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Praetorian last won the day on May 31

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About Praetorian

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    Hero of Daydreams

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    Praetorian #5153

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  1. “Miss General?” Asher blinks, a few times. Will’s word choice doesn’t sit well him, in fact he can’t tell if it’s an attempt to be insulting or if in his mind’s mind he truly believes that a title should precede another title. “Mister mister.” The words are muttered but the thought falls short of forming anything coherent, his attention drawn to, something, flying through the air. Instinctively his right hand shoots out to intercept it, his palm striking the top as his fingers fail to find purchase, the item bounces off and then almost immediately drops to the ground. He follows it, his mind speeding up to the point that the object appears to be lazily drifting down. It’s within this eternity, and endless amount of time contained within a moment that is shorter than a second, that Asher finally identifies it as a canteen. “Oops.” The word escapes his agape maw a moment after the container strikes the ground and starts to roll away. “Noooooooooo!” He lunges forward, both arms flailing through the air as he lands on his stomach and chest, his hands frantically groping at the canteen as it slips further away. It’s only as he grabs it and relief begins to wash through his mind, that his single-minded focus is replaced with situational awareness. Specifically, awareness of his situation, which isn’t great. In an effort to catch the canteen, Asher threw himself onto a slope, which he’s now careening down like a sled. Both of his feet drop, his toes striking the slope, as he tries to use the friction to arrest his descent. He slows, but doesn’t come to a stop, and ultimately ends up crashing into a pile of supplies stationed below. A bucket half filled with dirt and rocks, sitting atop a stack of crates, falls over, emptying its contents on him before finally landing atop his head with an unceremonious thud. He remains motionless for a second, perhaps stunned or dazed, but eventually finds the energy and motivation to roll over onto his back and then sit up. Thrusting his right hand into the air, canteen held high, he loudly proclaims, “THREE POINTS!” Admittedly sore, the situation doesn’t escape him as humorous, and the grin on his face and half volume chuckle strongly suggest that he’s more amused than harmed. However, the moment of levity ends as his eyes settle on Ewyer, perched on a tree like the most miserable of birds, looking every so vapid. Pushing himself to a stand, Asher treks toward the tree, working his way up the ascent he'd just descended, until he reaches the base. His left hand waves a few times before the semi-cupped hand braces against the side of his face to better direct his voice. "Hey, gloomy, you doing alright up there?" If there were ever any qualities that Asher might be able to effortlessly recognize, they are undoubtedly misery and torment, be it self imposed or otherwise, and at the moment, Ewyer certainly oozed both.
  2. The abrupt loss of heat from the jell results in its molecules aligning and organizing it something of a dim blue glass, and although solid by all accounts it isn’t stable under its own weight. It compresses in on itself, chunks of it shearing off, accompanied by small arcs that lash outward. Ewyer’s weight compounds the issue, the piezoelectric properties of the compound causing discharges of static and stray current to bursts from every edge, crack, and protrusion. Electrons travel freely, shedding in vast quantities, sending sparks skipping across the surface of the pool. The crackle of stray bolts, firing off in every direction, turns into a thunderous roar as a single writhing arc of electricity strikes the descending gas cloud, igniting it. All at once the room is bathed in a caustic warm glow as flames billow down from the ceiling. Irryn’s spear is a natural conduit, and as he positions himself next to Ewyer upon the discharging platform, stray currents lash out drawn to the metal. All the while the oppressive heat of a descending fire cloud grows, its intensity fueled by a continuous leak of unknown gas. Updrafts mix with the cooler area around the frozen platform causing spiraling convections which suck down portions of the flame as a whirling twister of fire that skips across the pool setting the remains of the pods aflame. The initial ignition creates enough of a pressure wave to blow Trilith from her perch on the platform and through the closing door, sending her skipping along the ground, bouncing over metal sheets, until she finally collides with Cal. The room they are in, formerly bright than the cavern, now seems impossibly dark due to the inferno that rages outside. Although, within a few seconds it becomes ever clear that this is some type of antechamber. A few phosphorescent strips decorate the other ways featureless walls, ceiling, and floor, guiding the eye toward a large steel door with a quick acting wheel in the middle. The faint yellow green, which struggles to be seen from the backdrop of the flames, offers no explanation as to the intended purpose of the room, allow one might be able to infer that it is some type of partition or nexus to facilitate transitioning from the outside to the inside of the ship. It’s only as a lance of fire juts through the opening, briefly illuminating the entirety of the interior, before dissipating into the air, that a wall mounted lever, marked with reds and yellows, becomes visible. Currently sitting in the neutral position, with the slightest tilt up, it seems that it can be moved up or down, although there is no explanation as to what either position would accomplish.
  3. Truthfully, he can't decide what is more vexing, Lucinda's absolute lack of concern for her own safety or Garcia's nonchalant acceptance of it. There is no doubt that one or both of them will end up being his death. Crossing the threshold into the passageway, he closes the door door behind him and then approaches one of the deckhands. "Gimme your sword." He brandishes his right hand, palm up, waiting for the hilt of the blade to be deposited into it. "What? No." "No? Don't tell me know. Give me the damn sword now. You don't need it, and if I don't accidentally break it, you can have it back." "But it--" "No buts. Look, if you don't have a sword you don't have to fight, just give me the stupid thing." There is a pause and an awkward moment of silence before the man eventually complies by drawing his cutlass and depositing the hilt into Asher's open hand. "Thank you." Shouldering the flat of the weapon, he turns and speeds off, half jogging, so that by the time Garcia and Lucinda have reached the door leading to the unwelcomed guest, Asher has mostly caught up and is only a few feet away. "I'll have you know that I'm tired and hangry. So I'm not in the mood for bullshit." The statement is made as he steps into the open and comes face to face with Otto, who smells vaguely familiar, annoyingly so, but is otherwise unrecognizable and regarded with little more than cautious skepticism and the normal level of inherent distrust. "Well, you don't look familiar." @Lucinda Valentine @Maelstrom
  4. "My arm?" The question rolls across his lips, as if he hadn't considered an answer yet. "I fell?" The words are spoken before he can fully appreciate the depth of her statement. However, he catches himself and smiles. "Joking about that." The reply is quick and effortless, but also an effort to afford him a few seconds longer to think. "Anyway, it's a minor injury, nothing to fret over. Should be good as knew in a few days." He settles on avoidance and deflection, rather than a flat out lie. "Some minor open wounds. Need to keep it immobile so that I don't reopen them." He nods in agreement with himself, if only because there is some truth to the statement. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Asher is saved by the sudden appearance of a deckhand announcing the arrival of an unsolicited visitor. For a moment the knight takes comfort in Garcia's line of questioning, appreciating the fact that she has enough common sense to do some basic information gathering before consenting to a meeting. The comfort is short lived and as Lucinda departs the room he buries his face in his open palm, tears running down his face as he half cries and laughs into the open hand. "Are you kidding me right now?" The laughter becomes borderline manic, crescendoing as he throws his head back. "She's going to get us all killed." As the statement is made, his thumb runs across his cheek, just below his eyes, flicking the stream of tears away. "Oh man, fuck basic security practices, am I right?" He briefly turns to look at Garcia and then turns toward the chamber door. "I have no idea how you deal with this. Anyway, we should probably follow after. Might need those angel lady powers again." Holding the door open for Garcia to chase after Lucinda, Asher stands off to the side, not particularly looking forward to getting into another engagement so soon. @Lucinda Valentine
  5. Praetorian

    Need Help!

    Help with character idea? A country bumpkin garden gnome named Percy; he ended up fumble fucking his way through an intergallatic adventure that resulted in him crash landing in Valucre. In a few days he want from knowing only his his garden to having seen the vast emptiness of space and even exploring a few plants. He isn't particularly strong or smart, but he's lucky as hell, and his can do attitude keeps him giving. Kidding, maybe.
  6. There is some instinctual part of Asher that wants to sink his teeth into Garcia’s arm, bite through the bone, and sever the hand that grasps his collar from the rest of the limb. In part to make a point but also, because at this point, Garcia’s arm smells delicious. Fortunately, if there is anything he has in abundance it is self-control, and so he only smiles, a pinched lipped toothless smile. “I see neither of you can take a joke.” His right hand rises up and gingerly grasps at Garcia’s wrist, pulling her hand every so gentle from his collar. “I can assure you, your relationship with one another a piece of trivia that I have little concern or need for. It’s none of my business.” All at once, Garcia’s hand falls through Asher’s. Not as in he releases his grip on her, but rather his flesh physically passes through his. What once stood before Garcia, a solid man of muscle, bone, and flesh, is now a translucent specter that seems out of phase with the world, shimmering as reality tries to make sense of his current state. With a step, Asher passes through the woman, as if one of them were a hologram, or an illusion. Now back to back with her, his body resumes its normal solid opacity. “I don’t much care for being touched, and you’re assuming a level of familiarity and comfort with me that is not reciprocated.” He takes a few steps away before turning to face Garcia again. “You don’t see me running around grabbing you like property, or striking you out of anger.” He pauses for a second and offers up a smile once again. “And I can assure you, I am not your property to be touched, grabbed, or assaulted as you please.” With both his physical and emotional composure once more reinstated, the knight pivots toward the duchess, who admittedly has been ignoring. Perhaps he is being rude and unprofessional, it’s hard to say in the moment. “Anyway, Lady Valentine. I thought the fact you had a female significant other was common knowledge? I can’t remember where I heard it from, but that’s certainly the rumor being passed around.” He pauses for a moment and then shrugs. “I suppose it isn’t a very well-kept secret then. Not entirely sure why it would be a secret. Regardless, a word of advice. Just because someone levels an accusation, doesn’t mean they actually know anything. Sometimes people fish for information with baseless accusations, just to see what sticks. Also, freaking out at the notion of impropriety certainly further solidifies the notion that something improper has taken place. There may be a valuable lesson here that you can apply in your political career.” He takes a few steps, negotiating further from Garcia, who seems incapable of controlling herself when presented with the slightest provocation. “Anyway, all things considered, I’m rather fearful for my life. It seems Miss Garcia aims to maul me. If you don’t mind, I’d much like to flee before I lose another arm.” @Lucinda Valentine
  7. Asher stands frozen for a moment, appreciating the situation for what it is. Clearly, he’s interrupted something, something that perhaps he shouldn’t be privileged to. “I can come back.” He offers up, his voice increasing an octave as something of an impish grin moves sheepishly across his face. “Although,” He pauses, his right hand tapping against the side of his chin as he feigns consideration. “I don’t think I realized just how… intimate… your relationship is with our fair duchess, Garcia. That does explain a good bit.” He pauses and starts to turn as if to walk away, only to pause again. “Does Lady Valentine’s girlfriend approve of this?” Mock exasperation, offense, and shock briefly appear within his visage, in quick succession, before his features tighten up and settle back into a more mundane arrangement. “Truly, it’s none of my business.” He finally remarks with a dismissive shrug. Kings with concubines, queens with harems, he’s seen it all. There is no reason why he should be surprised that the duchess might have a few side pieces, to include her… nanny – maid – bodyguard – nanguardaid? Whatever the hell Garcia is. At the invite, Asher slips past Garcia and into the room, his right hand raising as he shakes his head to decline the water. “No, no thank you. I’ve had more than enough water for today, and perhaps tomorrow too.” His hand falls to his side, and he momentarily finds himself perplexed with it. With his other arm in the sling he’s unable to grasp them together behind his back, meaning he’d need to find a new general posture to assume. Maybe he’d stand in the mirror later and try some poses until he finds one that he likes. “Anyway, I just came to check in, or rather to see what the damage was. Although, you look brand new, so it seems my concerns were misplaced.” His head cants ever so slightly to the side, his nostrils flair, and his pupils dilate. He isn’t entirely sure how he missed it before, but the ever-distinct smell of blood calls out to him. His gaze shifts as he inhales deeply, his senses sort through perfumes and other overpowering scents, eventually homing in on the ferrous odor. For a second, he steals a glimpse of Garcia’s towel covered arm, however quickly averts his eyes, training them back on the duchess. “Perhaps it isn’t my fault, but plenty more could have been done to resolve the situation faster. I can assure both of you, the same mistakes will not be made twice.” He pauses and swallows, clearly his mouth of the building liquid. He hadn’t realized that he’s started to salivate, up until this moment. Although he’s been contending with a persistent nagging hunger for some time now, it’s never been this bad. His eyes momentarily divert to the sling as he puts two and two together. Well, this is problematic. The thought is subvocalized, his lips miming the words even though he doesn’t speak them. “Regardless, I’m happy you are okay. Even if it a fluke or a matter of luck, rather than because of our ineffective efforts.” He looks from Lucinda and then to Garcia, his gaze hovering over her for a few seconds. “I suppose we have much to discuss, to include retaliation and future tactics, but I also suppose that can wait.” He musters an insincere smile, half hearted at best. “I’ll let you two get back to your… obligations. By your leave, Lady Valentine?” @Lucinda Valentine
  8. Having doffed his armor for something more casual and comfortable, Asher makes is way through the passageways of the Georgina until he finally arrives in the medical bay. His right hand rises and taps against the hatchway before dropping to the quick acting handle, undogging it with a single spin, before stepping over the knife edge. Securing the opening behind him, he approaches the onboard staff, motion for one of the nurses to come over. Although he’d surveyed his arm, while changing into a loose fitting white shirt and leather trousers, he still doesn’t have a full appreciation for the damage. Admittedly, the fact that he still can’t move it has him mildly concerned. “Uh, yes, how can I help you?” “I think I hurt… broke… burnt… Uh fucked my arm.” He replies as he situates himself on the edge of a bed and begins to unbutton the blouse. With minimal struggle he partially disrobes, and if it weren’t for the oozing and charred flesh, with exposed muscles, bones, and tendons, being in full view, the sea of scars that decorate his back and chest might have drawn attention. “OH MY GOD!” The nurse’s immediate revulsion and panic prompt Asher to raise his right hand and press his index against partially pursed lips. “Shhhhhhh.” Inhaling deeply, the nurse regains her composure. “You’ll need surgery, skin grafts, physical therapy. I’m not even sure we can save your arm.” Crimson locks of hair sway from side to side as Asher shakes his head in disagreement. “No. I need you to wash it out and bandage it, and provide me with a proper sling, and perhaps a splint. Maybe even a cast?” As he makes a series of suggestions his eyes lock with hers. His gaze melts, going from a frigid blue to something warm and tropical. It draws her in, causing a surge of confidence, assurance, and compliance to wash away doubts and trepidation. Her mouth, parted and ready to voice objection, slips shut and she nods her head in agreement. Compulsion drives the evolution without incident, and within a few minutes Asher’s arm is washed down with sterile saline, dried, coated in ointment, and then thoroughly bandaged from mid-bicep down to his fingers. With a little assistance from his attendee, he is able to get his arm through the shirt sleeve, rebutton the shirt, and then rested in a proper sling. “Thanks.” The comment is made as he stands up, the hues of his eyes slowly freezing into something deeply chilled. “One last favor, forget I was here, please?” The nurse’s expression momentarily goes blank. She blinks a few times before suddenly looking at Asher. “Oh, uh… what… hmm.. oh wait… no.” She murmurs to herself for several seconds as she struggles to remember what she was doing. “Excuse me, ma’am, I asked if you’d seen Lady Valentine.” Asher’s voice snaps her to the present. “Oh, no I haven’t. Sorry about that, my brain is so flighty right now.” “No worries, thank you anyway.” Departing the medical bay and navigating through Georgina, Asher prepares himself for the bullshit that’s to come. He steadies his breathing, fortifies his mind, and dissipates his residual anger and frustration with a single deep inhale and then exhale. Stopping at the entrance to Lucinda’s quarters, he taps against the door with the back of his hand, pauses for a second and then announces his presence. “Good Afternoon Lady Valentine, it is Asher, I respectfully request permission to enter.” Although his request is directed toward Lucinda, he has no doubts that it will be Garcia and her ire that greets him. Something that he has already steeled himself for. @Lucinda Valentine
  9. The South: "Good Morning Mr. Cody, it is good to see you today."

    Me: "But that isn't my last name."

    Literally everyone: "Anyway Corey this is what we have for today."

    Me to myself: "Who even am I; what is me?"

    My crisis of identity is becoming very real.

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