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Praetorian

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Praetorian last won the day on May 31 2020

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About Praetorian

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    Hero of Daydreams

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    Nouns.
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    Everyone's favorite something.

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    Praetorian #5153

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  1. Dunno. I should have an answer for you, but I don't. I, without googling, can't tell you the difference between boat and ship. And from a legal and technical writing standpoint they are usually called vessels. "Recreational vessel, commercial vessel, etc" Sometimes the term ship gets used when you need to be more specific: tankship, container ship" because vessel includes self propelled and nonself propelled watercraft, whereas ship is almost exclusively used for self propelled. But even in legal writing that isn't consistent. The term boat is almost never used professionally, with the only exception I can think of being lift boats. I'm sure there is a nuanced difference between the three, and each probably had a specific use at some point, however I can't tell you why something is a tank ship, another is a lift boat, and another is a towing vessel. My best guess is that it's regulation incorporating the language of the regulated, which has resulted in technical meaning being lost.
  2. The would be allies making up the raiding party flawlessly ceased the opportunity that Ashton had created. Almost immediately his reservations, about a group of total strangers successfully working together, dissolve. He allows himself to cling to a glimmer of hope that this isn’t a simple fluke but rather a reflection of their competence. With the initial assault being swiftly routed, Ashton drops his upraised arms, assuming that at this point no further contribution is required on his part. With a sudden change of air pressure, brought on by the abrupt opening of portal, Ashton’s assumption is proven wrong. Glancing up the redhead watches with mild interest as a rock drops from the sky. Absentmindedly he reaches down by his side, grasping at something that isn’t there, perhaps out of habit or maybe instinct. As Dia takes a few pop shots, clearly hoping to score a hit on the exposed eyes, Ashton starts to take a few steps forward. His left hand rises toward his neck, unclasping the cloak and allowing it to fall to the ground. His foot falls hasten as he transitions into a jog, eventually repositioning himself from the others near a hanging edge of the airship. His lack of proximity to the larger group affording him a few extra seconds to contemplate as the boulder tries to steamroll them. Within feet of the edge he hits a patch of ice, his left foot slipping out from under him as he falls face first into the snow, serendipitously avoiding the volley of spikes. As the bombardment of projectiles sail overhead and crash into the deck around him, Ashton draws a glyph in the area with his left index. From it a searing beam of what erupts and slams into the spinning mass of rock. Although the initial hit seems to glance off, sending arcs of light bouncing and ricocheting along the shell, and the spinning ensures that the attack strikes a larger surface area, steadily a one inch band of heated rock begins to glow into existence.
  3. Don't wait on me, go play with Jotsy!
  4. Sitting in the snow, frustrated with the situation, Ashton briefly abandons self-pity to take a moment to assess the situation. In that moment he gazes upon Samuel, only to have a puppers gaze back, and immediately his mind floods with a level of conviction he seldom feels… I… will… boop that snoot. The invigoration brought on by the realization that a doggo is on the team is fleeting, and with the arrival of the horde his mood is smothered within the depths of depression. All at once the cold becomes the cupcake of evil, the swarm of bloodthirsty fiends little more than soured icing and moldy sprinkles on the disappointment cake. With Dia darting off to hack, slash, and blast her way through a swarm, perhaps fueled by insanity or death wish, Ashton notes her obvious lack of a plan and holds back. Not because he’s worried, but because experience has taught him to weigh his options and leverage his efforts in the most effective manner possible. Effectiveness usually means combining efforts, not dividing, and at the moment they are both divided and outnumbered. Pushing himself to a stand, his left and right hand ascend, fingers dancing wildly as his wrist twist, streaks of iridescent amethyst light forming merging glyphs that unfold into a web of runes. By the time both arms have married above his head the individual formations have assimilated into a coherently coded construct. From it humming, whizzing, and sharp cracks as innumerous objects rocket from a depthless two-dimensional plane. A volley rises, and a volley falls. Countless near translucent black orbs descend from the sky; peppering the top of the ship in a near perfect line that travels from the winged fiends, through the charging line that is bull rushing Vassago, zigzagging across the three heads of the largest monster, before falling scatter shot among the horde that Dai is trying to bathe in. The individual explosions are unremarkable, akin to a firecracker, perhaps strong enough to maim a human’s fingers, but certainly incapable of doing appreciable damage to demon spawn. That, however, isn’t the point. Between beating wings the small explosions disrupt airflow and create downward force, throwing off the cadence of flight and forcing those in the air to descend. For those looking to bullrush it’s a sudden distraction immediately in front of them momentarily pausing their charge. To something with multiple heads processing three times the sensory information, it is a sudden blinding and deafening flashbang that robs them of their awareness. And for the horde, it’s chaos mainlined directly into their minds as a sword swinging lunatic carves through their ranks. Admittedly, the redhead doesn’t normally play support. However, with the heavy cloak, shitty traction, and the general cold sapping his motivation… it is the best fit, for now.
  5. I don't have a particularly strong visual imagination, so I don't do a lot of visualizing. It's probably part of the reason why I seldom to never use a lot of details and spend more time focusing on what is happening rather than how things look. When I do any type of "visual referencing" it's just that, referencing. And it would be pretty close to whatever source material I'm trying to emulate.
  6. Hi and please even if you honestly don't know what your username image / avatar shows can you give me your best educated guess? It would please me greatly and make me feel appreciated like a stunt double in one of those James Bond films

    P.S. My money's on a 1980s RPG desert but eh I've been wrong more than once, especially if we assume "once" means one time after every other time in a million times LOL

    1. Praetorian

      Praetorian

      It's from High school of the Attack On Tokyo Academia Shippuden Super 009 Abridged.

    2. Die Shize

      Die Shize

      Google says no 😩:angry:

    3. Praetorian

      Praetorian

      Did you try bing?

  7. “It’s cold.” He mutters to himself, gaze affixed to the cloud of condensate that billows from his lips. “I hate the cold.” The whine of his voice is lost to the omnipresent thrum of the engines. Ashton’s head cants ever so slightly to the left, his fiery gaze working the height of the cabin before finally settling on the empty jump seat directly across from him. It isn’t a bitter and unbearable cold or the kind of cold that chills to the bone, but it is both undesirable and uncomfortable. Perhaps, most of all, it is unwelcomed, especially to someone who feels perpetually chilled. “I don’t suppose we could change the venue?” Even with the rise of his voice, his words don’t travel far enough to overcome the noise. Even if they did, it is doubtful that anyone is listening. Certainly not the lady with the headphones anyway. Admittedly, Ashton isn’t sure why they’ve settled on this particular course of action. The airship has nothing of value to retrieve, nor is there a requirement to keep it in place or intact, and boarding it while it’s precariously perched between twin peaks isn’t his ideal approach. No, if he had his way, they’d bombard one of the sides, freeing it of the mountains’ grasp, and send it sliding and tumbling to the valley below, where they could descend upon it while the chaos is fresh and the compliment of demon’s the crew are in disarray. Of course, this isn’t his operation and he’s only here for support. The next few seconds rush together, an announcement that they are making an approach, some lewd music to set the tone, an admission that explosives would have solved the problem, a forgotten lighter signaling future bad luck, and the one woman on the team yeeting herself from the drop door like a child on a waterslide. He’s keeping strange company these days, in uncharacteristically strange locales. Pushing himself from the street, he walks to the opening and peers down to the snow covered ground. He pauses, contemplating something, shrugs, and steps off. In the few moments of freefall the heave brown cloak blows up around him, obstructing his view, and revealing the “lingerie” beneath. Silver plates adorned with glowing runes and glyphs make up the bulk of the armor he’s wearing. There are darker grays of another material, but the moment is too fleeting for a full analysis. Landing unceremoniously on both feet, his knees buckle, he takes a half step forward, stumbles, and by the time the cloak has settled, he’s falling. There is a second of silence, his crimson gaze staring deeply into the white abyss that his married to his face, the abyss unblinkingly stares back. Rolling to the side he sits up, brushes some snow from his hair and eyebrows and then looks toward Dia. “It’s cold.”
  8. I like brevity. 😶 If you'll have me, I'll use Ashton.
  9. AFV thru the 29th.

  10. [Purple Room w/ @Lucinda Valentine] If ever there were a god of vampires, it would surely be one of indulgence and decadence. One that absconds from social obligations in lieu of personal freedom. And if this god were to exist, Asher would vehemently stand against it, in defiance. Of course, no such god exists and the only thing that Asher can stand against is his own desires and whims. He is, after all, his own greatest nemesis. And so, as Lucinda approaches him and inquires about his actions, or rather lack thereof, the knight finds himself struggling; struggling to answer a simple question, struggling to divulge his self-loathing, struggling to articulate the hate he feels for the constant fight with his inner glutton. So, he doesn’t, instead his shoulders rise and fall in a dismissive shrug as he offers up a tired smile. “Not my type.” It’s not entirely a lie, he doesn’t have a type. Prior feedings in his past life had been conducted on the battlefield, upon dying soldiers and slain enemies. A place without consequences and morality, where all parties had given consent to death. Prior to that, he had scavenged rats and stray animals, feeding on that which would not be noticed or missed. The truth is, a truth he only just realized, he’s never had to show or practice restraint. At no point has the survival of his prey been a consideration, and at this point he isn’t entirely sure it’s a consideration he can even make. Or perhaps he did know this, at least subconsciously. Without battles to fight and enemies to slay, Asher has been deprived of his primary food source. Becoming a knight condemned him to benign servitude that has starved him of opportunity. And he’s neither dined on staff nor civilians within Externus’ domain. “I think my type is sturdy and durable. Everyone here is too fragile.” The remark is punctuated with a sweeping wave as he gestures to their surroundings and party goers. “I would think that the dainty and delicate would perhaps have the sweetest of flavors, but I’m more interested in that which is hearty and savory.” He pauses for a second, his left index pressing into his lips. “Perhaps a minotaur?” His musing comes with an insincere smile, something forced to simply show he’s joking. “Anyway, you shouldn’t worry about me. I’m perfectly content at the moment.” Lies and more lies, he’s an internal mess of contradicting emotions, urges, and principles.
  11. Asher eyes Ewyer for a moment, take the seconds to appreciate the significance and consequences of his earlier comment. Although the suggestion the Lucinda and Addison were more than friends had been made entirely out of jest, there appeared to be very real ramifications to that joke. “You are an overthinker, huh?” His right hand braces against the tree trunk as he leans into it. “You like to analyze, to plan, to attempt to exert control over the world, prepared for every possible future outcome?” Asher, without a doubt, values the analytical mind. However, it also fully appreciates the folly of over analysis, because control, after all, is an illusion. “Say that Lady Valentine did indeed love and pine for the knight commander, what of it? What does it change?” The pauses for a moment hoping that Ewyer concludes, ‘nothing’. “The heart is a fickle thing, love cannot be won or earned, it is freely given unconditionally, without expectation. It’s not a currency of exchange. It’s the most juvenile that do not understand this. For all of her emotions, if they are not reciprocated, add up to naught. And if they were reciprocated, that’s not a reflection of the duchess, but rather the person you are married to.” Asher turns his gaze to look off toward the hospital construction site, although he can only make out the slightest hints of framing. “I think, if you were to let such a thing bother, it would speak volumes of the security you have in your relationship, and that is certainly more telling than you might think. Any resentment you might have, over someone feeling unrequited love, is no better than the resentment that the unrequited lover feels toward you.” Admittedly, for all of his talk, Asher knows very little of love. Outside of unconditional familiar love, he has never felt or experienced it. What he does know of, in great detail, is envy and jealousy. And while Ewyer most certainly thinks it is love that compels the emotions stirring within him, Asher sees the situation for what it is, one compelled by the aforementioned two headed hydrae, that needs to be slain, before it sprouts more miasma spewing heads. His right hand flicks into the tree trunk, tapping his knuckles against the bark several times. “Plus, knock on wood, it seems she has moved on. So what good does pursuing past transgressions do, if nothing came of it and it has no bearing on the future, that seems fairly irrational to me.” @Pala @Lucinda Valentine
  12. A fight is something akin to a game of chess interlaced with choreography, in so much as that mastery doesn’t require thinking 30 moves ahead, but rather is dependent entirely on superior pattern recognition. And while Asher probably doesn’t have the time to comprehend the situation as conscious thoughts, training and experience give him an intrinsic understanding of the situation that allows him to fluidly react. The optimal situation for Asher is to maintain and control his range advantage. The optimal situation for Iba is to bait out an attack so that he can knock the sword off target and get in closer to deliver a strike. The heft of the tomahawk makes it ideal for deflecting a counter lunge a significant distance off to the side, and the curvature as well as its parallel position along the shaft would enable it to trap and restrict disengagement options. With the initiation of his dancing partner’s lunge, Asher’s leading leg steps back, his weight shifting to the right leg, adding a small amount of space between them and taking the bulk of his body out of alignment with the lunge. In the same fluid motion, the sword starts to swipe outward to the right, before abruptly arcing downward and back to his left, his arms partially extended. With Iba directing his lunge with his left leg and left arm, Asher hopes to catch the outside of his opponent’s left knee with the foible of his sword; not only stopping the lunge but keeping the axe out of range.
  13. Destruction, interference, assimilation, hijacking, anti-magic, magic jamming, at the end of the day it’s all magic. Through countless fights and an endless cycle of building and breaking magical systems, Ashton had come to understand this fundamental truth. And from this fundamental truth he came to understand a second, and perhaps even more important truth; systems hate chaos. Magic requires precision and order; the slightest tweaking of variables makes it wildly dangerous or in some instances utterly useless. Changing a single value can break a spell, or cause it to backfire. It’s this randomness, this lack of order, that Ashton hopes to introduce and capitalize on with his latest spell. Michael, who stands tall, braving the cloud as it engulfs him, confident in his own ravenous power, assuming that his magic will protect him from the glimmering dust, allowing it to ebb past and around him, has miscalculated. Although, to be fair, so has Ashton. It isn’t instant, the reaction of two magical systems interacting, but Michael’s devouring barrier is the catalyst that procs the transformation1. There is a brief but intense flash, the ground heaves, and rubble rains from the sky. The thunderous roar that accompanies it is indistinguishable from the concussive impact blast that follows, the timeframe between the two is simply too small to measure. The simple truth is that, as much as Ashton would have preferred to inject chaos directly into Michael’s system, it’s much easier to create a system that reacts randomly. The reactive field he created, with no known outcome in mind, converts into a blast of lightning. The 30’ cloud, which Michael stands three feet deep in, explodes2. With both fighters off center, it becomes a directional charge, one that launches Ashton toward Michael, and presumably launches Michael away from Ashton. And although the bombardment of ionized particle and searing plasma is without a doubt damaging, the bulk of the energy is expelled as a shockwave which lifts and hurls not only the fighters but the ground itself, several dozen feet.
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