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Ouroboros

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About Ouroboros

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    Apprentice
  • Birthday 10/19/1994

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    NOLA
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    Writing, Martial Arts, Lyricism, Mythology
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    Martial Tutor, Rapper, Service Industry.

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  1. Ouroboros

    Soliloquy: On Existence

    dragon (n.) early 13c., from Old French dragon From Latin draconem (nominative draco) "huge serpent, dragon," from Greek drakon (genitive drakontos) "serpent, giant seafish," apparently from drak-, strong aorist stem of derkesthai "to see clearly," from PIE *derk- "to see." Perhaps the literal sense is “the one with the (deadly) glance." (/)(\)(/)(\)(/)(\)(/)(\)(/)(\) Planet: Irys Sector: Nova Lux, Area: Deep, Dark Black Long ago, the Old Lord Dragon flew forever free: Undying and Eternal. After basking in this Self, the Old Lord Dragon treasured only Io: the dualistic and newfound sense of Finity. First Io made The Mirror to observe and to be observed, creating those of Vision and Visage. Then Io created symmetries of brilliant radiance beside a misaligned, writhing shade. This would create disparity, to give The Mirror the hues it needed, to be identified an entity. This too, the elves once sung, is the history of sterling and spoil. Of Energy and Exhaust. Data, Information. Aeons pass. Io the OLD now lives on within a true and realized afterlife: offspring. When generations began, Io had long succumbed to the vanity of the children. . . The Travelers finally steal their chosen brood - (children of destiny's blood, hawkeyed for glory from birth. . . acquiesced from unwitting, half-faithful parents) They fly from their green woods into the chosen disembarkment: the Deep Dark Black. Where Eyes remain to peer, for ancient light,so over the course of centuries, they too may come to learn of Vision & Visage. . . ☯ Less long ago than Io, but close to as long ago, there was only Dead Silence and Laughter Aloud. As the new end devoured the old beginning, so too did the new beginning devour the old end. Thusly, we came to exist within the slain Laughter and a new, living silence. Tííí-A’r’A (Maat) Bâ al-Lotan {Tííí Amaat | Tí/Tíí/Tííí | Tiamat} The Living Silence The Melody of Chaos Infernal Tragedy Lord Entropy ☯ BaHaHaHaHaHa (Maat) HaHaHaHaHa {Baal Amaat | Ba-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha | Bahamut} The Laughing Slain The Rhythm of Order Divine Comedy Lord Enthalpy The song these two make create the below: House HELVIATH: Evolving Dragons To Peer Beyond Ascent, To Become Stronger than Ancestry, Greater than Glory, and Higher than Dragons. •••∆ /☼∆∆ ☽✺☾ ∆∆☼\ ∆ ••• ☯Newer Deities: Illohymn (Illohymn no Yawei al Llevant) The White Wyvern The Past Rebuilt The Future Unborn Lordess of Revision
  2. Ouroboros

    Dirge of a Crucible

    “In the Beginning, there was the End. And the End came with the Beginning, And the End was the Beginning…” A blizzard roars over the bodies. As the wolves march away from their prior bivouac to their den in the denser woods, one stray dog lingers to lick the paw of a fallen soldier. She then sneezes, wetting her dusty nose at the uncomfortable taste and whimpering from the uneven touch of black soot. Scraping her paw over her muzzle, she scurries along to keep up, never removing all of the odd material from her snout. " Dirge of the Crucible " Yes, indeed. In a land far to the North, within the icebound embrace of Cold Mountains, we find the dark, old hand of a long dead thing; rising out of the snow... gasping for breath - clenching. The song begins. In frostbitten eardrums falls an avalanche of ancient symphony - summoning godforsaken sound. Rhythm resumesl it's march. Melody, all but unmercifully doled. Ostinato incessant, and yet - all harmony faded. Yea, they wouldn't remember his era anymore. He didn't. Releasing himself from his newest sarcophagus, a shallow womb of Genesarian soil, he bid himself to listen - listen to that daemonic minstrel within him. His helm speared through the ground, mouth chewing through the worms’ silent anecdoche before the frigid airs froze them betwixt his remaining teeth. *CRUNCH Crunch crunch* ♪ " A stone for sleep in a dark cell deep. . . Two dead wings & a noose, for the Keep..." ♪ Dragging his left arm, he lifted a line of snow off the moderately heavy chain tethered around his forearm. Wrenching his right leg from a dormant hold of the hoarfrost topsoil, he gasped. Finding his left leg detached - wriggling, where bone should have been - a thick, oozing stream of magmatic ligament resided, an incandescent mucus of flame. Moving a little further from his buried limb, the amorphous mass constricted in elasticity, glowing dimmer as he stretched. The tension was pressured. How far would he have been from his home, the Dustharbor? It almost pulled him back in. All of it did. Every time he woke up, it was like this. Yet he was unable to understand. He would have to lose himself again. Every time. He had to. Groaning a pained sigh, he trapped the rim of his thigh in both of his hands, and slowly began to tug the body part out of what would have been his previously eternal rest. Finally! The long limb loosened, gravitating towards his abdomen. ♪ " And every toiling dame churched her sanity - And every roaring shame felt relax..." ♪ He noticed the two rings on each of his hands. Once his thigh had reconnected itself to his dusty gray core, his flesh began to smolder again: potent. A black steam broiled as the amputee began to cauterize this new, impossible wound - welding his flesh back on over itself, again. A relaxing feeling, perhaps, but not without it's own disturbance. No, this time, something was of. If anything, something was seriously wrong. Because this time he could not recall where those rings came from, nor could he even remember the reason why they were equipped, so delicately, on his ashen fingers. The right ring was emblazoned with a talon, shaped in the manner of a pentecostal flaming tongue. The left ring displayed eclipse, bisected by a coiled flamestoke. The right ring was a daring orange, cindered in dancing embers at all times. The left ring’s eclipse did similarly illuminate, however more dim it was - the ring itself of marbled, obsidian char. No, they would not remember his era. No, not at all. Never. The dirge could not ring in their ears. In the echoing distance, maneless lions and the prior direwolves stir. They smell it. Winter. Hunger. Death. The bears? Must be sleeping. The foxes? Must not be. Plenty of these types, hinterland critters, surrounded him - but none of them concerned him. No, they neither would remember his era anymore. Because they were never there for it in the first place. And for this one minute, the image burned his memory. Yes, Indeed. His was the era of The King. Lo, the exhaust of flame clouded all else from reason. Wait, Someone was in these woods. Fury. Rising like a geysered volcano, the flame of past glories immolated his entire body, sending him into a short, unconscious dervish. Once regained, his percept was reidentified as he knelt still in the snow, hands outreaching the impending ground. Faltering, he felt his hip and raised his dangling chain at the sound of an observer. Looking then at his hip, he discovered the reason why his right hand ever went there in the first place. It caught a handle of some comfortable sort. ♪ " A half-bade sword and buckler board Link red strings, like Drink for a King -" ♪ He drew the blade, pointing the edge in a calm, comfortable slant towards the boy. A vindictive sword tip greeted the once bristling young lad, who had been trembling beneath his firewood. “Perhaps… mister… uh.. ash zombie... Do you need a place to stay?” Sane and smouldering, the relic felt indeed he must have been a zombie by the point - but the truth was much more ambiguous than that. He felt for his pulse, only to scorch his fingertips. And so the boy stood erect, waiting courageously for a prompt response. He would listen, knock-kneed and shivering, to The Ash Zombie Knight Man then muttering: “♪ And every boiling vein burst with vanity -♪ And every soaring wing melted wax.” collapsing in a sob, having lost the song in his voice halfway through. Grasping his temporal lobe, looked back to the kindling son - asking in an already-knowing voice, “Iye... aam Aaasche? I... My wife, have you... I can't find my..." ” The young lad dropped his firewood and ran to the figure hugging him, in sympathetic tears. The snow fell much more slowly for a moment, blanketing two strangers in the resounding empathy of loss. He didn't know what else to do with the Frankenstein Knight, so he brought him to his cottage in the wood, where he promised to feed his new friend. It was around then he had realized, he should probably catch up. New gods, new men, new lands, new laws. They entered the small building, situated between two elder high-trees. The surrounding wood was much younger, the winds unforgiving. The room was musty, and cold. There was no Promised Fire here. Iudicious gripped his sword handle and his eyes hung low over the boy, judging. A few short moments would prove his suspicions silly, as the young human began to load the tinder into the chimney flue, arranging the ash around the hearth to take to it. Grinning, he struck a runed flint stone with a small bar of fine steel, “Papa’s,” he breathed. The sparks caught their eyes, dragging them into the hot dark of the flue. Ignition. Beautiful ignition. Iudicious uhanded his blade, limping closer towards the hearth as the fire began to take. Reeling his head back, he breathed in the aroma, and began to feed once more. The human boy was not so different, he sat close to the fire, stoking the flames and chafing his hands by the warm, orange light. After a few moments; however, their differences begin to show. The little boy stands up steadily, and in a high pitched chirp, announces the rules of the cottage: “Welp, it's time for dinner! What should I call you -- Dusty?” This caused some more confusion. Dusty? Wasn't his name Ashzombie? And Dinner? He was enjoying a perfectly good meal as it was! The deadgod bade his palm towards the fire to show the child, silently, that he had been sated. For Dusty, language was always tricky - understood when heard, but rarely comprehensively spoken. The young lad, probably nine years of age, never caught on. He made for the kitchen to the right of the front door. A dark gray sky would greet him there, hiding the beauty of twilight from the nearby woods and inside cottage itself. But that was alright, Iudicious thought, as he inched closer to the flame. This evening, the hearth would serve to be his twilight. And finally remembering his name, he soulfully stuck his hand in the flame. ♪ “And every boiling vein burst with vanity... And every soaring wing melted wax…” ♪ Never again would Iudicious Asche speak of wives. For he would never remember... [Character linked at the 'Beginning', feel free to hop in with anyone. Setting: The Cold Mountains + The Great North]
  3. H E L V I A T H detected: Location: What appears to be a grey subterranean forest "Sky's Princess, Moonlord's Alpha! Lady Moonlight, Lady Moonshade, Lady Lure!" The fighting was just about over. One thresh axe hit the wooden stock behind a purple kobold’s neck; then his head dropped off too, joining the small collection of the recently deceased around their own massacre. The alcove stenched of the carcass - iridescent, black, equine. Hunched over in the manner of slavs wearing Adidas, Scáthach could tell the mare was once majestic. Noticing she could hear her own stomping - a maiden's rage towards her dinner - she scoffed sailing curses all the while afoot. Angrily sacking the body over her lazier shoulder, she stopped for a silent moment to pluck the crystalline winterland spiral from its unbrushed maw. And, anger dies. “A unicorn's summit...” her voice couldn't be any closer to a Scottish sob. Bestowing the relic in her quill, she hardened her heart. Stomping the remaining skull into squash with a single Vader’s march, the wolfess decided to make the entire tribe pay for the crime committed. Walking along the limestone ruins, she approached a dark tower embedded by the end of the narrow halls. The only clear exit from this direction. "Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites.” ( George Orwell, 1984. ) Oh bother. What had she stumbled into now? Arcing her visor through the new rotunda she found no clear source for the grandiose voice, but a dim light from above. Ahach! So she was in an oubliette. “...came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just around the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal.“ ( George Orwell, 1984. ) Concealing herself, Scáthach handed her hip, beginning to shake her head. No one ever made such promises. Canis, her peacemaker, now fresh in hand. Perhaps it needed to be sharpened, or imbued, but the make was lethal enough. Her oath no longer sworn to the pale diamond-sand of Ione, rather she affixed her own sort of dæmons to tend. The cull of Moonshadow and Blood Covenant was ever too… succulent. Her skin dimmed to a dark shadow, and her irises glew neon green. Her horns bent into light absorbing antlers, and her wings furled. “We are not like that. We know what no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now you begin to understand me." ( George Orwell, 1984. ) “All hail the Violator! Rein the Sun to vie again! Baal Lotan ab’Dominaan This world is now LEVIATHAN!” “By Io within…” she grimaced, understanding what the ancient names meant, “It's just not my fucking day.” There wasn’t much time to alert Cær-Rííí. Iontach was still missing. Worst of all, she’d have to rely on Father. There, then, she faced her prey below the musty stairs. A band of Qrrn, the beastly draketaurs, ran the caverns below the oubliette, completely unperturbed. A fucking wonder how Subtierios could even operate without Ionian tithe. At her own vertical level deep within the barrows of Cthon marched many uniformed mercenaries; once rogue companies working in a strange, unforseen unison regarding the perimeters past the oubliette. The whole district was on lockdown. “Myrmidons, ” she groaned. The original reason why she was down here. That was when she felt one grip her throat from the left, behind. Ugh. The pig began to shift to wrestling stance, arresting her right shoulder. She responded : : ☽ ⊹ ⋞❍⋟ ⊹ ☾ : : Lock elbow into central vector, aligned shoulder -Breathe twice, instilling false rhythm : : Cup-hold under Ulna & hook through shoulder, +Lean towards weaker leg, prop, buck, and-- Push. The metal whimpered out a single, forewarning creak. A fading gasp ripped before his airborne silence, rotating towards the utter doom of his shoulder blade. Clangngggg!!!! Quite audible indeed. The roars began below, and the stomping of spears began to excite the ground in a timed vibrato. A war chant. She stuck him in the neck quickly, and the blade began to glow. Not enough yet. A few more sticks would be enough. The ceremonial blade glew a bright lime now, unlike any she had ever seen before. Soon, another dog attempted to pile on her and she quickly sidestepped this, deceiving the prowess of her alacrity in bright brass armor. A single left crescent kick hooked the successor’s forward chin, dislocating his neck slightly on impact. An orchestral trainwreck sounded as the grind of shin-steel met the unclasped area by his right jaw, sliding the brunt of her greave across his clavicle. Relief waved as he lumbered back. Crooked glance, painful confusion. His head went askew, his shoulders still bobbing. Pained moans escaped the steel, to greet a hurricane roundhouse in following through to the right, knocking helm and head alike to the catacomb floor. She took his piece and twirled its head into the next compatriot, blinking out his left eye. Now only a small, gory geyser. If a Lady of Shade ever had any virtue, it’d be concision, or fihting with precise coincidence. She used Luck Itself as a weapon against the throng of armored brutes who by then began to circle her with shields and spears. “Know what they called me in the Greatwar, before the castles came about above?” a fanged smile escaped the faceplate, perhaps through her acerbic inflection. “...Ax-Juggler,” she giggled, and this perhaps gave everyone pause. Briefly a shield thane rose, thence ready to call himself foreman amongst the phalanx. “Step back, this one's dangerous.” She could smell the fear hidden in his tone, “Mobile opponent, TIGHTEN FORMATIONS! Is that green, your oddsome glow? It was. His decision to order the group indeed came with a boon. The tower shields systematically gated down their perimeter, spears curling consecutively at each drop. The sergeant’s brow dared her to act and the ironclad wall now inched ever closer towards her, with shiny spikes preening for live flesh. Then! Her previous sidearm, Canis, discharged its neglected soul in a misfire. The knife shattered in a violent, olive drab explosion of green flames. Exactly what she needed. As if on cue, what followed went oddly enough: The flak wounded the large Qevaldi shock unit on the right, without exactly disturbing him too much. However, the explosion itself did test the faith of the recently recruited Kobold on the left, facing the tank. There, the princess of moons and lore would pounce. She planted a left hatchet a little early of the Kobold, in the shield of the colleague beside him to yank his smaller frame using her forceful grip on tower shield. He was thusly pulled into the fray, collecting the spear shots meant for her as she reached again for her throw. “Hold!” he cried. Scáthach stumbled into the command, already prepared to dislodge her next limb. Giving a confused look to the sergeant, she gave her new M48 Warhammer a dainty twirl before sticking out her rear playfully, kicking up a single greave to appear overly expressive and dainty. Sarcasm laced the gesticulations, and tremors rose through the warriors, ready to impale their newly caged prey. The Qevaldi wondered why she would be “asking for it,” so much to speak, before he had realized her style banked on Capital Error. She pranced throughout the circle for the whole conversation, swaying her berthy, armored hips.Anything she could do to get them to disobey him would be in her favor, “You've all been marked for sacrifice, in the name of Forestry Restoration,” acid dropped through the voice. She wiped an intense salute off her visor’s right brow, mimicking a Uncle Sam’s Niece (a good hearted USO show pinup dancer). Pulling the axe out, she maimed someone's exposed elbow easily enough, not knowing who, and kept swinging. Eviscerating the Kobold's jugular, she tossed the excess weight to the Qevaldi - admittedly only half a good idea. The fodder flew back twice as fast, snaring her ankle when she performed a last minute dodge-- into someone's knee and another’s shoulder. Thankfully, her armor was of better quality than the metal of her walled surroundings (reforged from loot.) Felt that one. So did the three Myrmidons behind her, unready for the shock. As they collapsed, she decided on a forceful hammer swing to clear a nearby ruffian, bouncing the back pike into the knee side of an orcish *Bahati axe-drake: ☽ ⊹ ⋞❍⋟ ⊹ ☾ : {Huntress’ Game} : : : Use the strike as a launch point: Rotate pike end after impacting knee ligament; • Pull upwards, confidently rotating hammer into Solar Plexus, extend with a thrust; Enemy Flanking Eminent 360° pike Left Haymaker, Infiltrate ribcage Break rib from inside Collide enemy into threat Flanking Eminent, from Closer Left Enjoy ensuing chaos After she pulled yet another dead body into the Qevaldi, he began to lose his patience. Comrades were dropping to this little twerp, and she had yet to even give her name out. He smacked her in the visor with the middle of his shield, using the advantage to flatten her between his juggernaut weight and the ragged limestone beneath them. At some point he remembered she had on armor, so he began to pressure her with a tense shoulder, calming stifling her beneath his --- That hurt… kidneys? Heart… and the crowd shook when their best warrior dropped dead. The princess slowly rose, shaking a bonfire of scarlet lockes free from her musty, brass Helmet. She sleepily flung it, with a feminine shove, into the face of a nearby passing kobold, knocking him out entirely. And that's when the sergeant saw and bit his teeth. The men too gasped, loosing up their shield grips. So when she decided to blow a kiss just above the muzzle of the smoking Derringer that saved her life, towards the idiot who just attempted to end it. One precious moment of silence lasted before the chamber sounded of an angry bellhouse; rife with metal ringing, brass scuffling, and... many a dangling limb. “DEPLOY REINFORCEMENTS TO OUR LEFT FLANK OUTPOST, THREAT LEVEL: LEVIATHAN! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! I NEED SHOCK TROOPERS EN BOARD--” And the last shot, her fourth. Took a while for that nasally disturbed bastard to quiet, but it was worth her last usable round. Pretty soon this fighting would tarry her from the objective. Unacceptable. Taking a small jade shard - the last remains of Canis- to her forearm, she decided to carve a new portal sigil,one that could take her back to the safety of the Hidden Steppes. Despite a fun bit of play, it was time to reach the Ionic Colony and dreadfully, the Ivory Summit. A good time to recover from the crushing... ☽ ⊹ ⋞❍⋟ ⊹ ☾ [Scáthach is from Scottish, 'Ska-tha']| |[*Bahati: Irysh term for intersex, two-spirit] Playing with Fire & Running with Knives The lighting of Cthon was only ever lambent at best. Subtierios was a dark realm. This was not news. But, a steel metropolis there lies; reforged right beneath the blackest region you could possibly imagine. Lit merely by the arcane iridescence surrounding them, those darkest warrens proved to be some new form of infernally thriving Bald Mountain, straight down to the left-handed Chernabog. Welcon e to the Freeside o Ctnon- Belly o th Beast n he Neon Ea t! ! Ah, that obnoxious, broken sign, always flickering at inconsistent speeds. Home. Snipes no longer remembered when the lights stopped working fully. Like the denizens amidst the nocturnal favelas, most of the letters reluctantly lit their tubes in the glare in stark-colored scatter. Their only harmony was futility, because the burning florescence contrasted against the gray slabs of urbanity lurking behind the auspicious landmark. Blue kobolds (or kids?) chased giant rats with another in the streets alongside newly ground shivs, tatter-wrapped feet. The airs were unusual here, even for Subtierios. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, opium and regrettable coitus made up the normal menu of odors dwelling Below; however, here an unholy presence of sulfur and urine long lingered within the fuming, rock-made roads as well. “Let's just call a stone a stone, hey?” Buug grimaced his two cents and shrugged to de-escalate the situation. Every chair in the den was inhabited by some local rogue or junkie. “Then I'll call a piece a piece, my guy. And this flintlock is no true peacemaker, see. Ain't even, what, 12-gauge.” “12 Gauge! He says he wants 12 Gauge! Ain't it a riot! “Didn't you hear, Finnegan?” “Ought run him out the frunchroom askin’ for heat like that. Kid didn't you hear? Heph got smoked.” “Ya can't possibly be serious. What sorta wiseass…” “Nah man, boy from around the way’s been whacked. Good looks to Sketch, he caught the whole thing raw.” Sketch eyes lit up on his cue, throwing his palms at the group, “The drake looked Iconic or whatever the shit. You know the type. Lean, built white boy with fifty chips on his shoulder- all betting on this huge ass piece, two edges. “No way, I say, he could swing that kinda thing in time against Creid. We all know he was the fastest draw in Freeside, maybe all Cthonia…” This line was enough for Snipes to discreetly leave the Frunchroom, knowing he must not have many friends around, hearing talk like that. Sketch expressed his response in a frustrated honesty: “I thought so too, ‘til I saw it. Or didn't. Boy took one swing that I only saw half of, 'n by the time I can even blink, Hephaestus was as dead as headless, like your old boy, Tyr’Malaag!” “Mhm. Creidhne sleeps with Baal now, son,” Buug chimed in respectfully, “Don't even wanna know what they did with the children, poor things.” “Yeah, I wonder how they dealt that business.” “I sure don't. Just hearing y'all asswipes talk about it is just sickening. Yo, Buug, we outta blow yet?” And so forth went the banter of your average Cthonic hideaway, where the vices of the city seeped deeply down into the daily, dirty work of its people. And as far as Snipes, The Messenger, could tell, more than a few gangs around Freeside shifted from The Downtown to The Drop, mostly procedural in manner for those on point. He already assumed tonight would result in a few conclusive turnovers as “Sinistral” enforced his influence across the underworld streets, with iron fists. If someone asked you to spot Snipes out of a crowd, he'd probably shoot you before you caught him. Talk about the shortest game of Where's Waldo. He would be dressed quite suspiciously, like everyone else on Subtierios. So that really meant, he didn't dress so suspiciously but blended in with his environment as he walked. That was the half the job. The other half? That's usually bet on his cheekily practiced poker face. So he made it to the scheduled rendezvous point at Hook & Tackle, a shoddy dive bar named after its cross streets. "Place is a real shiner, Babd. These dilapidate lights match 'doz fabulous Welcome Signs in 'frunna town. So they call you 'The Messenger?' Hope you got a story about that one, kid.” “Ever thought of not being the hundredth guy to ask that question? “ “Okay, just chill. This one’ll be quick. An easy job, from our mutual friend - I believe a Mr. Indigo-” “-So far, you're speaking my language. Just 2 things: where's the loadout, where’s there loot?” He kept his tone official, staving off any collateral altercation until he was sure he had received pay. This was, simply put, the Lotanese way of life on Irys. You knew it down here - everyone was a criminal. In fact, the only thing you didn't know was what kind of criminal everyone was. Interrupting them as of this moment, a short song of muffled bursts ran through the distance from around the block. Then like every other night, it was time. The motherly demons closed shut their doors and dimmed low their lanterns. The neighborhood heroes turned their heads and walked swiftly along, and a small drakeling child stuttered in his steps towards curiosity - of a city gasping in silence. “Baba?” a tenor chirp, unwilling to accept the reality before him. The rest of the street began to noise, others ran covering their arms above their heads but Aidn didn't stop. He stepped his little baby kobold feet forward to the massing Qevaldi lying in the smoldering distance. Throngs of holes danced in the walls, like arrows guiding to a tragedy. And the biggest hole had yet to reveal itself before a tear streamed down his eye. “Baabaaa…” Buug lay there, underneath his son on the flattened poker table beside a ransack load of psychotropic fungi. And as his father repeatedly failed to shake awake, the neighborhood would begin to hear a much, much more shrilling noise than the rambunctious sound that they heard not even two moments before it. He screamed, for his father had been shot to death. It was the aftermath of such a hellscape, the ghost town in which Snipes found himself walking, presently. No curdling cries stirred the airs now, just the faint whispers of hurried smugglers, whores, and outrider myrmidons. Snipes looked at the scene, cocked revovler facing the unnoticed dirt besides him. The child looks up, slightly curious. "By TiiaMaat. ... Please. I can't afford another,-" and that's when he knew things were going to be difficult. °°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° time / story arc: DRAGONFALL
  4. Ouroboros

    Shadewalker Scáthach

    Scáthach Inanna Helviath Clan Moon & Cær Coill `❈˕❈˕❈´ is there any hope for a child of the moons? ° Formal Irysian NAME: ⋉ Scáthach’da Artymis Inanna ⋊ ( Skáth-ádda Árt-em-ïs EE-nán-na) Seneschal Scatha, the Princess Moonlore ° ° SPECIES | Helviathan (Alterdragon) ° ° ° AGE | Ninety cyclities {90 cyc} (or Nine-Hundred years [900 yrs]) {Twin brother: Iontach Nuathad'da} ° HEIGHT On Rííí Irys | 15' {444 lbs} On Mycin Rííí | 13’ {390 lbs} Calva Baha'Maa | 10’ {336 lbs} (Weight relative to height across the plane.) ▄▄ ° PERSONALITY Merciless Conservationist Slow to Trust Inclination to Justice Devout Druid and Shadewalker ° °LIKES Fletching, Marksmanship, Sparring, Camping Humility, Good Listeners, & Magical Inclination; and most importantly: * * * The Thrill of the Hunt °°°DISLIKES “Blindsides” ( Dishonesty, Secrets, Withholding) “Hypocrisy” (Especially those who know better) “Bears” (bad hunting trip) ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄ ° ° CLASS Nightblade Druid :|: Werewolf ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄ ▄ ▬▬▬▬▬ ° Specifications: ° ° Combat Specialties MARKSMANSHIP: : “Ranger’s Eye” [Shortbow, Longbow, Recurve, Compound, Crossbow, Knives, Ballista, Cannons & Firearms] LOREMASTER [Apocryphal Mage, Druid, or Specialist Caster] ECO AWARENESS [Intuitively read the ecosystem] ° ° ° Sorceries Draconic Sorceries (or direct spell emissions) are based on an adrenal adaptation, potency depends on stress levels in the dragon : : IMBUEMENT INFUSION CELESTIAL [Shapeshifting & Shadewalking] ° ABILITIES ° ° Lesser Powers: Obfuscate "Shade." Darken your skin and the immediate area, bestowing yourself Nightvision. Ferns begin to grow throughiut the area, absorbing surrounding charisma for the caster. The shade ferns glow to distract and decrease the likelihood of detection; siphon wisdom on sight. All wisdom and charisma absorbed is discharged as arcana in the form of a black miasma x2 normal damage; Imbuement only, Arcane Effect: Lesser through Common Efficient & less well known Taught by elites in Coill alone Stealth imbuements affect gradience and bridge to later, advanced arcanities. ° ° °🌙 Moonlore: Gathered from sorceries revolving around study of Moonlore, Rituals involving the Celestial Dance of Irys. To bask in Moonlight, one must master the Lunar Mysteries. One such treasure is Lunar Shade, the realm of the Shadewalkers. A veil within reality, this alternative dimension cloaks its summons fully in green spectra to avoid detection. Because of this, the magic may only use imbuement or channeling, not infusion. Moonclaw "{Familiar}, I bid thee." Immediately summon a limb of a chosen Familiar along one of own, increasing one's strength, stamina, and vitality. x3 normal melee damage + Arcane on strike, Or purely energetic AOE at normal damage rate Both Imbuement & Infusion aligned Arcane Effect: Common through Sophomore Bladebolt "{Weapon}, Strike!" Immediately cast a chain-arc of magic lightning from your blade’s edge, tracking your target. x3 normal melee damage + Arcane on strike, Or pure energy AOE at normal damage rate • Both Imbuement & Infusion aligned Arcane Effect: Common through Sophomore ° ° School _________________________ ▬ ▬ ▬ ▬▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▬ ▬ ▬ ▬ __ Huntress Game __ This style of Caer Coill has a reputation for stealth, silence, and precision, focusing on projectile use and close quarters combat. Born a sister to many bigger and stronger clandrakes of Ione, Scáthach was forced to design a fighting style that favored her smaller frame and agility without compromising her potent force. The Game became the standard form of archery for yeoman, rangers, and rogues, alikes. Any cunning enough to adhere to the inequitable justice of Shade will be rewarded with a keen mastery over unpredictability, hidden strength, speed, and surprise. ▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄ ▄▄▄ ▄ ▄ ▄ ___________ _ ___________ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄ ▄▄ ▄° ° ° Skills & Trade ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▬▄▬▄▬ 🏕️▬▬▬▬▬ °Huntress’s Leathers️ ° ° Composition of Rawhides ️🔪️ Demonwing Flesh, Staghorn, Dragonscale ° ° ° WEAPONS ⚖️ Battlehammer The M48 Tactical War Hammer from Unified Cutlery is the perfect hammer/axe combination for a Myrmidon’s needs! This updated, efficient design features a defensive war hammerhead and devastating piercer, offering both an effective breaching tool and a defensive hammer. The cast 2Cr13 stainless stygian black oxide-coated head pummels most targets easily. The 30% mythril handle is highly reliable, frosting the bottom of there make as the axe head is completely attached to the handle for heft. Measures 15 ½ units overall in length 🗡 (Sidearm, Scian & Dirk) Nike Ionian Sidearm : : TRINITY XIPHOS A well-crafted blade named after the palace of his ruined land, once replete with honest, fierce warriors. Now there's only an heirloom of an era. The triangle blade gives three pyramidal edges to rely upon for thrusting, pulling, and riposting. A pragmatic and modest owl-wing hilt guard balanced to level slashing and thrusting alike. 🏹 [Bow + Traditional Ranged] Sunflare: The Firelight Apollo Ætherforged Mythril : DIVINE/LAUGHING BaHa’s rib. Medium bow with a comfortable handle & adaptable tips. Inner layer illustrated with antlered branches, glowing amber or lime in Sorcery. Accuracy suitable for medium to long range. The outer layer is pressed sinew plate, the inner layer dragonhorn pressed, and the middle layer was of a rare, Laughing Bone. Auridium dragon scales reinforce the relic around the grip, shelf, and riser. total length: 53” length between siyahs: 43 3” length strung: 45 1” max. draw length: 32” brace height: 5 3” It is surprisingly fast, without any shock. Very similar to a composite bow, yet only slightly flatter. A pleasure to shoot with, due to stalwart material. Spellcraft makes long range attacks capable: sniping, scatter, or cannon. The nocked arrow glows golden, amber, & green Arrow scorches to incandescent light between release and impact; exploding a few moments after, siphoning its target’s strength Weapon Mastery: A Laughing Draw Use Sorcery to make Moonlight Javelin: lancing rail fire arrow through the Riser, x10 damage + critical Limbs dispel target’s Attunement: any active infusion, sun, or imbuement ability : Drakeshot Volley Channel Vindictive Immolation on Impact: Bridle target to the ground with a illuminating seal; arcane effect: Silencing Fateful Embitterance Strike with the bow or punch to absorb the life of one target to charge the Harvesting Ballista. Fire the Harvesting Ballista at second contestant. On strike: Both contestants seem dead on Irys but are trapped in a shadow realm where they must duel to the death to ever escape. The survivor may join Caer Coil, or hunt Scáthach down. She gives them the choice. 🔫 (Firearms & Magitech)⚗️ Big Babe .45 Magnum Lever-Action Rifle Solid Auridium receiver, brass buttplate and barrel band Single Action Shooting (SAS) approved for Hunt & Competition Distinctive Henry octagon barrel Drill-&-tapped for scope mounts Ultra-smooth lever action for quick & accurate follow-up shots Sixshot Magnum Revolvers A Valencian CULT V.851: Black Exhaust revolver, triburst optional. Cal. 36, Canon: Octagonal 7 "⅜, frame, trigger guard and handle. Auridium frame, Qrrn horn stock Weight: 1.210 dkg Little Tokyos: x2 Derringer Holstered in thigh plate armor Powerful, Short range Single use charge Damocles Lotanese Dirk : : Kukri The khukuri design bore a notched, damascene blade of a black hue; a pattern engraved of triskelions across its lacquered edges.The grip forms like an easily held pipe; the pommel was full-tang, sculpted into a razor bat wing shape. Mandrake fern and yarrow THE RUNE-RIDDLED BEECH Imprinted with many carved in paw marks lay this strange inscription, in an old lunar language. over by a coloured field of covered clovers, came the caves of the Cove. memories carry. tarry, to never forget our coupling. Sweet Brighid, Sweet Tara. return to your baser instincts. summon the gumption for thirst. underneath the halls for mead and breadth, harrowing breath breaches hollowed broods. bear, embrace, become Drawing a circle from seven to nine feet in radius, in the center of which a Ælderwood fire is kindled- the wood selected being black poplar, pine or larch. never ash. Fumigation in an wicker vessel shaped as the relevant familiar, is then made out of a mixture of any four or five of the following substances: Tongue of the Fae, Blood of Man, Ear of an Elf, Eye of a Dragon, Bones of a Giant, Hand of a Fiend, & Life of an Omega. As soon as the vessel is placed over the fire so it may heat, the candidate must invoke their sacrifice so it may transpose to the wicker sigil provided, aura possesses light of the flame. Only a sacrificed familiar, hereby deemed an Omega, may bestow a Son O’Suilleabhain the property of metamorphosing into its form. The candidate kneels within the circle, and swears a vow to their Familiar/Omega by creating a spell invoking their story; thereby becoming Lore.
  5. Thank you for the follow! Have a great week and inspiration.

    1. evil

      evil

      Thank you, it cured my crippling depression, Adam Redacted would love you.

    2. Ouroboros

      Ouroboros

      Let's hope Adam doesn't redact me!

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    Iudicius Asche, The Grey Judge

     ▶ Standard Information [Asche AMNIOTIC ▬▬▬▬▬] Specifications: Name: Iudicius/('Iudex') "Dusty" Asche » Titles: Duke Demonic, Justice Grey, » Affiliation: Dustharbor, Fireborne, Infernian Martial Status: Widower Occupation: Black Knight / Damoclean Executioner » Alignment: Unlawful Neutral [→Brief Biography: [ → A Heart of Dying Cinders ] ] Dusty somewhat resides in his austere outlook on the world, formulating his willingness to screw anyone in arm's distance out of an opportunity… so long as he doesn't get caught. Once known for putting Ozymandias in power, this old demon king withered his own, betrayed soul into the hopes of a new era, one born in the light of his dying fires.____ ] ]▶ Appearance» ] Appearance Age: a fit 45 [»] Actual Age: ? [»] Date of Birth: incomprehensible. [»] Zodiac: Inferno [»] Place of Birth: Dustharbor (once Consummation Cove) [»] Race: Calxiphis Ashborne [»] Height: 6’2 [»] Weight: 256 lbs [»] Skin Color: Ashen Gray [»] Blood Type: Primordial Lava [»]Natural Eye Color: Cinderflame [»]Hair Color: Marbled: Ember & Sable [»]Current Eye Color: Cinderflame [»] Hair Length: Wolf Tail Tonsure (Rogueknot) [»]Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous, often leads with the right hand, switching to left for confusion. ▶ Personality [ [→]Five Major Personality Traits:[ [»] Strong and silent type: [»] Caustic to close ones [»] Affinity towards castle architectures [»] Loose Absurdist [→] Fancies: [»] The Dance of The Duel [»] Asymmetrical Decay [»] Kingmaking [→] Contempt for: [»] Self-pity [»] Irresponsibility [»] Incompetence [»] Hypocrisy [→] Common Quotes?]: [»] Not repeatedly talkative, really ▶ Combat [→]Skills/Fighting Styles: [»]Swordsmanship: Adept [»] Pyromancy: Master [»] Chainwork Legendary [»]Class Specialties: Knight / Caster / Rogue [→]Passive Character Abilities: [»] Embered Flesh: On due stress of the Ashen flesh, the Magma below excites the mystic fumes to boil or scald the opponent on impact, draining Mana from any resident or otherwise available Astral forces. [»] Flameborne (Impervious) Asche is unable to be harmed by any source of fire: Celestial, Demonic, Astral, etc. These attacks and spells not only give him immensive heat resistance, but regenerate both his state of health and arcane output. • Certain extreme cases of thermal combat that do not include any sort of Pyrolysis or Burning may affect him in debilitating ways. [→]Non-Passive Abilities: [»] Gloried Flame Unlike most flames, Gloried Flame is a particular healing ward against physical harm, absorbing any incoming thermal energy or flame-based arcana as well. Using Gloried Flame improves regeneration as well, allowing to regrow limbs and other organs. Automatically immolates on decapitation. [»] Typhokinesis This refers to the ability of absorbing, controlling and redirecting smoke, fire, and embers either from his body, or remotely. Duke holds the capacity to use: Cindersoot Coalesce: Shoot smoke out of hands Smokebomb: conjure grenade in a dice roll, to explode in cinders, ash and resin. Imbue: Sword/Chain manifests burning ash on strike, conducting thermal runoff. Smokescreen (dash ability); Used offensively: dash through an enemy, dematerialized, reform behind them to enact a brutal takedown. Used defensively: phase through structures with openings (chain-link fences, iron bars, & pipe-like structures). Hyperduct: Produce lateral propulsion for a short while via cindered propulsion. Infernal Flue Inhale: Iudicus draws energy from various sources of burning in order to recharge his personal storage of power. This means he can drain any source of Smoke, Ash, Char, or flame-based magic. In addition to recharging his abilities, the power gained from Draining also heals Asche of any injuries he’s recently sustained. Chimney Sweeper: a charged attack that shoots a barrage of smoke pellets, dealing heavy damage in a short cone [→]Weapons: [»] Arming Sword [»] Undertaker’s Chain [»] Coiled Flame Stoker [»] Silver Ringed Buckler [→]Items & Accessories : [»] Charred armor; ▬▬▬▬▬ Inventory ° ° ° ° [Symbiotic Resin: AMNIOS] Defensive Attributes: Greyolk: Amnios increased the density and efficiency of Asche's flesh, heightening his perception & information; dampening damage undergone & felt allowed him to execute critical strikes and exert surplus stamina. Iudex is constantly in this state, but accelerates intensely with the activation of Embershine. He relies on it mainly for discreet attacks, feeling himself the few honored with the bond of Amnios. • It seems to have been a buff resulting from his adaptation to the symbiotic bond, formed by his intense training with it, over time. Prehensile Perception: The sum of Duke's senses extend over his entire surface, enabling its host to "see" what is behind or otherwise not in his/her line of sight. It may also see a broader spectrum of light than humans can, if he and Amnios agree to a neural link. Amnios, strangely, is the only Black Egg with verified empathetic ability, able to project its desires and needs into the thoughts of its host or potential hosts. • Amnios was actually a sentient organism that hungered on both the emotions and biology of the host. Unlike other hosts, Calxiphis are the only ones who have proven capable of surviving an iota of the Greyolk Amnios. Chameleon's Coating: Amnios retains ability to shapeshift, by designing or mimicking apparel for Iudex. It can camouflage itself & host by assuming the color or texture of the material behind or around it for limited amounts of time. Their symbiosis is capable of assuming transparency and coloration to an acute degree and universal range, so with the right diagnostics, the Greyolk is capable of learning to completely transmogrify one's appearance, regardless to the host's actual stature and bodily dimensions. :❖: Pressure Control: Dusty is able to coagulate the flow of magmic blood inside his own body and stigmatic mass. This is likewise for sealing any necessary organ, such as lungs, bladder, or even the aorta. The mass expand to any size as long as they have something to grow on such as a host or an object. Duke can even get inside of areas such as wires and the insides of armor, completely disabling them. Offensive Attributes: :❖: Combat: Calxiphis are able to manipulate a free-streaming flow of stigmatic mass (Amnios) into a deadly, viscous form and use it as a shield or weapon in that state, flowing as resinous tendrils to supplement for melee attacks and biological constructs. • Charred: Iudex may also crystallize his symbiote mass to a hardened carbon for tools and weapons. He may also shape yolk into tendril appendages and other useful morphologies while Charred. :❖: Energy Field: Gloried Flame ▬▬ [Background: They'll Never Forgive Him A stone for sleep, in a dark cell deep - Two Dead Wings, and a Noose for the Keep. And every toiling dame churched her sanity And every roaring shame felt relax. A half-bade sword and a broken board - Drink red springs, make a ring for the King. And every boiling vein burst with vanity. And every soaring wing melted wax. ▬▬▬▬▬ "Beautiful."° °°MISC. : ° ° °THEME SONGS Combat: https://youtu.be/SZQzW_QfPew Tavern Binge: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJJ8hWDXWGs _______________________
  7. Hey thanks for the like on the how-to! I was wondering if anyone even read that. I just updated it too since it had been almost 2 years since I last did and there have been a few changes

    1. Ouroboros

      Ouroboros

      That's super nice of you! I'm still navigating the most appropriate way to make my worlds on here while only dipping my toes into the site Canon, so the updates have been dearly appreciated!

  8. Ouroboros

    Port Safety

    Tomorrow Island: CԱҬҬしЄҒіՏӉ C◎ve Of every sailor's tune in Cuttlefish Cove, Ja' Rain Man Callin' has always been the answer to that which had the most memorable words. It was first sung around the time Cuttlefish Cove was founded, by Blackbeard Teach and other similar pirates who found themselves lost in the Caribe after sailing through the Bermuda Triangle. (This song was precursor shanty to reggae style music.) So, of course the story of the city's founding is traced back to a seaman and linguist who had constantly opposed outside authority, owning a nimble crew of 16 men. Their landing point was fortified with a recreational tavern in an military-grade outpost for the pirates to detect incoming ships. The city was founded on the day of the Captain's wedding, years later. The differences between laws from country to country plays a major role in the story, as those who come from other lands bring their laws to populate this place's - as a haven for pirates, it is considered a no man's land and the only law is to be street smart. The song is discussed by initiates of Nautical literature as mostly concerning Man's need for a challenge to survive in life. The ballad of the rasta slowly evolves its message over the course of the song to speak about the evils of about greed and obsession. Cuttlefish Cove is unfortunately, very similar to the song, often to the degree of higher educational acknowledgement, the song is posted in most known texts about the foggy thieves' den of Tomorrow Island, often cited as a story of the city's life itself.
  9. Ouroboros

    Port Safety

    Tomorrow Island: Oakenshire Village A mere hamlet in ancient times, the township expanded into a small city under the wise guidance of the Battlemages stationed there during the Death Orc raids. The scholarly paladins have since retreated into Castle Dorn for studious efforts in preparation for the incoming battles. The story of the founding is most attributed to a prince who was an outsider to the then unnamed hamlet, developed for he purpose of the knights to route their surplus and spoils of war. The Prince was a bastard, but the son of the then-true King, Edward I. His Son, Edward Tuarach, was born of a naiad, and improper for carrying the line as he was born out of wedlock. Tomorrow Island is an ancient world, with ancient customs, in a universe where space travel occurs by magical means. Albeit the way of the world, Lord Tuarach became fraught with an alchemal addiction from extended combat usage of a dangerous herb, trying to prove himself worthy of the throne through the glorification of violence. The confused alchemist who diagnosed the Battlemage had several nervous habits, and repeatedly diagnosed him the wrong cures, granting the man an immunity to normal weaponry. Enchanted weapons and Swordspells could fall him, but so little was known of them at the time. The man held fast in battle defending the town from the Death Orcs on the Day of Dark Return. Losing many friends that day, he learned the fault of hubris and underwent a paradigm shift. Lord Edward Tuarach decided to spend the small fortune he earned for his bravery on comforting the apothecary's loss of business and building extensions to the civilized inlet. With the help of Battlemage architects, he further fortified the Castles of the Magisterium by connecting the roads to the grounds of Castle Dorn and spanning outwards, developing as people search for prosperity among the busy streets of Oakenshire. It had become the Old World's first College Town, with a university for aspiring Battlemages between the Castle and the large villa of Oakenshire. It had been named after Lord Tuarach's first estate, which was burned down by Death Orcs in his early childhood. He is said to have forged an alliance with the Rangers at Truebend, as well as the steel-clad Disciples of Honor, a knighthood formed for the purpose of defending the Magisterium and enforcing its will. Members of all three guilds can be met across and upon these cobblestone streets, but it it mostly the Rangers that see to the protection of this city - most knights stop at Oakenshire on leisure, young Battlemages prove to be introverted bookworms, and those short on coin can hardly hope to vie for their orderly attention. It might still be old times, but it was then widely known that Chivalry doesn't help you kill a Death Orc.
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    Port Safety

    Metro Aqueduct Pits Description: The septic-scented chambers of The Metro Aqueduct Pits mark an underground, center-most venue of Valley Harbor's Port Safety, the only region of Exodus city located on mainland America. The pits are among the the most odorous of the Port Safety fight rings, and the most ancient in use for Port Safety since the British occupation of 1775. It has been standing here as a clandestine icon of America, but does this relic of a long-dead age of savagery persist to avoid antiquity? It has been a dark temple since its intended founding by a Dr. Laoghaire, a purported sewage expert cast out from the streets of London for reasons still unclear. All that could be discovered of his exploits in the United Kingdom were caustic rumors of his person to have worshiped Celtic demons. Later in America, he found himself commanding a league of Red Coat Dragoons, and during the British Occupation, his boring architectural busywork promoted existential distress, leaving him with despair of not being able to serve in the war. His wanton longing for violence was concealed in the floor-plan for the sewage treatment, where he made a dark cathedral to the worship of violence and treachery. As he rose through the ranks of the British Army, he allowed the most sadistic of his elite to operate in leisure in his concealed arena, there. By the time of the American Revolution, they had simply disappeared from their positions in office. Sir Laoghaire was never seen of or heard from again, and his apartment was later bought out by a hesitant man by the name of John Hancock. Despite the frequent cries that neighbors file complaints for every few months, local authorities have bothered resuming the search for such a well-hidden, nigh mystical area. It was designed to prototype the first American sewage system, so the sewers in this region are actually ancient. It gives the feeling of a dark temple as one trespasses through a secret entrance to arrive at the bolted gate. The pits are known to be crawling with creepy, skittering critters here and there and the brick walls are slightly lined with grimy algae and rusted sewage. A resident clan of what seems to be silver-tongued "Undercity bandits" runs this little underworld, and you're fighting at their expense to entertain the clients who paid top coin to come and see a real blood-fest. This is the oldest and one of the most profitable rings in Exodus City. If you can swallow down the fact that you're most likely working for the attention of elitist Illuminati occult types, you might make a hell a lot of money... or die, grievously, trying. Pit Characteristics: Turkish Delight: Combination attacks, bloodshed, and excruciating finishers will often grant a bonus. Curved knives, razors, lacerations, and crippling are preferred; anything gruesome will receive praise. For the Dark Lords!: Fatality option for the crowd is likely to occur, but choosing to spare your opponent will damage the income you win from the fight. The audience wants to cutthroat violence, not sportsmanship. This proprietary establishment was funded for the entertainment of certain clientele. There is often a bonus for especially gory demises. Just hope that it isn't yours. Oops I Did It Again: There are special matches in which the clients pay more coin to see the combatants duke it out over a thin layer of raw sewage and algae. Not for the faint of heart.
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    Port Safety

    Old Blighton and Olney Road is a land fraught with the lasting deeds of dead mad scientists and mass incarceration. An odd church remains in the region. > Population: 589 living, Numerous Infected&Infested specimen. > Many go the Warrens to train their combat skills against zombies. Most become zombies in doing so. > Irradiation Zones pocketed throughout the region. St. Olaf of Norway Cathedral Description: The decrepit ruins of St. Olaf of Norway mark the northernmost settlement of Old Olney Island, on a craggy outcropping overlooking a frosty mountain range that greets the sea. It has been standing here for centuries, a timeless relic of a long-dead age. It seems very out of place with the rest of the scientifically plagued isle. Abandoned by viking settlers one hundred years before the colonization of America, this temple was converted into a seat for the Eastern Othodox Church just before Day 0. Since purportedly driven out by demonic influence, becoming a popular tourist spot for a decade or two before the meltdown occurred. Condemned by the city during the collapse of Old Blighton, this outer-rim venue is often the choice for adventurous young pilgrims wanting to prove themselves in combat studies to the old Norse Gods - a tradition often held was that this Church was a cover for a pagan witch coven. The place may be condemned, but like many outer realm locations of Old Blighton old habits die hard. Loyal spectators and Norse aficionados alike have produced a Viking Arena of the venue, to watch the fights that occurred here weekly without fail. They usually consist of young, Germanic Scandi, and Slavic gladiators or other HEMA practitioners. The viking are said to have intermixed with the first peoples surrounding the region, and of their descendants today praise this location's role in their family history for raising strong, noble heroes, and therefore pay to see the new legends in the making. Ancient Norse, Germanic, and Celtic, and Native American weapons preferred. HEMA recommended. Arena Characteristics: Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick: Those with bigger weapons such as battle-axes and great-swords are favorites of the crowd and generally receive more praise. Big boasters are usually booed off stage; Combat Honour is the only merit by which anyone has in this Ring. Take a Look at that Swing!: Prominent, distinct attacks and critical hits with will often grant a bonus. Mind that the ringleaders run refrigeration systems and a mix of artificial and real snow to simulate Nordic combat conditions - so strikes will hurt and fatigue will run dry soon. Oh, Let 'Em Live!: Choosing to spare your opponent will amount to income you win in the fight, as well as a title if the opponent you beat deemed you worthy of one. Killing here under public eye is frown upon by the gods, and responded with violence. the gods hold no quarrels over the laws of Mutual Combat, however, and if done privately, one of two may righteously earn his rest in the old ways. All religious notions aside, the ringmasters would rather not traumatize their sheltered historian friends and scholars, at least, not when they're footing the bill for these operations, which they are. The audience wishes to spectate over the talents of the olden mighty warriors, not watch every last one of their favorite artists die. Slippery Floors: There are special matches in which the clients pay more coin to see the combatants duke it out over a thick layer of frozen water poured across the surface of the arena floor, rather than just simple snow and grass. Watch for those icicles.
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    Port Safety

    Exodus City, a massive supercity often seen as synonymous with Port Safety (don't tell the locals) mostly contained in two islands and a mainland harbor often seen as the pinnacle of American achievement and entrepreneurship in its day and age. Strewn about and prided by the American nation as it's pinnacle, Exodus City had developed into a cultural melting pot of sons and daughters from all walks of life, on every facet of the far-spread lands. It was a modern empire, for a modern age. But, in the words of wisest kings, no empire comes without its price. Crime. Corruption. Gentrification. War. What was once a safe haven for refugees from all over the world became a battleground for their ideologies. Racism nurtured hate. Cultures and moralities began to clash under the chaos of an internal police war fought between a lobbyist DA and a tyrant Police Commissioner. Symbols were exploited under the masks that claimed to fight for them. In a gangland sense of tribalism and morality, brutal monsters took violently to the streets in the name of vengeance and self-righteousness. It wouldn't be long until the two (vigilantes, and thugs) became inseparable in the hearts of protected civilians. Then came the Golden Age. There rose to power a league of individuals known as The Entourage, comprised of extraordinary enforcers for judicial practice. They policed over the internal struggles in the city, under the just and ubiquitous leadership of the master strategist referred to as Scion. It was the Entourage which first earned the trust of the populace to give authority over what differentiated a proper hero from a vengeful street thug. This team, trained extensively humanistic sciences and social theories and capable of superhuman feats, eventually fell at the collapse of the Golden Age, to a perpetrator still unknown to the public. Without the trustworthy authority of the Entourage, the apprentices of those respective heroes also soon fell into organizing their own relief efforts. A crime war was then being fought in the streets of Port Safety, and here they began teaching the vigilante methods og Entourage to anyone who proved themselves capable and loyal enough to the cause to undergo such extensive training. Exodus experienced this Silver Age of Peace for two years before a quarantine mandate was established over the Warrens of Old Olney (and all who had currently inhabited the area) was placed into effect after a federally-funded horticulture began to spread and infect humans. Yes: many heroes, professional or self-proclaimed, were trapped in the virulent doom of infestation. So, with the loss of Old Blighton as anything other than a Badlands and prison colony, the city was fragmented politically on how to recover from the quarantine, and fears of infestation plague the public to the degree of criminal insanity. Public areas in the lower vicinity of Port Safety have been overrun by guerrilla forces band those who felt victimized by the government's practices. Mutant survivors to the many hazards that have run unchecked on Old Blighton display their powers almost daily, much to he chagrin of those who fight for justice. The police war had quelled under the guidance of the Entourage, but after the Olney Incident, strife broke so severely that the city now has two registered defense forces, both receiving military-grade raining and special technology for riot-control and taking down supers. However, just before the city reached the point of total chaos, a miracle occurred. An ancient myth of Port Safety concerning a fragment of Atlantis finally revealed itself to be true - on the day of the infestation outbreak, a volcanic structure known as Tomorrow Island erupted, rising from the waters north of Exodus City's three districts, and with it, the Council of City Affairs began to publicly announce the existence of magical creatures and beings, as well as the use of arcane arts and ancient technologies. Utopolis, the capital of Tomorrow Island, led by the magisterium into a political relationship with Exodus City, is referred to as a sister sovereignty and often thought of by humans to be just another district of Exodus itself, albeit Utopolitian natives would disagree there on the matter of jurisdiction and political formation - as would also those who populate their neighboring city-states. Despite all this, Tomorrow Island is much more a nation, or a world, altogether than a city. The commotion of the mystical realm meant that while many regions of Port Safety would still prosper, other areas still affected by the wars degenerated quality of life as new villains and weapons formed alliances and enterprises. Pretty soon, the heroes and the associations they formed would begin to quarrel on how to solve the situation, and they often took sides with one of the police forces while waging war by proxy for it with the other. Vigilantes became as common as gang bosses. Everyone had both an opinion and the value of fighting for it. It wasn't long before bloodshed commenced.
  13. Ouroboros

    Port Safety

    PORT SAFETY t i r a d e -of- j u s t i c e We've all heard of Port Safety, Connecticut: one of the largest crime-ridden metropolitan archipelagos to ever grace the shadows south of Manhattan Island. It's rich with a history of infamous police, dastard madmen, and hi-octane freedom fighters of every race and creed. But what happens when the all-American gotham discovers a new, neighboring island of otherworldly nature? What will be done to solve the escalation - between criminals, militarized police frats, magical orders of the occult, and friendly neighborhood vigilantes? Port Safety is one of the world's largest urban regions, with a population rivaling that of NYC. There are five main isles with layered transit regions between. Most gangs and crimefighters originate from Exodus City, and most arcane threats affiliate with Tomorrow Island Exodus City, established on the centralized Seaboard Isles, is a concrete jungle of beastly urbanities, but it it is also filled with hope. Can you lead your friends to the long-awaited victory you seek over curfew and oppression? Or will your world crash around you as you find yourselves decelerating in a desperate fight for survival? Tomorrow Island is undoubtedly a world of intrinsic wonder. One precocious example - the region is much larger on the inside than it appears on the out. The only question is, who would want to undermine the mystical authority of the wise and ancient Magisterium? Why would they want to disrupt the balance such a highly volatile, thin-lined threshold of reality, mythopeia, and the unreal? Because whoever they are, they also live in Tomorrow Island. . . Old Blighton, the desolate warrens of the once-proclaimed historical district, neighbors waters east of Exodus City. Once stricken by an impatiently-funded city council to convert it's large historical roots for research in more underdeveloped sciences involving genetics, bionics, nuclear fission, and radiology. It didn't take long for the victims of peer review to amass under a new opiate: neurodegenerative flesh eating compulsions. The island remains officially quarantined until authorities have a "better grasp on the diseases rampant throughout" Old Blighton. Over half the island has sunk beneath the sea level, soaking in venetian disrepair. Unrivaled is the fervor this island holds for those in search of legendary technology and scientific advancement, if they can survive to be peer reviewed! Will you be able to discover Blighton's many secrets, or will your curious thoughts be drowned by the screams of tortured corpses? Deeper still are the mysteries revolving around the novel 'Securiosity Island.' The privatized development of Curiosity Isle has, in due destruction of The Entourage and due creation of paramilitarized law enforcement agencies, resumed posthaste. Sitting dead center between the two other islands and mainland harbor of Exodus City, this region was officially rebranded as "Security City" by the Port Safety Council of City Affairs, mostly to placate the nostalgia of civilians who missed the aspirations of their old heroes. Radio chatter seems to suppose it that it was once the watchtower for superheroes of the previous generation, before being municipally recognized. No one really remembers how it became the throne state of Port Safety, or why so many different police organizations war for it to be their headquarters. {RP MAIN GENRE} fʳᵉᵉˢᵗʸˡᵉf⒤ᵍʰᵗing Freestyle fighting is an inner-city colloquialism for either lawful or unlawful Mutual Combat. Public duels between ordinary or extraordinary contenders have been city-sanctioned since the twentieth century, provided there is an officer of the law present and accounted for to fairly judge the match. However, many villains rather find themselves in the underground brawling scene, profiteered off of by shady brokers or under the sponsorship of syndicates and other criminal organizations. Generally, the sanctioned duels expect honorable fighting with no below-the-belt tricks, and illicit matches usually wind up with someone either hospitalized or dead. But proving oneself as a vigilante has often come to the point of action, rather than words, and many try their lucks in the ring before ever taking on the mantle of an icon. In the Freestyle Fighting sub-forums, writers may test out new ideas for their characters or clash them against one another for story-line, side-story, or even just miscellaneous interaction. To enter an instance of Freestyle Fighting, one must state either the law as quoted above. Outlaws and anarchists may declare a "gambit's duel," with a written 'Integrity' quoted like the Statute above, to assure that all are clear on the rules for a proper win. As nice as it may seem... it was a law that developed from the capitalistic manner of these matches, and with less money being gambled over the two fighting, there would be inversely more broken promises. To RP, one simply goes to the User Lore and makes a venue of their own or a certain district, or perhaps posts their own adventure in Alternative RP on Valucre. The actions over time will follow into chronology with depth and make for a good Comicbook-style story derived just from our characters messing about here and there. These fights are usually in a place near the local pub, bar, or tavern, or other likely social areas. But feel free to be creative. Boxing gyms have been known to host fights for heroes with street popularity. Sporting stadiums have been known to host events for the most famous, cash cow heroes. After all, those who win duels often and consistently carry a more famous reputation; as a result they receive more attention as time goes on. Like everything else in Exodus City, this is both a blessing and a curse, because the attention comes from both fans and even the not-so-friendly. A 'Dark Horse' status is optimal for those who want to survive longest in Hell's Hood. O U T C A S T [t i r a d e] -o f- [j u s t i c e]
  14. Welcome, buddy!

    ☯️

  15. Welcome, buddy!

    🥋

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