edge of the cliff to check for Rusier, but he was long gone. Approaching and kneeling by the skeleton, she asked, "Hey. Are you gonna be okay?" And though she wanted to make sure he was okay, she found her hands hovering frantically over his charred bone. She didn't want to touch him for fear of unknown effects, and that reluctance led her to the realization that she had no clue how to help him. Administering aid to a human was easy enough, but she knew nothing of the undead, so she just planted her hands back on her legs, waiting for a response.
  2. I have no eye and I must blink

    Yes, keep him missing. Only careful maneuvering had saved Lamistadt from being maimed. He had nearly lost the ability to walk, or have children. Instead, his focus had bought him a gash on the leg that opened the leg of his pants as well. He danced, long as he could, until one of the sharp vines stabbed at him diagonally, catching in his clothes as he turned in the dance. He cut the vine, but saw that it did no good. The real damage seemed to be being done by his giant-ally. He knocked the thing down and stabbed it, and Lamistadt saw this, pausing long enough with his own fight against the vines to feel one stab up and cut the heel of his back pant leg, and even some of his boot by how it felt. He was in the middle of a two-fingered salute when that happened, after Starken had declared victory. Needless to say the monster's come back widened his eyes and tightened his lips. "Alright." His brow came lower over his eyes and he sheathed his sword. He had to skip to the side for the vines before he could match the approach of their opponent, drawing his revolver. He shot the thing in the head, sure, but that only really stunned it. Fortunately, it was a by-product next to Lamistadt's intent. He was a professional. A powered man in a powered world, and he was at least a little more than the weapons he carried. He manipulated the explosion from the shot, augmenting the flashing gout of flame into an extended blast. He expended more of his magic than was warranted, he knew, but finishing the assignment without the aid of his contractual companion struck him as something worth avoiding. The mercenary walked his revolver-made-flamethrower forward, catching the wooden beast on fire as it tried to block the attack with its arms that satisfyingly melted away. He stopped the channeling as soon as he thought he'd burned away enough of the monster to disable it, and left it to collapse half-headless and on fire. There over he stood, his weapon aimed with the intent to fire another round in case it moved. Fortunately, however, it didn't. Seeing that that was the case, he replaced it in its holster, taking a moment to gather himself and measure how much he had expended. After his moment of reflection, he recognized he had expended at least the amount of magic that could be accumulated in a day. This fact irked him, and he swore over it, but he let it go. If Starken wasn't dead, everything would be fine. His stores would accommodate another excessive show of power if he was mindful, and the brute seemed a force to be reckoned with. Shifting his boots in the black pool seeping into the earth, Lamistadt came to his accomplice and coaxed him onto his back with some aggressive booting. He didn't plant his foot on the man's chest, since that would be rude, but he did follow his foot over and lean down with his hands on his knees so his face wasn't too far up. He examined the man's face, slapped at his cheeks, and looked for breathing, hoping not to have to go further in his assessments, even though he would if necessary.
  3. roboblu's AFV

    You will be missed. Verily. We can discuss the details of your involvement in things I'm related to privately. I'll have a message for you in Discord when you get the chance to read it. Life is tough, and I'm spiraling right now too. I get it. No damage has been done, and I'll always be happy to write with you more in the future. Stay strong. We look forward to your return.
  4. Are you a mercenary or what?

    Hey. I'll have my post up tomorrow.
  5. OOC: Grey Gateway

    I actually rather like this method.
  6. Sai-Kharidii Mellissii

    Sai-Kharidii “Silvertail” Mellissii di Nymeria Silvertail is a lamia-type Nymerian with a very long, silver tail. His flesh is scaled from the neck down, and his face is a strange, thick grey hide. He has black hair, but he keeps it cut very short, claiming that it’s annoying and hard to deal with. He is an arcane mystic under the employ of the King of the Deep. He prefers a hermetic lifestyle, alone in his strange landscape of crystals and red coral, and accepts visitors from the kingdom of Nymeria on an individual basis, denying any more than one guest at a time without orders from the King of the Deep himself. Species: Silver Nymerian Given Name: Sai-Kharidii Family Name: Mellissii Taken Name: Silvertail Hair Color: Black Hair Details: Short Eye Color: Copper-colored with a black pupil. No iris. Complexion: Grey hide, silver scales Age: 44 Height: 3’2” From waist to top of the head. 10’ long tail. Body Build: Lean and muscular Clothing: Save for his regalia, Silvertail does not wear clothing. Weapons: Crystalline Rod, rest of regalia Armor: None Artifacts and Magical Objects: Regalia History: Born in the deep, the boy’s potential for magic was quickly made apparent. Ever since he could properly gesture to do so, he practiced magic every available chance he got. Spending as much of his free time as he was allowed around the mages he knew, they were fond of giving him pointers and helping him along in his exploration. So it was unfortunate, and much to their dismay, that he had succumbed to fear when it came to the coming of age ritual. Having done his best to avoid it and seem justified, he was cast out and into the Trenches, as was only right per the Nymerian way. Though he could source his own light and fend off the Fangfish and other pest-predators that found him curious, it was a time of fear for him. Only a few days had him begging to be let back in, but his own people chased him away. After that, it was three months until they saw him again. He’d come back injured, with flesh missing across his body and a limp arm. They did nothing for him, not even allowing him to move past the point of their spears, so he receded once more into the darkness. Sad and alone, and markedly afraid, he tended to his wounds. Surely, they thought him dead by the time his six months of exile were done. But he did not return by then. He had made a home in the ribs of a Leviathan skeleton, and he’d stayed there and practiced the craft of violent magics. He’d learned to make short work of the things that came to eat him. He’d set arcane runes and traps that killed them so he could sleep peacefully, and he lived that way for another six months before he decided to seek more. It was then that he went to the surface. He had enough vague knowledge to avoid the patrols of his kindred, and surfaced on the shore of a strange island. It belonged to witches and necromancers with a taste for hunting beneath the sea. The bones of their prey served as the foundation for their structures. Their walls were made of ribs like those he had lived in, arrayed and bonded like clamped fangs, and their houses used limbs and spines. The ground, everywhere, seemed to be littered with excess bones that had not been put to use. He came in curiosity, and was welcomed after being greeted with an understandable level of hostility. He stared there for a few months, learning and integrating their ways of magic, interacting in short sessions before returning to the water that sustained him. He learned curses and rituals. How to speak with and control the dead. It was all very fascinating for him to learn, and it opened his mind to a connection between the runes he had crafted and the rituals they had taught. Combining one’s innate magics with those of the world around them and the components involved, and guiding it to a powerful culmination. He inquired of other islands with magical residents, and they told him of a few. Namely, and most interesting to him, was that there was a colony of dwarves that the natives of the Island of Bone often warred with, who wore runes on their armor and shields. With the dwarves, he studied runes, but favored contact with a hermit of theirs. A Binder who had his own small island close by. They called him Harley the Mad, and not quite rightfully so. It seemed his ways simply conflicted with those of his kindred, which Silvertail--as he had taken to being called over his true name, which was often too complicated for surface dwellers--empathized with. He felt like he did not belong with his own kindred, for he was too soft and fearful, but Harley’s insight showed him he had grown a lot in the months he was away. He was already more scarred than he might have been in the rituals. And while he was there to learn of the ways of contacting great entities and crafting and setting runes, he also learned that he was much more worthy of his people than he had come to believe, and with that, he left for the Deep once again. He was sixteen, some nine months after he was expected to come crying back to the gates in the first place when he did return. His appearance, once again floating an orb of light above his palm as he ascended from the shadows of the Trench shallows, was much different by then. Stern, and not accustomed to sharing expressions with others. This came as a shock, naturally, to the Deepwatch who had thought him either dead or long gone, but he was welcomed back and branded with his first tattoo. After that, he attended school, but only as long as he had to. For his cowardice, he was shunned by the arcanists of Nymeria. Even having impressed everyone by having survived so long in the Trenches, he still bore the mark of a non-conformist. He was allowed to train and learn with them, but with his ways and opinions continually meeting opposition with their traditions, he spent his free time on his independent studies, exploring the arts of the slower, more meditative forms of spellcasting. He was effective in providing his services as a mage, but to those who required such things, and the military when they required him, he was often the last to be chosen, which he had come to enjoy in a way, as it left him more to his studies. Eventually, however, he felt it necessary to come to a final division with the other mages, and separated from the order completely. It was then that he wandered to the distant reaches of the empire and found the Crystal Spires he still calls home. Primarily quartz, ruby, and amethyst formations are found there, growing in massive formations with protrusions often as large as 15’ long and 5 - 7’ thick, which he calls spires. He was left to study in peace for years, until the King of the Deep called for all available arcanists to assist him in a task. Since then, he has marked Silvertail as a useful deviation from Nymeria’s norm, and employed him for his services as a point of reference and a resource for those distraught and seeking help. Often, Silvertail is able to provide knowledge that is hard to come by in the Deep, and he has shown an expert level of knowledge regarding the other planes of existence. While communing with the dead is not uncommon due to the Nymerian tradition of Death Masks, he has found his own ways to speak with the dead without need of them, and thus is not restricted by those who have been honored with Nymeria’s death rites. Twenty-and-some years later, he continues to live that way, seemingly answering only to his kings, he is a hermit who is seldom called from his home, and is loath to entertain more than one guest at a time. And though he still technically can enact conventional magic arts, his focus has been on those more exotic ones of his craft, and he has become so well attuned to them that conventional magic is limited by a stiff resistance due to that opposing attunement, and having forgotten many of the spells he once might have employed. His regalia and its effects are the closest he gets to such things currently, and they are still a product of his art. Details and Notes: He has made his home of bones much in the fashion of the natives of the Island of Bones he once knew, and over time it has grown. Now, in a clearing in the Crystal Spires, his manor resides, made of sinew-bound teeth and ribs and other bones. It is complete with guest rooms and living spaces for his guests. Silvertail’s Regalia Silvertail wears a regalia, which serves as an indication of his once self-proclaimed title: The Eye of the Deep. Since the day of that proclamation, he has been officially named the bearer of that title. Supposedly, one day, he will train a student in the ways of his magic and pass on his regalia to them, but as it stands, he pioneers the field of esoteric magics among the deep-dwelling Nymerians. Some few ventures to the surface landed him in the company of those who gave him the seeds to further study, and said studies have since been nearly ceaseless. He has ventured into the many neighboring planes, explored seances, and contacted demons. He’s augmented himself with life force stolen from his prey, inscribed magical runes on equipment, and so forth. Consider him an expert in rare forms of magic, which tend to take much time and care to incite. His reverence is to the old gods, despite the fact that the rest of his kindred have abandoned them, and he insists much of his magics are drawn from them. Crystalline Rod: Consecrated through a ritual to the old gods, this rod is a naturally grown, hexagonal, 3' long crystal. By itself, it allows the wielder to channel their arcane energy into a deadly, continuous white beam, which slowly disintegrates anything it touches. Use of it is exhausting, however, as it directly drains energy from the user. Overuse can Drain the wielder, leaving them magic-inert for up to 1 week. Paired with 1 other piece of his regalia, it allows the user to be aware of what percent of their normal magic capacity they have left. Paired with 3 other pieces of his regalia, it doubles as a dispelling implement, unraveling any spell it touches. Necklace of Fangs: An assortment of the fangs of aquatic predators, these imbue the wearer with the aspects of certain predators. Killer Whale Ferocity - The wearer’s strength in its limbs, especially tails and fins, are increased, their teeth are sharper, and they are led to a state of rage when they enter combat. This forces them to a heightened state of awareness, disregarding lesser functions like complex thought and memory in favor of faster and more violent responses. Great White Shark Sense - The wearer’s senses are enhanced, and they can sense blood within 3 miles. Leviathan Resilience - The wearer’s flesh is thickened, and scales hardened. Physical attacks have a much more difficult time penetrating these than normal. Crocodile Teeth - The wearer’s teeth adjust to slightly elongated fangs over the course of 1 week. Their jaw strength is increased immediately. Even if the necklace is taken off, the fangs remain. Paired with 3 other pieces of his regalia, it allows the wearer to create 3 doubles as long as they concentrate and do not move, retaining the ability to control them for a distance of up to 3 miles, as long as none of them are more than 1 mile apart from any others. These doubles do not retain anything but the physical traits of the wearer. Gold Array: An array of gold jewelry worn on the right hand. A band on each finger and the thumb, and a larger ring chained to the center of the palm between the fingers. It serves purely as an implement of abjuration, feeding off of the wearer’s arcane energy much as the Crystalline Rod does, though it projects a shield and not a laser. Paired with 3 other pieces of his regalia, the shield uses the same amount of energy to project a shield around the whole body, instead of in front of the hand. Eye of the Deep: A large pearl embedded in his circlet, this object can be magically paired with 1/2/4/8 other pearls, allowing the wearer to concentrate and see through them to an effective range of 1/2/4/8 miles. Both of these progressions correlate directly with the number of regalia pieces the wearer is adorned with. They act as eyeballs with 360 degrees of possible rotation, with a white, yet distinguishable iris appearing on both paired pearls when used. The one on the secondary pearl reflects where the user is looking, and allows the user a range of sight consistent with their inherent sight, which prevents disorientation to some extent. Facial Tattoos: While not technically an item in his regalia, he wears red-black temporary tattoos of a paste infused with energy taken from certain predators, its line art forming a network through which said energy allows his own arcana to flow. This allows him to enhance his eyesight at will with minimal effort, but he redraws the tattoos once a week, requiring him to hunt larger prey not only to feed himself, but also to fuel this enchantment.
  7. And Burn it Will

    Thelan favored the drink over the pill, and instead of actually taking the pill, he simply feigned doing so. Anything beyond what was necessary to recover, to him, was relying too much on technology he didn't trust. In clasping the mug for warmth, he changed hands for better hiding. His sleight of hand wasn't anything to gawk at, but it didn't need to be. With all of the attention toward Khali, it only needed to be enough not to be gawked at. He left a wake of silence after the desert-dweller declared her desired destination, and asked when it felt appropriate, "So how long should it take for us to get there?"
  8. And Burn it Will

    Complicated as Thelan was, organically, Cortana's diagnostics would likely have recognized him as something other than human, or only partly human. Having replaced much of his own flesh with white, almost web-like mycelia, he had initiated a process that he had been considering since he lost the things he loved. Now, as the medical unit gathered information on his vitals and provided him with nutrients and water, his dreams turned to a strange moment in time. "You could be like me. I sacrificed much of what I was born with to show that I held no ties with the Predecessors." This was a long time ago. "Perhaps these briers could be more to you than a parasite and impending death." It was not long after Thelan had first suffered the effects of the seed that had burrowed in his palm as he crashed through the Successor Grove. Trying to use magic to heal the wound had only caused it to grow, and the first thorny vine had sprouted from his hand. By then, it was already rooted around bone. "Or, perhaps you could find another parasite to fight it. Either way, you cannot stay here long, little one." He had insisted he wasn't little--that he was a man. He had fought and been angry with the Warden of the Wood, but he had been naive. He woke as the door opened from the medical room, and was relieved when little pain accompanied his sitting up. He surveyed the craft without a hint of haste or impatience. It had been more than a hundred years since he'd been anywhere near something so advanced. Others he'd met who had seen such great lengths of time always seemed to feel the effects of it much worse. He, however, seldom showed such moments of weary resignation. Everything he had experienced had been in passing. Only an obstacle between him and his goals. Now that he had no such goals to bind him, the world around him was much more immediate. Thelan was shirtless, and he looked the victim of a strange forest creature for the mess that was his torso. "I need to get to Terrenus. Southern." He frowned. What was it that made his sense for his mother's location so keen? It almost hurt in its intensity. He pressed his palm to his head. "Somewhere near woods. Massive pine trees... How far can you take me?" He asked, bringing his head from his hand for the courtesy of it, meeting the man's eyes.
  9. I have no eye and I must blink

    The man, huffing and fuming, kept a lid on the whistling pot that was his temper. That the man would have the gall to take one of his own possessions from his hands without so much as a courteous thought! But he returned it, and the man was his ally by contract, so there was nothing to fight over so long as he did not repeat the gesture. He gave no response to his antagonistic condemnation of his choice of weapons. Lamistadt lived for the fight, and had no qualms with the idea of his eventual death, but favoring ideals over practicality seemed senseless. Refusing to carry a firearm when one could simply made no sense. It could end fights before they started, and what was the point in competing if you didn't do your best to win? Well, perhaps they could compare philosophies after they were put to the test. And indeed, the figure they came upon struck him--or rather Starken--as a decent benchmark. The giant called for the very weapon he'd been admonishing his possession of, and he felt obligated to show that that was objectively humorous, but the matter at hand took precedence. His gun wasn't the right choice, but his axe and his saber were preferential, and those came to hand as well as they came to mind. The mercenary's hat came off just as well as Starken's poorly secured helmet, though his method of travel was his own. It wasn't teleportation, or even too fast for the human eye, but he was certainly faster than a human should have been in that moment. The form of magic that came most easily to him was an ability that allowed him to augment his own actions. It allowed his "puny" weapon to fire with more force and velocity than normal, and him to rush forward so fast that it was a difficulty for him to make anything out. It was really only a glimpse that had let him leave his axe stuck not far from the smaller of the giants. The thing had swatted at him and missed, and a chop of his sword was accompanied by a "thunk!" and a gust of wind. He wasn't laughing as he tore the blade free from the equivalent of a flesh wound. He was serious, and none too happy to face an opponent made of such materials. His saber would see more problems than a nick of the blade after the fight. He could have attacked further, but he knew he'd be too caught up in swinging to defend himself when the beast retaliated, so the mercenary watched the monster and readied his defense.
  10. And Burn it Will

    The vertical landing and its wake of spraying sand brought Thelan back to another time. The people on Earth had been impoverished and sad. He'd met some of the most selfish and desperate of cutthroats there, and those who cared for their fellow humans had to be ruthless and unforgiving nonetheless. The conditions there had been horrendous, with all the blame directed at other nations even when there were people more directly responsible right there at home. It wasn't right, having to fight invading forces when all the ammunition direct at that would have been better served pointing at the palace looming over the ruins and the slums. He was happy to finally leave that place, weary for all he had done, and how little it had helped. But this was not then, and he had the fortune of that knowledge. He was leaning on a man who was going to help him. He thought he should be thankful for that. Perhaps relieved. Instead, he felt apprehensive. Surviving just meant that there would be much more surviving to do. Not for his friend, for his friend had left, and not for the questions he'd lost his grip on, for his mother had changed the game from chasing to patience. So he only had himself to live for. Being that he had just forfeited the very thing that had fueled his patience, he felt that everything would be simpler if he gave up on getting the answers he wanted from Antique. He was laid down on a medical table, and without fear or concern for how a machine might diagnose him in his current state, Thelan let himself fall to the sleep that he found so enticing.
  11. And Burn it Will

    Frowning and blinking seemed like the only way to process the whole conversation. He got all the words, but not all of the meaning. Half of it seemed louder than it should have been, and the rest tried to bleed together. Getting it all straight was the issue. Sleep. He didn't need sleep. Sleep was dangerous. He wasn't looking to gamble, remember? "No sleep. Not yet. I need medical attention." He chose his phrasing, recognizing the high level of technology the man wore on his body, and spoke of having in his company. He had followed his mother to places where men like him were some fifth of the population, and while he hadn't socialized much, he knew he would be more comfortable with more developed terminology. Why Earth was his go-to was beyond him, but perhaps it was because he had met Tora there, and he was wishing for the company of a friend at the time. Thelan had been referred to as a lord. This had come before the thing he'd replied to, but he felt the question hanging in the air. He wasn't a lord, but... He had simply been asked his name, right? He passed off the lord bit as a foreign custom for the sake of his own understanding. "I'm sorry. You asked before, and asked again. I am Thelan. With all these titles, I could be Thelan the Druid, but I'll just go by my given name if it's all the same." He said, his golden eyes drifting over the woman before he could focus them.
  12. And Burn it Will

    Hobbling and wheezing, the short distance back to the tent proved trying for the druid. Seeing the man next to the woman's horse was alarming, and while his gut reaction told him to fight, a feeling of weakness washed over him, and he let his chin fall with his pride. If the man had hostile intent, Thelan was a dead man. So he let his eyes wander, and his recollection of previous events coincided with his golden gaze falling on his own flesh, arrayed in a pool of blood on the floor of the tent. He coughed and made his way to it. His intent must have been to clean it up at some point. Or was that only just now? He found himself on his knees, fighting back the lump in his throat that gathered for the morbid affair. He had it in his arms when he came back to the entrance, blinking and trying to focus on the figure who stood before him. It was Khali. The one who had saved him. The one whose tent he had made such a mess of. "Sorry." His apology came through his cheeks. "I'll clean it up." And he pushed past her. Somewhere in dropping the mass of wet skin, he too fell to the ground. Getting back to his feet had been dizzying, but he found himself, head still pounding, beneath the sun and on his feet after some amount of time. However much would have been a troubling question. Something seemed off about how easily he grew the flower from his hand. The man blinked at the red bud, trying and failing to parse what exactly was wrong with it being there. Eventually, he just did what he had meant to, and encouraged it to grow further with his own magic. The flower bloomed with a puff of flame, and he torched away the mound of what had been much of his body by embellishing that puff and directing it into a proper, sustained blast. When he was done, all he was left panting near was ash and glass. He closed his eyes, caught his mistake as it threatened his balance, and forced himself to focus as much as he could. He had to get back to the tent, and he did. He staggered to the bloodstains he had made and came to all fours over them, scattered seeds and growing them. They soaked up the blood, forming a small thicket of briers and sprouting black petaled roses, until he drew his magic back out of them, forcing the plant to whither and die. He finished cleaning up by tearing the briers up and bringing them outside. Some logic, or lack of it, told him not to burn it, and he came back to that spot one more time. Thelan seemed satisfied that now, the only evidence left of the grotesque scene were a few repairable rips in the floor of the tent. So he sat, or collapsed. Either way, he ended with his legs under him, propped heavily on his hands. Blackness and rest were calling him, singing an enticing song. It wanted him to gamble whether he would wake again, but he was not ready to cast those dice, so he forced himself to stay awake.
  13. Small Steps and Unseen Wings

    In her right mind, Antique might not have blamed Larque for his actions. Being as she was now however, she had little to no time to contemplate anything. All she really could do was lash out in a moment of panic in reaction to his attack. Something triggered when he stabbed her leg, and a flash of wide eyes filled with rage accompanied her whipping fist. It wasn't a strong hit, being impromptu and backed by little of her own body weight, but it would be enough to unsettled his goggles and perhaps bruise him. Certainly not damage the optics themselves, being that she hit the side of his face, but that was all that needed to be said of that tangent. The woman, having traded the curse of amnesia for something far more serious, succumbed to the venom. Next she woke, it was dark and raining. She was alone, broken on the Broken Plain.
  14. Tips on Images?

    Yeah, the forum software automatically parses image links. You can tell it not to if preferred for whatever reason. Also, it's good form to provide info on the artist who did the piece. :) Happy writing.
  15. What's in your speakers, nukka?