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Emet-Selch

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About Emet-Selch

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    Roleplay Wizard
  • Birthday 11/08/1990

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    Nifelheim
  • Occupation
    It will come.

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  1. Emet-Selch

    Prologue- Reformists [Hellfire Club]

    The day began like any other day… with a lie. “I will be a better man today,” he said to himself, cradling his head in hands as he stared at the floor. Liar. A voice sounded, distant a few feet from him. Staring at him from a few meters away was a young woman. A reminder of his past, a wraith that was forever bound to him, tied irrevocably to his soul that he could never escape. He long forgotten the moment she had appeared, and had always assumed her present. Having first appeared as a dark shadow, her body cloaked in a silhouette of grime, covered in cascading stars of light that sent a glowing striation. But that had changed, her form was slender, almost too skinny for a woman her age. Her dress hung over her like a sheet to a child, and her black hair fell around like a mop on a stick. Though none of those features, neither her pale or translucent skin, bothered him… it was her eyes, deep welling orbs of midnight that contained hidden rage, rage for something he had clearly done in his past. What had he done? Six could never recall this information. He could not recall further than the moment he had awoken in the ENGELS facility in the prime city of Arkadia. Dreams often came to him of the time before, but instead they were horrors that flashed in front of him like a child to a slideshow. Every image painting black skeletons onto a white background with action only as a subject thought instead of a verb. The first thing he had been told when he woke was to forgive himself. Why? What had he done that was so horrible? But the answered never came, it never did. Instead he lived two long years in the facility with others like him. He bonded with them, trusted them, that was until… she appeared. Her words were insidious whispers, constant negative reinforcement that frailed any good deeds he had progressed. At first believing she had something to do with the side effects he had gone to the Headmistress of the facility, only to be rebuked, it was a few days later when he was given strict instruction to forgo any thoughts that the drugs could cause such reactions. He had been given a gift. A gift that he should cherish. Instead she loomed around him, sometimes entirely visible and entirely not. He changed his outlook, attempting for something cheery, to make himself appear more friendly, approachable, and jubilant. This outlook was often discouraged, especially during combat tests, but he could not stop the smile. What would he have done if he couldn’t have smiled? This continued for a few years more until the assignment came. One that was his big break, his chance to get away and prove that he was not what the voice believed him to be. He traveled to Stonehaven, a smile on his face the entire ride. He met with the locals, the children, the fishery, and attempted his best to show that he was not what this wraith made him believe. One that could craft the image of somebody that was trying to be better. He needed to be better. Distractions of the room came, Six's thoughts were returned to him, and he gave a smile to his ward. Day to day his mood changed, today it was light and easy, he relaxed and thanked the Gods for their blessing upon him today. Aunoma Eiwa was an anomaly to Six, but he never took the time to get to know her. It was hammered into him at the facility. Getting to know those you protected often led to miserable actions during either combat or strenuous situations. Emotions caused rationale to be tossed out the window, and having his emotions constantly debilitated on a day to day basis kept him to his assignment. Be nothing. Be nothing more than what you are. You are there to protect. You are there to serve. So, serve. The mantra that constantly made its home in his mind, and he welcomed it. His job was to protect her, she was the ward that would never come under fire and he made sure of that. As he came into her space, her spatial awareness in the room became his spatial awareness and what she saw, he breathed. Despite all of that lovely jargon…he still produced a smile, a bow at the waist, half of the most formal but one that showed the proper respect; grasping the folded papers. Thumbing through them with brief curiosity, he murmured a distant voice. “As you will, your grace.” The act, after all, had to be sold. And thus, the day ended just like it had begun… with a lie. But that was not an unusual thing in his life. It was much easier to cast the shadows aside and deal with the plans that came to him, instead of pretending that he could fix the applications that drove to him. No, it was much like everything else in Six’s life. A need to fulfill that little part of him that got him out of the cot every morning, that tended to the rummaging curls of his beard, and that begged the attention of his body. “Mn.” Upon arrival to the manor, Six was not entirely sure what to expect. His memories faded and a constant blur from before he arrived to the facility meant that he had no recognition of the lands on which they traveled now. It was of no surprise that it felt a little… genteel for someone of his status. There comes a certain structure to how one would—well, it is easier to say should—act when invited to desultory events. Six lacked the proper jib, if one were to cut it that way. Adjusting his coat as if one would bat at a towel covered in sand, he took a breath and looked around. Follow Aunoma’s lead, he guessed. What he lacked, she showed herself an expert, and that was worth not making a fool out of himself. However, to call into contrast, Six found the craftsmanship of the manor to be quite observable but in different reasons one would to expect. Being a Bodyguard hired out from ENGELS meant a few things, and to him, it meant laying down the groundwork of the area. Grandiose décor meant several things to somebody like him, and it meant that either the owner valued the manor with their own self-worth, or they saw the space as a large shelf for their trinkets and achievements. Wood, stone—whatever it may be—scraped against his nail as he brushed a digit upon it. It could, of course, be seen as rather rude or coarse to touch the place in such an intimate manor, but… alas, work was work. After a few moments of his usual bumbling and fumbling, Six made his way to an area where he could his keep an eye out on his ward. Warm bodies present in a focused area brought a brow up, but he said nothing nor did he make a worried show of it. No, instead, he went to making small talk to whoever he could. He halted when his ward made herself known, and he chuckled to himself. More friendly faces, more friendly smiles, and he wandered around and swept his eyes over the cast. A wonder came to him... Ah, nevermind, this was neither the time nor place. And alas… he slipped his fingers into his pockets, digits rubbed together. The day was just another day… where he was a lie.
  2. Emet-Selch

    Orisia | Ask Me Anything

    >.> @ the two "what" reactions. There are several designs for the flintlocks defining their force of power. It isn't rocket science to determine which of the few you are speaking of?
  3. Emet-Selch

    The Spinster.

    Boots clinked upon the surface. The bustling night was alive—a collaborated pulsing breath with the sounds of the crowd below. Each drawing breath that whispered amidst the night would be an exodus to their lives. Betwixt what they knew and didn’t know, their aether was being slowly absorbed and funneled to the form perched above them. As the baubles of miasma would soon hardened, the shaped took to that of a man. As if cast from the shadows itself, a cloak spread around the body and draped down to sweep the marble edged rooftop. A heartbeat passed, an explosion rocked the sky, and a skyline was rent from history’s weave by blades of a carrier. Lassiter was reborn. Emerald hues swept the night with a curious glance, his presence was always that of anomaly to wherever he had went. The last thoughts that permeated his memories were the sharp edge of a rapier rending his heart from his body. A peculiar woman with horns, long dressed hair that framed an oval face. Her song still played in his mind, even though he was far from that putrid underground. So the question beckoned: Where am I now? Lassiter’s fist curled, tightening until a fine point, and then he released a breath. Shadows exploded around him, casting out in deviating blades of night. Their eerie silhouette of black providing no insight into where they led, but Lassiter shrugged and took to it. Flames was his bartender, chaos was his drink as the fulminating fusillade kissed his cheek. The expulsion of rancid disgust would overlay him, a blanket of hate. Lassiter simply fed upon it as he searched the area. The explosion seemed rather recent, or as much as he could detect; by all looks of it, he regarded it intentional. It lacked clarity and purpose, only being that to create a swarm of terror. The first flame licked at his heels, and he turned to brush at it with fingers. As he swept the maleficent tongue with pale digits, he brushed along the intangible heat. Usually flames would provide a good source of aether for Lassiter, but due to the recklessness of this flame, Lassiter found the other half of him being sourced. Nether was cast into this mix, and he would gently sweep the area until the lasting flames were gone and he had fed to his fill. Like a man drunk of spirit, he surrounded himself in the warmth and crossed his arms to hug his body. This way and that his form shuddered, a weening tree in a storm of silence, and he let out a breath. A biting pain scoured through him, and the earth below met his knee. Enja. So there yet was a reason why he drew breath. His beloved chaos whispered her deprecating thoughts. More memories flooded back to him, to the casting monstrosity that had occupied the brilliant azure forests of Genesaris. Lassiter had been tugged into another nightmare, the Twiphiloth—a place of opposition against the current light, where only impure aspects drove into the soul and upon each aspect sat a desolate crown. “Mn. So this… Wait, what happened to my voice?” Lassiter practiced a few more sounds, pitching language into the surrounding area until the ghosts entertained him no longer. “I’ve been dead for three years but I can still age? What…” he trailed off as a blade spiked up beside him. His head gave to cant, and he would poke a little at the unnerving blade that began to detach itself. It wriggled free of his body, pulling and tugging until Lassiter sighed and finally lifted his arm to allow it freedom. Popping off upon the core of the terminal’s floor, the sliver of shadow rose into a female form. Lassiter chuckled. “So good to see you again, cher! It has been so lo—“ He was cut off as a sliver of black pierced his chest, driving into the wall behind him. Lassiter grimaced, his nose giving a defiant wriggle. “I just came back to life, why?” The woman stared back at him, her eyes crossing and then she upturned her head in a huff. “Just making sure you are not going to drop dead again.” “Yeah, so. Good to see you again. How did you get out?” Lassiter questioned while glancing around to the mutilated and charred corpses. “Right. Death. Forgot about that.” “Mhm. So if you do not mind, I need to eat.” “Righty-O.” With that, Lassiter left his avatar to do as she pleased. He summoned another shadowy blade and cast it forth, a pillar of black rose before him. This one was shattered in the front, angular, as thick as a millimeter on all sides with purple veins raking toward the center of the portal. Lassiter gave a shrug. “It has been awhile since the Jackal has consumed anything. So be sure to find the souls and consume them as well. After all, we can’t be letting our opposition have all the fun.” The portal fell like a curtain behind him, and Lassiter was gone, with a lasting thought. Ghosts can't scream, can they?
  4. Emet-Selch

    General Chatter [18+] Violence always permitted!

    Can someone enlighten this old fool how to wrap images beside text? This website has seemingly gone through a hundred iterations every time I disappear and return that I just cannot seem to remember how to do it.
  5. Emet-Selch

    Lend me your Prayer v2. (Port Town-ish.)

    They always said the worlds were connected… What they have failed to mention was… What would happen if they merged for even a single moment? Bolts of lightning sheared through the sky, creating monstrous veins of blue, contrasting the towering influence of green and black roared a cacophony into the swelling darkness. The monstrous Titan let out a gurgling scream as it swung its trunk shaped arms in all directions. Its voice filled with agony, with fear, and even worse… it was corrupted by the very being it was created to stop. Gavin stood behind his Imperator brethren, their blades were drawn and they launched themselves at the vile being. Slagged, purple flames erupted in a wall, which slowly closed inward toward the five Imperators. An Imperator to Gavin’s left caught the flame with a swiping blade, and soon began to shout, an empty and dead scream shortly followed. Ringing in his ears, fear forced baubles of sweat to form around his brow. Using his cloak to brush at it, he clenched his claymore with all of his might. Time was running out, and he had no clue what to do. He caught sight of his Brother in Command, the Judge Inquisitor Merek calling for commands but the sight was soon swollen by the flames growing closer, wilder and blinding his vision. The flames closed in faster, a sickening magickal crawl, and Gavin shifted to dodge aside a licking flame. Another Imperator was caught, the screams came again and the monstrous roar filled the endless night, one Gavin could no longer view. Only arm reach away, the flames closed around Gavin and he lifted his claymore to his chest and held it in the last Warden of his Honour. He took a last breath and thought about his friends, his family, and most of all his brother. This would be the last he would see of the Justicar and their Imperators, the last of the Celestial Wardens, and the final moment in which he thought of the beloved Freyja, the Felryn Princess. He had never gotten a time to tell her of his heart, his feelings… He whispered beneath his breath and he let his honour shield him. “Goodbye, Freyja. I love y—“ a rippling occurred. Far in front of him light blasted into the horizon. Much like the pillar he was sent to guard at the Magister Citadel, a beam of golden light showered upon the land. He blinked and a full plated creature stood before him. He looked up to see the shivering cloak of a towering knight. It lifted a mighty starred weapon and circled it about in a few sweeps, sending off shockwaves of wind. The flames were gone the moment the wind swept upon them, extinguishing them and the knight spared a glance to see Gavin and the other Imperators left. Nodding its massive horned helm, the knight took off to join its brethren that fought against the enraged Titan. It would be too heroic to say Gavin had any will to fight left. He watched with amusement, horror, and fascination as twelve steel plated Knights, as large as the very arena careened themselves toward the demonic Titan that cursed. Faintly he thought he heard his name, and he snapped himself out of his focus as Merek appeared, a streak of crimson film running down his visage. “We need to go! We need to go now!” ALL WILL BE DEVOURED. I WILL NOT FAIL THE OLD LORDS. THE CREATORS COME AND THEY WILL NOT FALL TO YOUR KING! HE BETRAYED US, AND YOU ARE NOT UNLIKE THE OTHER! The Titan roared as it was pinned by two of the towering knights and a male dressed in black threads materialized between them. He was almost laughably small in comparison, but he drew his right hand up as blades were summoned one by one, all enormous and sharp, each of them decorated with woven runes that spun about the fullers. He said nothing, instead launching them into the raging monster’s core. They sunk in, piercing so deep that he heard the faint screech of metal grinding upon marble. And then the world ended with a flash. He woke… sometime later, separated from his Imperator squadron. The magical crests woven along his arms and hands, too, had been disconnected. In a land that is filled entirely with fleeting motes of mana, he found it laughable at how mortal he now was. The first few hours had been spent searching for any others. Aside from the bodies of his Brothers, there was nobody left alive or that he could see. He did not know whether to sigh in relief or fall to the earth and cry that none of them survived or were twisted into vicious voidbeings. The earth’s dense foliage provided him with enough berries to get by on, nothing to sate the moaning that his stomach created. Sickness found him a few days later, and a few more after that he spent clinging to the half size of a tree branch. When it had passed and he had naught of hydration, he had wandered into what he would call luck. The bandit camp was rowdy and ostentatiously petty. The flames beckoned and kissed the air, huffing away scented bark and alleviating the surrounding area of bugs and flightful creatures. The idea to run was quite illeceberous, but Gavin found himself hungering at the idea of water and more importantly, food. The next day came and Gavin had been pondering what he would do. Most of these bountiful conversations in his sickened, deprived head were… rather dubious. He thought to enter the camp as an old friend, slinking away his Licryan Armor and acting as an old beggar. Once he had his fill, he would rid the earth of such scum and then quietly go on his way to until his crests rebuilt in a few months’ time. However… This was Gavin. He woke to a knife near his throat and two of the bandits surrounding him with a crossbow, and the other, of whom Gavin could surmise was the quickest of sorts, was drawing back his longbow. His rather intimate friend, Cur Uno, pressed the blade even closer upon his skin. “Te fuck are you?” the bandit rasped. Gavin, having not had a good drink in awhile, rasped. “’avin” There are often plenty of ways to go about this moment. You can have your dignity and fight back, slashing and slicing until Mr. Longhair fills you with so many arrows that you might shit wood the next day, or you simply accept the fact that you’re dead and move on with it. The surprisingly good news was that the flames from the pyre felt amazing at his back, and he was held against his will. They had stripped him of his armor, most of his clothes, and left him the dignity of his laced knickers because that was what mattered at the end of the day. Over the following days he was forced to work, was cut and almost stabbed, he danced and clapped, and told terrible jokes to keep the dark skinned brutes at bay. Their leader was a rather swell guy when he wasn’t punching you in your kidney or trying to drive a five foot long “dagger” into your chest for calling his concubine the filthiest bitch he had ever seen. One night though… Gavin sat within the slave encampment, resting his head against the strawed wall when the flaps opened up, and a man was thrown inside with him. The man seemed rather young, thin and boney. He crawled toward the flaps, screaming. “No! Please! I’ve seen her! I have! You’re talking the horned freak, right?! I saw her! I swear!” “Ah shut it,” cursed one of the bandits, driving his foot upon the weakened individual, slamming his face into the dirt. It was too dark to tell, but a flicker of light showed the tears in the man’s gaze as he stood back up, resiliently, and prostrated forward. “I have! Her flames! They burn anything they touch, right?!” Obviously… Idiot. “S-she’s red skinned! Like a Rakshasa! She has fire along her body! She… she… “ teeth chattered. “I-I can take you to her, I swear!” Gavin snorted. A few hours passed as nothing came, the man sat in the corner curled up into a ball as he kept murmuring under his breath. “I can take you. I can take you. I can take you.” He cried every now and again, but Gavin didn’t mind. It was a shitty situation, there wasn’t much he or anyone else could do. By morning the tent flaps came undone and the leader of the Bandits once more entered. He was a well-built man, beefy and stout. His skin was as dark as the backside of a horse, and his beard hung like an old wizard’s. He was strapped from head to toe in lamellar and other forms of armor, that he wanted to guess was leather or sheepskin. An odd circle of thorn sat upon his head as he stepped toward the man who had wept himself to sleep. “Oi!” The Chief said. The man didn’t move. “Oi!” Roared the Chief as he brought his boot forward in a quick snap, it launched the man directly into the straw boundary, sending him forward and creating a shaft of light. The Chief reached through the hole he had just created, grasping the gasping man by his throat. Gavin would come to guess the Chief was not an ordinary man, nor was he entirely human. There was something odd about his od, it shifted lazily around his body. Human’s Od would naturally sift upon like a thin blanket, as it had a spirit or soul to call to it, but not the Chief’s. The od blanketed and then warped, intangibly like smoke as if it was rejecting the Chief all together. “You! You said you could find me MY mark?” Oh, right, the Chief wasn’t intelligible. Didn’t Gavin mention this? The wheezing man, now covered in spots of red lulled his head and then gagged as the Chief drew him into the tent and shook him. “AHG! WHAT W—YES! YES! I CAN, PLEASE STOP!” “Hnf. How I know you ain’t tiny rat human? You run when I let you take head?” The Chief inspected the man like a child would a doll after they dropped it. Yes, definitely not human. “I won’t! I wouldn’t! I swear! I swear!” Gavin thought the man must have been holy, he swore a … lot. The Chief tilted his thick head, his neck bulged as his veins squirmed beneath the skin. “Good. Take me. Now.”
  6. Emet-Selch

    General Chatter [18+] Violence always permitted!

    Potatoes and Shit. Book #2 finished, clocked in at 192,000 words.
  7. Emet-Selch

    What's in your speakers, nukka?

  8. Emet-Selch

    General Chatter [18+] Violence always permitted!

    Hm, I always check mindless chatter when I come back to see where I'm at. I last checked this website at MC page: 2583, we're now on 3253... So an afternoon, eh? eh? -Shrug- Mebbe me fall, but da amani empire? Neva' gonna die.
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