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Found 36 results

  1. Better Than Gore

    Curse Of The Ursa

    Nyra’s adventure was a long one, however, it could have been longer. Traveling by horseback was ideal; hopefully, her newfound barbaric colleagues didn’t worry too much about her seizing one of their ponies. The stolen steed made her travel that much shorter. Save for an overnight camp, which wasn’t out of the ordinary, making that long of a trek in a day was unthinkable. Nyra’s arrival was anticlimactic; drawing unnecessary attention onto herself was the last thing on her to-do list. Her clothing consisted of mostly leather and linen, tight-fitted to the shape of her body, pauldrons appended with fur, gauntlets, greaves, and sabatons were the main bit of her attire that was metal in nature. Other than her sword, which was joined at her left hip and sheathed. Nyra was short in stature; give or take 5’6”, and very petite. Her small frame bolstered an astounding 165lb, consisting of conditioned muscle that was aesthetically pleasing. Her hair was dark and dreaded, styled into a braid and decorated with what looked to be beads, and a variety of teeth/claws. Nyra’s complexion was an exotic shade of tan and her eyes were a brilliant emerald green. Her facial highlights were delicate. After touching base into town, she guided her mount to what she thought to be a stable of sorts, tying it off and giving it a pat before advancing further into town. Rumor has it there was a woman residing in Blairsville that could possibly help her overcome the monster within her. Her townsfolk would sit back and relax knowing there was certifiably no way of it getting away and butchering whoever crossed paths with it. But where was the best place to follow-up on rumors? A tavern. Exploring for a bit, Nyra would eventually discover an establishment that was exactly that. Upon entering, each inhabitant would get a once-over before she advanced to an empty table. Taking a seat, she’d trust that someone would inevitably take notice of her and fetch a beverage. @Sleepy Seal
  2. Arsinia Crescentia was a fairly simple women, as simple as one of her station could be. Standing at four foot two and of a strong constitution, she ate meager meals though she could afford more, and her housing area was small but she could pay for a larger one. She didn't care much for wealth and comfort, simply yearned for the rewarding effort of smithing. The jarring clangs of metal on heated metal, the satisfying hiss of warm iron meeting water, and the workout that came with pumping the bellows. Smithing was her life. And her shop, the Crescent Hammer, was going to be her lifeline. Arsinia, if you haven't picked it up yet, was a blacksmith. She originally started it as a hobby, but eventually money started to dwindle, and she came to face the facts: You needed coin to survive. Without coin you couldn't buy food, or water, or a workspace, or materials... If she wanted to keep up the hobby, she needed to turn it into a job. So here she was. Wiping her hands down the front of her smock, she looked at her newest creation: A long, thin sword called a rapier. She should name it, she thought, but her mind was blank of ideas. Her short, brown, bobbed hair bounced as she spun deftly towards the back door. She opened it and stepped through silently, into the space behind the counter. Into her shop. Her shop. The concept felt so new, so foreign- but she wasn't dreaming. She beamed with pride, gazing around the room. It was filled with various examples of her work- battleaxes, warhammers, shortswords, staffs- there were even some pieces of armor scattered about. The shop looked clean, new- void of the usual dust that seemingly followed her everywhere. The weapons were arranged neatly on racks, in displays, and on the walls, with stands near the doorway for the armor. The wooden interior felt crisp and well-kept, and she was glad. She knew that the tiny bell arranged above the door would ring out an alarm whenever somebody entered- nothing too shocking, simply a noise like a windchime- and that a sign above the door exclaimed the presence of the building to anybody who passed by. It was only a matter of time. Until then, she'd wait. She sat, folding her hands. Only a matter of time, she assured herself. OOC Thread
  3. Fennis Ursai

    A Silver Ticket Gamble

    For a long while, it had seemed as thought Vashka would not see some field action for a good long while. Being called on for a job like this was troubling though, being as it was recruitment type work which was becoming more and more a staple of the company dealings of of late. Either way, he was happy to be on the job. The heavily armored goblin found a nice place amidst the 'Pavilion' area of town to watch the crowds of people come and go. His heavy plate armor was luckily cooled on the inside, if it wasn't for the inside lining, he would never wear this suit in weather that was as hot as it was. It seemed very strange for the set up of this job to involve a non-disclosed location, making the possible mercs have to seek him out, though The End Game was a bit of a secretive fellow on occasion. Either way, he chalked it up as commitment and dedication to the job ahead. From his seat at a local cafe, Vashka had tipped his helm back and was enjoying an early morning of spiked coffee, dark roast with a nice spike of some dark spiced rum. The day so far wasn't a bad day, it was his second day in blairville. Overall the city was nice but not his kind of town. A few sips from his coffee and it was becoming a good start of the day. While not drinking from his mug, Vashka would simply toss his helm back over his face and keep a place near the road so those looking for him could easily see him..though it wasn't that hard to notice him being his armor was bulky and a light tint of blue, almost bearing a knightly presence for such a short figure. Then there came the situation of having to use a false name..why? Why now of all times to use a false name, it wasn't like anyone was coming after them, at least best he knew anyways. Though this job held a few oddities to it, he wouldn't complain much seeing as how it wasn't really his place to question The End Game's methods. Instead he simply sat back, took a good view of the place, and let himself relax. Anything to keep him away from the tavern he called home right now, that place was a bit dangerous for the time being.
  4. Just some blocks north of the Gypsey Market, is a well known and well established building in Blairville known as the Central Medical Hospital, the largest hospital in the city and a well known place for medical care. Doctors and healers move throughout the halls in droves, planning and concocting all sorts of medicines and potions to help their patents. Nurses, whether they be the kindly kind, the sweet kind, the...extremly attractive kind, or even the sassy "dont you dare get in the way of me treating my patients" kind, among others can all be found helping patients in need. Among them was Public Room 42, the Physical Therapy Room. There, a young boy stood naked as two nurses continued to examine him. His body seemed weak and scrawny, but at the same time had sort of a scrappy feel to it. However, what was only noticable thanks to him being naked were the countless scars, burn marks, and other marks that screamed all levels of abuse. There was not a doubt in anyone's mind that this boy had been repeatedly beaten, used as an ashtray, neglected, and hurt both physically and psychologically. In fact, for the first five days, he refused to let anyone touch him and they were forced to sedate him. Repeatedly. After he screamed something about dying. From what the nurses, doctors, and psychologists could tell, his parents probably beat him so badly he had thought he died, and it left an impression on him. But now, he just lacked communication. However, as per Hospital Protocol, the wounds had to be repeatedly checked, see how they reacted to medication, see how they reacted to physical stress, and see what they could do to make them less noticable. Although, it was true that his parents were apparently smart enough not to make it too noticeable, for the trained eyes of the medical staff his body was covered in evidence of abuse. Some parts of his body, they thought he might have been hit by a baseball bat. Others, cut by a knife. Definently fist marks on some places, kick marks on others. Broken bones that healed, bruises, and burn marks. At the moment, they had just made him run on the treadmill, see how his legs were doing. It seemed like he must have gotten hit on the head, because once he finally woke up after having been found naked in a field unconscious, he finally came to but could barely move his body. It took him several days to be able to walk on his own, and while he can do fine now, they still make him go around in the wheelchair. Or maybe that was just because of hospital policy? He also claimed to have no memories, aside from his name being Noah Bell. The nurses ended up giving him the nickname Nobel though, a good nickname to try and brighten the spirit of someone who had been through so much darkness. The nurses were currently just waiting on a doctor to show up, and examine him further. Noah himself found the whole situation rather embarrassing, but given the state he heard he had been found in, he didn't have much room for complaint right now. Although to be honest, he did want to leave as soon as possible. He hoped the doctor would show up soon, and just clear him to leave the hospital already. While thinking that, he continued to chew some Tooroot, something the hospital gave him. He was not a major fan of the taste, but it was apparently to help deal with the sicknesses he kept getting.
  5. Twitterpated

    The Beautiful and Damned

    Not that the hearings and on goings of this day were unique compared to the others of late. While the civil unrest was far from over, each day brought with it more of those in opposition of the ridiculous Safeguard Act. More and more casters of varying backgrounds came to their senses, yet only at the cost of sowing more worries and doubts into the minds of the sheep that begged for the Act. The concept was simple, and sounded innocent enough in its intent. However, there was clearly ample room to bend the policies entailed there in, and abuse the act as a way means of abusing the people they claimed it would protect. While this man in particular never even considered such an empty promise of safety, he also wasn't one that needed it. He immersed himself into the Arts as any other should feel inclined to do in a world full of magical prowess, even more so, he dabbled into the likes of which few dared, and even fewer had ever managed to Master. The Dark Arts. These studies were a part of his reason for being here today, at this very moment, no matter how indirectly. More direct, a practitioner in kind in which he shared an intimacy even deeper with. A young promising Witch, capable and wise beyond her mortal years. She was a tiny shred of light pierced his darkness, forcing a genesis within his very soul while in his still very impressionable youth. While she was the younger one between them, she in his eyes carried more worth in life than life itself. It was for this simple reasoning of admiration and profound sense of agapē that he had to fight his usual behavioral tendencies and brave the masses all his own. It wasn't a normal occurrence to not hear from nor see her for an entire day, at least not without prior warning of said absence. He wasn't sure what she had been up to, though the whispers upon the wind of an unregistered witch that dared to trifle with the ilk of Black Magics. Rumor had it that the witch had been detained by registered magic folk and non-magic folk alike. As opposed to the law taking it's course however, the citizens had deigned themselves just as fit if not more so to defend their livelihoods. Rumor had it that they were to burn the witch at the stake at noon! They burned a witch in Bingham Square Last Friday afternoon. The faggot-smoke was blacker than The shadows of the Moon; The licking flames were strangely green Like fox-fire on the fen . . . And she who cursed the godly folk Will never curse again. The closer he got towards the the heart of town, the more gossip he heard upon the streets surrounding the incident. The witch in mind had allegedly been caught stealing. Others argued that she had actually cursed an unsavory vendor in the Gypsy Market that had ties to a predominate family in the market's controlling interest. Then of course he had heard of a small string of deaths the night prior that they were easily pointing fingers at this not so widely known witch. While none of these facts stood out to him as identifying factors surrounding the one he sought, none of them outright debunked her presence in these unsavory situations. Without them at least giving him some more details to go off of such as appearance or actual eye witnesses to the culprits mannerisms, he could assume either way. Though it became clear by the time he reached the opposing side of the market from whence he entered that today's festivities were ironically taking place in a part of ton meant for celebrations and joyous occasions. The Pavilion. @Akako Akari
  6. Aleksei

    Wandering Roads

    “Listen, I just wanted to know the price on this scarf and nothing else!” Like talking over a storm, he thought while wearing an exasperated lopsided smirk. The woman didn't like him, and that's perfectly okay in his book, he didn't harbor any love for her either, but damn it! All he wanted to know was the price; it's not like he insulted her ancestors or anything. The likelihood of him buying it was extremely high; was the right color of red, fit just like a glove, and he could justify the purchase. Her ranting and raving at him were only knocking the item down in price, and he was becoming extremely irritated by her attitude. She said something that made him look down at his appearance - come again? He'll have her know that his armor was the best and just because he chose to wear it fashionably doesn't make him some haphazard knight. There are generations and generations built into the black armor, he’s not going to let some wrinkled old hag insult him because he may not fit in with the rest of the crowd. What gave her the gal? The man stood six-feet and at least - at least! - five inches and she was standing up against him like he was just a breeze to her mountainous impersonation. “Listen! I will give you what you want for it, just stop yelling at me!” Harshal said a prayer for the old woman’s family, because if she was his granny … “Wait, what?!” Just as he fished the coin out of its pouch, she slapped him with a preposterous number. He looked at her like she had three heads (matching the current two already protruding from her short frame). “Who has that kind of money?! It's a scarf, a scarf! Did the All-Creator wipe her ass with it?!” By this point, a small crowd of onlookers gathered around the stall to put their noses in not their business. Entertained by the sight of this giant man arguing with an old woman, some felt the need to stick around and see who was going to win this tug-o-war. Harshal is not going to bend knee for this hustler in wrinkles; he is also not leaving without the scarf. Now just a matter of principle, she was wasting his time throwing numbers she’s probably pulled out of her ear, but he’s no fool. He could care less if she’s a lady probably older than dirt itself, she started this whole thing by being snooty with him, and he’s not going to back down. @ourlachesism
  7. FIELD TRAINING CAMP BROADBENT, 1445 ROMEO TIME A thin trickle of sweat beaded on his brows and unceremoniously dripped onto the flat white paper of his assignment sheet. A second fell, and then a third. Max's emerald eyes trailed across the last line of the briefing and then snapped right back up to the officer who had presented him with it, a question emerging almost immediately. "With all due respect, Lt., why me? I want to be out in the field getting ready for our Hells Gate deployment. I don't have any experience dealing with the law, or conducting investigations on my own." His tone was pliable, conciliatory, even. But there was a lingering edge of deep concern beneath the calm veneer. The fingers of his right hand tensed uncomfortably as he waited for Lieutenant Mark's response. "It's simple. They want someone with a decent head on their shoulders as a second to an investigator. Thanks to all that Safeguard crap, they're desperately shorthanded. Can't have them in teams anymore because there's too much going on. So you'll be helping out as the muscle to their brains." Lieutenant Tom Mark was a tall, spare man in his mid forties. He scratched the beginnings of stubble along his cheek thoughtfully. "Private, allow me to state that these are lawful orders." Mark's voice was almost cheerful as he continued. "And you will follow them to the best of your ability, even if you spend the next three weeks bringing coffee for some hotshot investigator trying to figure out the great sweetroll heist of the century." Max simply nodded his head tightly, lips parsed in obvious disappointment. It would hardly do any good to get into it with the LT. Surviving the colossal fuckup at the live firing range had given him some measure of respect among the commanders of his training unit - enough that he was able to obtain one of the more cutting edge prostheses available - but certainly not enough to where he could demand his assignment changed. No, far better to simply deal with it and hope it earned him enough favor to be put back into the field with the rest of the unit. "For what it's worth, Sanders," the LT added as he reached the exit, "I would think of it as an opportunity. Not too often you get to see the other side of what we fight for." Not too often you get sent to the rear echelon for saving someone's life, either. To Blairville, then.
  8. Vansin

    Abstruse Arcana

    In a tower made of an alien stone, in a chamber high above the shuffling canaille in the streets of Blairville was Nisnav Ghoulface. He was a mage of some celebrity in Blairville's arcane circles, once for the horrible deformity of his body and once again for his generous and noble conduct. It was clear to any observer that Nisnav had suffered a horrible burn to the torso and face on the right side of his body. The skin was burned away, and the muscle and bone exposed themselves across his jaw. Beneath his wet cheekskin, teeth glinted from open windows in the ruined flesh. His right arm did not exist anymore, burned down to the shoulder joint leaving not so much as a stump. Long ago, he had wrapped his body in shawls and rags and cast his magic from the shadows. No longer. Now, he was a man of influence and reputation in Blairville; he was a philanthropist, a teacher, a government volunteer, an inventor, and a businessman of no mean prosperity. All that esteem required a level of dignity he had grown accustomed to displaying. Now, he wore the cloak and belt of a respectable mage, and a wide-brimmed hat when he went outside to protect his raw skin from the sun. The children hid whenever he walked the streets, but the citizens of Blairville were kind to him, and he to them. Here, at least, he was admired. Now he was in a long rectangular chamber, awaiting a call from an elven visitor. Often Nisnav would cooperate in the pursuit of new spellcraft and, having recently hit a thaumaturgical quandary, he had sought out the famous bookseller Ioreth to counsel him on the particulars of certain natural crafts he was hoping to intervolve with his own enchantments to create new and possibly revolutionary magic. As far as he knew, she would be arriving any minute now. Whether she did or didn't, Nisnav's day continued uninterrupted. He raised his lone arm and aimed his finger toward the far wall. Across the length of the room many piles of melted and exploded clay lay strewn about the floor. More were to come. "Pull." he said serenely, and nearby a wretched little homunculus struggled to pull a lever on a strange and magical box. The homunculus's puke-green half-melted skin jiggled in effort but finally his wavering arms won their battle with the lever and the box activated. Lights shone from beneath its closed top, and it shook with a clatter before springing open like an oversized jack-in-the-box and blenching out smoke and a streak of gold into the air. Nisnav's eyes widened and he gave a gruesome, lopsided smile. "Oh, yes!" he said with a thrill in his voice. A golden bird! It was a rare product of the box, which existed for the sole purpose of dispensing animated clay birds for target practice. Yet there was no clay this time, no clacking adobe wings to give away its movements, no, this bird sailed quickly and quietly and even as Nisnav cast forth darts of acid from his fingers he knew he would not so easily catch his mark. Indeed, the bird spun and dipped past the attacks, acid splattering against the wall behind it and hissing without effect. With a gesture, Nisnav remotely slammed the door to the room shut, for immediately the golden bird made to escape. The elegant construct swooped gracefully away from the closed exit as though it had always meant to and then bore down directly at Nisnav. Such a bird had never struck him before, but the deformed wizard only widened his eyes and stood his ground. This, he knew, was why the bird-spitting device existed in the first place: to challenge him. If he shirked from a fake bird, what chance did he have in the cutthroat realms beyond? The bird aimed a blunt but painful looking beak down toward Nisnav's chest, and he swerved aside at the very last moment, like a triceratops fighter, and threw his hand out to cast at the bird as it made a leftward swing to retry its attack. From his palm, a small blue bead fired. No larger than a pellet from a toy gun, the sphere bounced into the flank of the golden bird and swallowed it, growing to a size large enough to fit the golden construct almost instantly. The bird flailed and kicked against the humming plasmatic capture field, but to no avail. Nisnav scooped the energy field up in his only remaining hand and leveled it with his injured face. The fire which had so disfigured him had not reached his eyes, and they smiled in victory. "A most fortunate counter-attack, master. Surely, I anticipated it would strike you down." said the homunculus in a thin, gravelly voice. Nisnav sighed with unyielding patience. "Spare me your repulsive fantasies Vert," he said calmly, "put the box away and prepare a lunch." Lunch downstairs was a spread of sugared bread, sliced orlupple and ribbonberry fruits, and oatmeal, with a course of lemon butter codfish and mushroom and lobster bisque. Nisnav reclined as Vert meticulously served food into his mouth and peppered his lips with gentle brushes of a napkin, as though an artist at his easel. Halfway through the relaxing meal, Vert piqued alertly, closed his mismatched eyes, and announced: "Lady elf at the door, master." "Ah, Ioreth. Let her in." Vert closed his eyes again, and before Ioreth the doors to Nisnav's wizard tower swung open to accept her. The dining hall was not so far from the entrance on the ground floor. As she entered, torches sprung to life to show her the way to the master. @KittyvonCupcake
  9. Jade444

    Lost Mercenary

    Thrazes wandered a branching pathway on the outskirts of the inner city, looking around at the architecture with a hint of confusion on his face. He knew not how he came here, though his only thought was to find somewhere to rest at. He felt exhausted, magic levels drained. He'd have to find some food and drink if he were to survive any longer in this strange city, under the strange sky. Even on this road that seemed unpopular and dark, people bustled by on their way to... well, anywhere. The skeleton couldn't imagine how many people lived in this city, nor what direction he could go to escape the city. His footsteps made a thump-click sound on the ground because of his steel-toed boots, a sound he'd grown used to over time, especially in the cobblestone-paved pathways of his hometown. He brought aside one of the citizens, speaking in a low, quiet tone. "What is the name of this town?" The response he got was a scoff and the citizen pulling away, walking in the opposite direction. Grunting, he continued on his way. His gait was a little unsteady, caused by another reason he should find somewhere to rest... the chafing of his armor. Even as a skeleton, he did suffer from the rub of rough fabric on his bones. He usually only noticed it when he had worn his armor for an extended amount of time. After a few minutes he'd tried to speak to a few more citizens and got the same or similar reactions as before. He was starting to get irritated. Very irritated. He wondered what would happen if he decided to just punch something. Though, he didn't really feel like breaking his hand... yeah, bad idea.
  10. The apartment wasn’t as big as it had looked in the picture. Sure, four stories was pretty high, but the width of the building was just disappointing. Still, she had gotten this place for a very decent price which was getting harder to find in Blairville. Clothed exaggeratedly, she and Grant looked as if they were ready to survive a winter snowstorm as they made their way up to the front steps. In reality, they were trying to survive the eyes of the media. Their intention was to keep a low profile. Nobody needed to know that the Hyperion Prince was taking up residence outside of his city, far away from any of his bodyguards or the watchful eye of his mother. When they had reached the front porch, she tried out the key that would open up the fence door. It slid open with a soft click. The grass in the yard bloomed lusciously. Reyna was careful to stay away from it so as not to cause it to wilt. As they paced up the short stretch of stone pathway, hands clasped together tightly, she turned to Grant, an excited grin spreading across her face. “I’ve waited all my life for this,” she beamed proudly as she slid her key into the door. “Are you ready?” The lock popped open with a soft “click” and slid open to let out the warm smell of their new Blairville home. @danzilla3
  11. ~Harlow.

    Strange Occurrences

    [Blairville Outskirts] Trees. Lots and lots of trees. The ship soared over stretches of the Terren land that fell between Hell’s Gate and Blairville, passing over the shining Sidereal Lake, greeted by the wide open arms of the Ouread, and found themselves settling into the warm sands of the desert at the mountain range’s feet. It sat as a crown to the city, peaks reaching to the stars, all the way from the flat desert land of their shared valley. Soon, the gamut of green gave way to dirt and mud, soon then to waves of buff, blustery sands. A smattering of small settlements beyond the city walls decorated its distance with an abundance of small homes, markets, and trading caravans. Harlow’s good eye scanned the landscape as they approached their target, watching silently over the shoulder of her pilot. “Don’t go too fast, we don’t want to blow them away with that lead foot of yours.” An artificial voice quipped back, “That saying doesn’t apply to airships, Captain.” “Funny. But with all sincerity, Mama Gita is - Gaia bless her - old. She will literally blow away if we approach too quickly. Take us down easy.” The Cloudstrider coasted low in the sky above the city outskirts, soothing the roar of its engines as it eased into a landing. Tires bounced against the sand as the engines slowed and stopped, the surrounding population of Mahrjan turning their heads and ceasing activity to observe the visiting ship. The small, sapphire-maned woman at the helm raised her arms with elation, a device fastened to her right ear and forehead blinking in time with each syllable, “Touchdown, Captain!” “Good work, Abi,” Harlow nodded, tapping a nearby button on the control panel. It dimmed in activation as she leaned down to a nearby microphone, clearing her throat, “Goooood morning, people, - “ her words echoed throughout the halls and chambers of the ship, “- and welcome to Blairville. We’re here for a day or so. Our friends outside are a local Mahrjan clan. They’re friendly, but avoid mishandling water around them. Happy to explain if needed; otherwise, just trust me on that. Tom - prepare for a full house plus for dinner. We’ll be having a few guests aboard later.” She smiled at Abi seated in a tangle of her own legs in the pilot’s chair. “Wanna come with me to get my new eye?” “YES. I mean.. Of course, Captain. When do we leave?!” Harlow mulled over her answer, tapping her chin as she spun to face the exit of the bridge, “We have to set up at the Inn de Clairmont by midday. We should head over to the shop first now, if we want to make it in time to meet our prospects. Are you ready to go?” “AM I EVER!” Abi leapt from her chair, “I’ve been waiting for so long for you to get that eye!” “Tell me about it. I’m over the eyepatch.” The pair moseyed from the bridge and into the common area of the ship, briefly scanning the several couches and chairs for any signs of early morning life. Harlow could hear the clanging of stainless steel from the kitchen just beyond it, a clear sign that their cook was well into his task for the day. She paused at the top step for a moment, a satisfied smile finding her, before she descended into the cargo bay below. Bright beams of light parted the darkness of the bay as the rear ramp opened to the outside, playing Harlow and Abigail’s silhouettes across its expanse as they approached. A small group gathered at the opening entrance, centered by that of an older woman donned in many layers of colorful, ornate robes and wrappings. Bangles danced along her thin wrists as she clasped her hands together, shaking a bit from a natural unsteadiness. Three individuals appeared to surround her as escorts, observing her movements and paying careful attention to her needs. One held her elbow to provide stability where she stood. “Mama Gita. It’s been a while.” Harlow greeted her with a small bow before the woman reached to take one of her hands. “It’s so good to see you, young one. Although I wish it were under better circumstances.” Gita slowly raised a shaking hand to the captain’s face, bangles chiming, “Your eye.” “Don’t worry about it. Getting it taken care of today, actually. Thanks for letting us stay here, it’s really appreciated. Tom is working on a feast for us all later. We’re looking forward to hosting you this evening.” “Oh yes, we’re thrilled to have you all. Did I hear correctly that you’ve a crew now?” “Not yet. That’s the other thing we’re taking care of today. Hopefully. Abigail here,” Harlow motioned to her comrade, “Is my engineer, has been for a while. Everyone else you’ll have the pleasure of meeting later tonight - if they show up, anyway. Although, you may get a sneak preview if you run yourself into the slumbering princess we have aboard. You’ll know him by the hat. His name is Stello. ” The warm smile on Mama Gita’s wrinkly face colored her tone, “I’m looking forward to meeting all of them.” “Heh, me too.”
  12. Ichi

    A glacier of Magic

    Vince ducked behind a alleyway, diving in between some trash cans to hide from guards who had been chasing him. The Elf was afraid, and definitely guilty. The time of day was late afternoon, and he was in a random town close to Blairville. He wore his usual getup, but was also carrying a bag filled with what appeared to be vials. Yes, you see, this story can only be made clear with context. Context that I shall begin to give you now: ***(2 days earlier)*** High above the world among the clouds, flying alongside the birds and wind; Vince flew his airship determinedly, having been searching for work and finding no such luck. This was Vincent Redhill, an elf engineer who was trying to score some cash to pay for ship repairs. His airship, the dusty ol bird, needed a new pair of wood board replacements, and he could only hold it together with nails and tape for so long. If all else failed, he always has his trusty parachute. But today he had an objective: he'd heard about a calamity that befell the lands of Terrenus. A calamity that caused the magic of the whole land to be sucked up into an ice desert and leave the population stunted and frustrated. This meant 2 things: People would be short on magic all over the lands, and that there would be a demand for it. But how would he make a profit out of this? Easy, Vince himself hated magic, but he was a being that produced it. And elf. So, long story short, he'd fill vials with his magic reserves, and sell them for a decent price. Decent being enough to fully repair his airship after all is sold and done. Maybe some food and drink too. Vince smiled, he knew this would be a simple mission. In and out, no problem. What's the worst that could go wrong? ***(Present)*** He'd sold some vials, was approached by the authorities aggressively for selling magic, and ran for it under the impression that counterfeit magic was apparently illegal. Now he hid, hoping nobody would find him in the back alley of a bar... (Feel free to join in if you want, Its all for fun, and maybe cannon post too if I passed the Supernal exam?)
  13. Jai Nifarious

    You Had Friends Once...

    Jai "Kazehikari" Nifarious There's always a problem you can't fix. No matter if I have world breaking powers or if I am living amongst mortals; I am always the last one standing. I've been torn apart, reassembled, possessed, hated, exiled, punished, tortured, betrayed, and still I stand here thinking about what little time I've spent filling my sorrows with good memories from kind faces. Times have changed, the people are not my people, the land is not welcoming, and I feel....I feel so out of place. "Immortality...immortality..." He chants to himself, dissecting a hymn he'd once heard. Jai keeps himself at a distance from socializing with the "unblessed". There's an alienation between him and mortals now, a rift that he's formed after finding out the truth of their origins. The many secrets of violence and war ravaged his attitude towards them, it made him less human each interaction. The burden of knowledge has carved up what tiny hope he's had in humanity. The clothes he wears are actively a contradiction and yet a mocking of their fashion. It is not of this world, but it's what is considered "acceptable". His eyes are like solid white spheres, he's been passed off as blind to keep others from acting on their evil instincts and it's garnered the kindness of many. It's deceptive, but it's the only way he's gone on this far without losing it. "Excuse me, sir, you dropped this." One man says to him handing Jai an leather like wallet with several compartments. <-"Ngh"-> Jai thinks to himself. "Hey buddy, your shoe is untied." Another kind person says while placing a hand on Jai's chest to stop his stride. <-"Tch"-> "Mister you're really tall." a young girl says peeking up at him as he uses the collar of his jacket to hide his embarrassment behind. <-"Stop..."-> "Hey handsome." A slim woman runs a hand across his back. <-"She's got a reputation on her. She flaunts it ferociously. It's that of a succubus."-> "Well, you smell like everywhere....and yet nowhere. If you strike out on finding what you're looking for, ol' Morrigan will keep you company." She says blowing a kiss to his back, making sure he hears her moan. <-"Not a chance....not tonight."-> The moan sinks into his mind. The influence is too weak for his mettle. He proceeds strongly through the streets. Hours of wandering and thinking about as many people as he could remember. Jai pays respects to their memory, for he knew not where the graves lie. There is a swelling kindness that's becoming more dominant in his facial expression. Like he was trying to restore something lost. Something groundbreaking. <<-"mmmmwhaaa"->> Then it happens. <-"What? Green hair, small wings, soft fair skin, luxurious lips, plump frame..the succubus's curse...no...her invitation."-> <<-"Ol Morrigan..."->> <-"An accent...a place of pleasure...mmmm get out of my head!"-> Jai places both palms against the sides of his face, fighting the temptation. This pleasure he seeks is not of the flesh, yet this succubus has forced it's way through to redirect him. His hands fall from his face and he comes to a complete stop peering into the street ahead of him. <-"......Should I go?"-> l<-"As long as you bring me with you."->l <-"Deal."-> Jai's hands slip into his pockets and he spins around, heading back the way he'd came...a grin on his face.
  14. The purpose of this thread, like Social Temperatures, is to allow the winners of the various Zones in the Tower to make posts concerning their Zones that they can edit and update at their leisure.    I had to post it in TRP so as not to fluff the word limit.
  15. Anyone sensitive to the eddies of magic, and new to the abundance of it in Blairville, would find themselves in a state of sensory overload remedied either by continued exposure or skill at throttling the pipeline of one's own perception. Blairville's face was one now marred by the digressive effects of gang violence, as guildhalls expressed their ideological differences at one another through the means of lethal magic. The common man had little to fear in terms of direct assault by one of these gangs, but one also quickly learned that lightning bolts and petrification rays did not discriminate on the basis of worldview. You could go to sleep a man and wake up ash, and that was just the way of things now. Blairville's skyline did not scrape the vault of heaven near as much as the one at Hell's Gate, but chief among its towers was the TOWER, the one written about in capital letters, always, and whose utterance was one brought into a lower register in casual conversation, like it was the only bold word used in speech. The inside was enormous, but not in a manner incongruent with the TOWER's stature. To one side a staircase which led only downwards, and in front of it were stationed guards in military garb. To another side a staircase which led only upwards, and no obstructions to speak of. Finding oneself in the Library Zone proper, the sheer number of rows escaped the limits of sight even at the highest vantage climbing the shelves could offer, and one was left with the distinct impression that to see more would only serve to boggle the mind. There was no map, and there could be no map with the layout in constant flux. No catalog or system to the arrangement of the books. No rhyme. No reason. Only the zone. Only the TOWER. OOC
  16. KittyvonCupcake

    The Black Book (B|E Quest)

    By Ash and by Moon, I Invoke thee. By Fang and by Claw, I Form thee. By Blood and by Spirit, I Bind thee. ---The Black Book, Thomas Herrington Out of respect for the dead, no rallies were organized and no politically motivated violence occurred on the day of Thomas Herrington’s funeral services. All was quiet atop the sloping hill that the enchanter’s district claimed, spare the chanting hymns of the Gaian clergy flanking the funeral procession and the single toll of a bell when Herrington’s body met hallowed ground. In the heavens above, grey clouds crept across the atmosphere at a glacial pace. A fine mist swept the promise of rain over the several hundred people gathered together in the cemetery. “On the earth do we toil,” intoned a priest before throwing a handful of soil into Herrington’s final resting place. On the earth do we toil, echoed the throngs of mourners and spectators. Around the open grave stood a collection of scholars, summoners, and one vaguely distracted half-brother named Albert. They followed the priest’s motion, adding their own portions of soil to the ground. Blessed water and lily petals followed. “In the earth do we rest.” In the earth do we rest. Hours later, the sky tore open with torrents of rain and hell broke loose upon Blairville’s Underworld. The Underworld of Blairville (or, at least, one of the Underworlds contained within the sprawling megacity) was chiefly confined to an insular district that had been constructed in the lower valley beneath Enchanter’s Hill. Down and down and down the streets spiralled, as the Underworld was built on a steep depression in the ground caused by a geomage duel centuries ago. Low rent apartment buildings sprung up like artificial cliffs against the sea of eclectically constructed dive bars and restaurants, of nondescript warehouses with blacked out windows, of boarded up shops coated in layers of graffiti, of flashing neon lights advertising anything from late night fried noodles to anonymous intimacy to substances that claim to make everything beautiful and nothing hurt. At the bottom of the depression grew a massive elderoak. It stood as high as the mage towers jutting out across Blairville, shading the Underworld with its expansive canopy. A vast marketplace settled at its roots. Rain was grudgingly accepted by the sellers at the Underworld’s marketplace. Those with open air booths immediately began to pack up their wares and cram themselves besides those with tents that were willing to share. The fortunate merchants and hawkers with permanent structures carved within the tree roots controlled their smirks as crowds escaping the deluge flooded into their shops. Some offered hot tea, others a sample of their latest happiness guaranteed potions or a glance at their caged exotic chimeras. Sharpened blades sliced through octopus tentacles freshly caught from the nearby river and the air filled with the scent of spices and seafood mingling with the metallic tang of the storm. With the vibrant noise and the ever present custom of Underworld dwellers to carefully ignore what happens in the shadows, there was little reaction to the first scream. At the second, the undertone of anxiety began to buzz across the market. Lightning streaked across the sky and illuminated the wreckage of a tent. Tomes with shredded pages lay discarded and brutally butchered in the mud. Parchment scrolls and the tent’s garishly embroidered yellow fabric absorbed crimson. A left hand in the process of contorting itself into a gesture for protection had been ripped away from its former mistress and now marked the entryway. The magic dealer, a Banjaro woman named Vadoma, had not been the only victim. Thomas Herrington’s black hound tore through the marketplace with feral fury, stopping its path of destruction the moment it encountered a man dressed in a dark suit. Swords passed straight through the black hound. No quickly flung spells managed to slow it down. Amare Woolf, caught in the maw of nightmare, disappeared from sight. All that remained were droplets of blood and a solitary cufflink in the shape of a ram’s head. Three days passed. They each brought a swirl of rumors regarding Amare Woolf and his connection to Thomas Herrington. While their relationship never appeared to expand beyond the nature of casual acquaintances, they both studied in the same field of magic. Woolf was younger by more than a decade, yet demonstrated a knack for efficiently bringing forth fickle spirits and binding them under his command. The strength of his will had attracted attention from the Summoner’s Guild, with Herrington included, yet none of the prominent members could explain why Woolf had been targeted so shortly after Herrington met an untimely demise. Theories that someone else was capable of summoning the Black Hound was met with derision from the elder magicians. Only Herrington had the knowledge to bind the creature, they insisted. Yet how was the hound running loose if its master lie under six feet of sacred soil? It was a question Ioreth Rhavon pondered as she waited for the other contracted employees to meet her at the elderoak plaza, one of the rare green spaces contained within this area of Blairville. As tradition seemed to dictate with quests across Valucre, a tavern had been selected for their rendezvous point. The bastard child of a Weland teahouse and a sketchy lounge, the Lithium Hour rested snugly between two juvenile elderoaks. In order to make up for the highly uneven foundation, the floors of the LH were split into different segments via platforms. From the claustrophobic foyer guarded by a glowering woman with indigo skin and a set of horns one needed to hop up onto the central area, where one then could clamber onto a dining area in the east or a hookah room on the west. Music trickled in from high above, a hypnotic pulsating beat that drifted through the thick smoke and swirled in the overly sweet liqueur served at the bar. Ioreth settled herself deeper into the velvet sofa cushions with a sigh. For a moment, time slowed to a steady rhythm in her private alcove. Over her head, sconces on the deep violet walls cast a soft glow across the small room. A full set of Weland style tea sat on the low coffee table, complete with an assortment of delicate finger foods and pastries. Paperwork, organized into three different stacks, perched at the edge of the spread. Amare Woolf’s cufflink danced between Ioreth’s fingers. Nimble and elongated, they were adorned with silver rings and runic etchings. The clothing she choose for the night was simple: she was swathed in black with a soft tunic and leggings, her stormcloud colored hair woven into a braid, her bare feet wrapped save for her heels and toes. Upon entering, the Book|Ends associates would be greeted with a smile and gesture towards the still untouched tea set. As her new hires were informed of the tome she wished to obtain, the magic users among the group were granted temporary licenses to protect them from reporting to the authorities controlling Blairville's Safeguard measures before they entered the city along with the location of Lithium Hour and a pass needed to present to Ibeyi, the bouncer with the horns, that would allow them to enter the stairs at the back that led to their meeting room. It was here that they could discuss what their mission entailed.
  17. If Issac had known just how much administration and administrator was required to do; he probably would have thought about the offer to head up the Hera division of the Prometheus Initiative a bit longer than he had. He wasn't stupid of course; he had known that such a job would entail much more bureaucracy and paperwork than he was used to, but he'd never dreamed it would be like ninety percent of his job! The last week since he had taken the job had been filled with staff meetings, requisition forms, and SO. MANY. SIGNATURES. Issac almost felt like a celebrity with how many times a day he was signing his name on things. Over the weekend he had wised up, and had just made a stamp with his signature on it to spare himself carpel tunnel syndrome. Karilius had promised him throughout the whole thing that all the tedious paper pushing was just to get things rolling, and that soon he would be aloud to create and pursue his own goals for Hera. The alchemist had replied that he had better not be lying, or he might blow up his own office just to alleviate the boredom. The young man had laughed until Issac had shown him the bomb. But come Monday morning, the young man had kept his word; and after one last signature Karilius had turned him loose to start thinking how best spread magic based medicine to all of Terrenus. Freed from his bureaucratic shackles, he had thought long and hard about what his first project would be; and after falling asleep and rolling off the couch in his office, he knew what he wanted to do. Clinics! It made so much sense to him! After all, they already had the resources to help those in need on the continent, so they would be achieving their objective of helping people. Plus, as they developed new medical technology, it would give them a staging point to distribute it! Unfortunately, he knew he couldn't directly manage such clinics and still have time to do his actual job; and thus he had hit upon the idea of hiring people to do that for him! That was why he was now walking into a conference room where the applicants awaited his arrival. He stood at the head of the table and began to speak. "Hello! My name is Issac Graham, Administrator of the Hera division of the Prometheus Initiative. Let's go around the table and have everybody introduce themselves before we begin the interviews?" @Ayden @evil @Scout22 @PurplePanda @carrionjackal @BiggieSmalls
  18. It was midday as it seemed, and the rock paved streets were paved with citizens engaging in conversations, be it bargaining for an antique, conversing with a friend or casual banter as they walked. Cheerfully children would slip through the cracks of the flow of human traffic as they chased each other in a game of tag. Mixed with a variety of humans, goblins, mages and average folk with the occasional bard playing music at a street corner for money, it was an average day for the citizens of Blairville. If only they knew that a 1 million dollar bounty was among them the streets would be a whole other story. This precious young lady shrouded herself in a cloak, what she thought was clever, in reality making he stick out like a soar thumb especially with what kind of robe it was. Silk velvet red, which shined in the sun, almost an eyesore to look at in the midst of middle class citizens. Guards on patrol immediately took noticed the behavior, more curious as to why someone in high class society was wandering a place like this. Such a young lady shouldn't be here alone. Of course, one approached her to ask if she was lost. It was an innocent question. But the young woman panicked. they were onto her. She couldn't go back. So immediately after the man tapped her shoulder, she ran. Pushing through the crowd, she could hear the man in the distance calling out to her, but of course she wouldn't turn back. Running into a series of alleyways, she would find herself even deeper down the rabbit hole. It was sketchier here, darker, dirtier, and filled with suspicious characters.. as she cautiously passed, she could feel the eyes on her. It was as if they could sense her wealth (though it was probably the cloak that gave it away). One would speak to her as they grab hold of the silk tail of the cloak, "Hey that's a pretty looking robe you got there sweety" Croaked one of the many sketchy men. She flinched as she attempted to yank it from his grasp with little results. Don't you dare touch me you creep!". "Aww don't be like that babe, I just want to play." Afraid, she pulls out her mace and goes to town on the man's eyes. Shrieking in pain he lets go of the the robe and runs again, only this time the man chases after her. She panicked. She’s never been chased like this before. She could die. But she would rather this kind of living than be a prisoner. So she kept running, banging on doors for help, but no one responded. Some she could even hear their doors actively lock at her approach. She turned another corner. This door was open. She nearly leaped into the entrance as if it were gods embrace, and immediately shut the door. Sounds of running approached…then faded. She let out a sigh as she unveiled her cloak. A light skinned girl with curly auburn hair in pigtail puffs. She looked around where she was, and it was surprisingly crowded with dusty antiques and stacks of books, far beyond her reach. “H-hello?” She would call out with a shaky voice. She began walking deeper into the room, delicately avoiding knocking things over.
  19. BiggieSmalls

    Devising a Pantheon - Hades

    Karilius Oelin considered himself to be a fortunate member of the High Towers' mage guild. He felt blessed to have the many resources available to him, his motions and his movements backed by a well-crafted, slowly-changing group of similarly-interested mages, many of whom had come from other mage guilds in order to empower the Prometheus Initiative. People who sought to immediately and potently use their abilities in order to help others and solve everyday problems... People who were like him. The white-haired young man, with sun-glare eyes, couldn't help but let his pale face pull into a grin at the thought of all of those people, working closely in tandem with him, all of them reaching for the same sun, chasing after it with their knowledge. To make the world truly better would require that they all join and band together, to innovate and change the way the world saw magic. He himself saw it as a simple tool, like any other. A spell could be wielded just as efficiently, if not more so, as a shovel or a pitchfork. A spell was merely an extension of a toolset, a skill to be used. It was nothing particularly special, nothing that likely could not be accomplished via other means, in time. But with the deaths of many under the violence on both sides of the Safeguard Act, this tool had to be rebranded from one of terrorism to one of peace, that the common folk could rally around. It was with the general people who kept the economy running that Karilius himself could enact the change he sought to place in the world. The change that had been inspired, not so long ago, from a simple, leather-bound booklet. Within his room, the white-haired boy, scarred on one face, was alone. A large double bed, and a mahogany desk were pushed towards the far side of the room, with stacks upon stacks of books obscuring the dark wood from the vision of any passersby. A mixture of ledgers, rosters, and records all pieced together in order to keep up-to-date information regarding the entirety of his organization, but more importantly, his plans and their eventual stations, to be placed within. The rug itself held the same magical charm as the rug within his bank, a simple set of runes that would clean the boots and clothes of those who stepped in. Alarm glyphs, hidden from view, and alerting only himself when triggered, lined his windows and doors. His bookshelves, all three of them, were home-kempt journals depicting the different businesses of the city who used his bank, information he could gather along with techniques that he had obtained through the discussions on whether or not he should invest in them. Within a single mage's room was enough economic information to break about twenty-percent of the common businesses of Blairville, ranging from magical shops to mundane ones, each bookshelf broken down into one of four categories: Individuals who had borrowed money from the bank; Individuals who sought security details from the bank; and Individuals who used the bank as a place to protect their income. And in the margins of each page were extensive details regarding their business, from names, to loved ones, to obsessive details regarding their abilities. More importantly, a list of spell-like abilities that would benefit the businesses with a name on each page. The Knights of Goldwyn. Athena. Introduce magical tethers that allow the bodyguards to detect the state that their charge is in, so that they can better comprehend their immediate priorities. Scrying sensors would be of the utmost use. The Fenwyn Adventurer's Guild. Poseidon. Introduce refreshment beads, liquid beads, and other general survival tools. Conspire to decrease the amount of space and weight necessary for necessities, so maximal material can be brought back with each dangerous trek. Fell Dark Mercenary Company. Hades. Weaponization of negative energies in order to inflict lasting wounds, in order to force injured parties to submit quicker. Decrease overall lethality, focus instead on the impeding of natural healing and resting processes. Page upon page of information, sensitive and projected, were all listed on these bookshelves. The meticulous detailing of a young man bordering on the obsessed, through all but the machinations of a single brown book. But as the young man picked up this brown booklet, he tucked it into his robes, and stalled aside, coming to a spot on his bed. He knew what he'd done by inviting someone in here. His usually chipper face reflected a deeply serious concern, as those deep golden eyes flicked over his bookshelf. A glyph clicked away, as if warning him when the encroaching time would arrive. The young man couldn't help but let the clicking of the glyph-clock on his wall remind him of a deeply frustrating sentiment. The one that, despite all of his goodwill towards his fellow man, his blind-eyed idealism, and his visceral desire to do good unto others, that if he were killed, all of his goals would die with him, and that the next person to inherit his business might not be as cool-minded or peacefully-inclined as himself. And with his plans for the future, he imagined that a great many groups... The Terran Government and the Terrorists against the Safeguard act especially, would both find their ire drawn towards him. His fingertips drummed patiently at his desk, and he couldn't help but take in deep, slow breaths, as he tried his best to not let it bother him. He needed... Soldiers. Unfortunately, he had need of guards. But if they were just personal guards for him, it wouldn't justify the expense. The compromise was Hades. The organization that would work as bounty hunters representing the interests of the Prometheus Initiative, while simultaneously working with law enforcement to prevent dangerous individuals from continuing to press the public, and function as guards for the personnel of the Initiative's many subsidiaries. Though he played it off as assistance to law enforcement, a line in the sand had to be drawn. This was the formation of a private military company, in order to keep the interests and members of the Prometheus Initiative alive, by working with government contracts, business contracts, and other such groups, as a high-power force to put the Initiative itself on the map as something. Something that shouldn't be targeted, for fear of the repercussions. @carrionjackal
  20. Karilius Oelin considered himself to be a fortunate member of the High Towers' mage guild. He felt blessed to have the many resources available to him, his motions and his movements backed by a well-crafted, slowly-changing group of similarly-interested mages, many of whom had come from other mage guilds in order to empower the Prometheus Initiative. People who sought to immediately and potently use their abilities in order to help others and solve everyday problems... People who were like him. The white-haired young man, with sun-glare eyes, couldn't help but let his pale face pull into a grin at the thought of all of those people, working closely in tandem with him, all of them reaching for the same sun, chasing after it with their knowledge. To make the world truly better would require that they all join and band together, to innovate and change the way the world saw magic. He himself saw it as a simple tool, like any other. A spell could be wielded just as efficiently, if not more so, as a shovel or a pitchfork. A spell was merely an extension of a toolset, a skill to be used. It was nothing particularly special, nothing that likely could not be accomplished via other means, in time. But with the deaths of many under the violence on both sides of the Safeguard Act, this tool had to be rebranded from one of terrorism to one of peace, that the common folk could rally around. It was with the general people who kept the economy running that Karilius himself could enact the change he sought to place in the world. The change that had been inspired, not so long ago, from a simple, leather-bound booklet. Within his room, the white-haired boy, scarred on one face, was alone. A large double bed, and a mahogany desk were pushed towards the far side of the room, with stacks upon stacks of books obscuring the dark wood from the vision of any passersby. A mixture of ledgers, rosters, and records all pieced together in order to keep up-to-date information regarding the entirety of his organization, but more importantly, his plans and their eventual stations, to be placed within. The rug itself held the same magical charm as the rug within his bank, a simple set of runes that would clean the boots and clothes of those who stepped in. Alarm glyphs, hidden from view, and alerting only himself when triggered, lined his windows and doors. His bookshelves, all three of them, were home-kempt journals depicting the different businesses of the city who used his bank, information he could gather along with techniques that he had obtained through the discussions on whether or not he should invest in them. Within a single mage's room was enough economic information to break about twenty-percent of the common businesses of Blairville, ranging from magical shops to mundane ones, each bookshelf broken down into one of four categories: Individuals who had borrowed money from the bank; Individuals who sought security details from the bank; and Individuals who used the bank as a place to protect their income. And in the margins of each page were extensive details regarding their business, from names, to loved ones, to obsessive details regarding their abilities. More importantly, a list of spell-like abilities that would benefit the businesses with a name on each page. Orgal Crone. The Seeds of Wrath. Zeus. Use the combative potential to allow expansion of farming into more dangerous territory, effectively growing border protectors for frontier villages. Grace Foln, Private Detecctive. Harpocrates. Create image-capturing magical items to allow her to improve her prosecution on clients through better evidence. Diolise Monstrous Kiddie Rance. Demeter. Use the baby monstrosities for breeding projects in order to help improve the capabilities of beasts in terms of output of meat and other byproducts. Page upon page of information, sensitive and projected, were all listed on these bookshelves. The meticulous detailing of a young man bordering on the obsessed, through all but the machinations of a single brown book. But as the young man picked up this brown booklet, he tucked it into his robes, and stalled aside, coming to a spot on his bed. He knew what he'd done by inviting someone in here. His usually chipper face reflected a deeply serious concern, as those deep golden eyes flicked over his bookshelf. A glyph clicked away, as if warning him when the encroaching time would arrive. This meeting in particular was one that he would find a great amount of frustration with. He'd grown up on a farm prior to his arrival in Blairville, and the young man knew that animals wouldn't be treated the most humanely, despite his wants and needs. Karilius Oelin had the softest spot in his heart for black kittens, and just the idea of turning them into more powerful variations, as if they were weapons, was offputting to him. He tried to stymie his distaste for the necessity by instead thinking of them as house protectors, kittens who would save children when intruders popped into their homes, and it managed to ease his distaste, albeit only a bit. He hoped to whatever gods there were that this new interviewee would arrive already, so that this distasteful debacle could be finished already! @PurplePanda
  21. Karilius Oelin considered himself to be a fortunate member of the High Towers' mage guild. He felt blessed to have the many resources available to him, his motions and his movements backed by a well-crafted, slowly-changing group of similarly-interested mages, many of whom had come from other mage guilds in order to empower the Prometheus Initiative. People who sought to immediately and potently use their abilities in order to help others and solve everyday problems... People who were like him. The white-haired young man, with sun-glare eyes, couldn't help but let his pale face pull into a grin at the thought of all of those people, working closely in tandem with him, all of them reaching for the same sun, chasing after it with their knowledge. To make the world truly better would require that they all join and band together, to innovate and change the way the world saw magic. He himself saw it as a simple tool, like any other. A spell could be wielded just as efficiently, if not more so, as a shovel or a pitchfork. A spell was merely an extension of a toolset, a skill to be used. It was nothing particularly special, nothing that likely could not be accomplished via other means, in time. But with the deaths of many under the violence on both sides of the Safeguard Act, this tool had to be rebranded from one of terrorism to one of peace, that the common folk could rally around. It was with the general people who kept the economy running that Karilius himself could enact the change he sought to place in the world. The change that had been inspired, not so long ago, from a simple, leather-bound booklet. Within his room, the white-haired boy, scarred on one face, was alone. A large double bed, and a mahogany desk were pushed towards the far side of the room, with stacks upon stacks of books obscuring the dark wood from the vision of any passersby. A mixture of ledgers, rosters, and records all pieced together in order to keep up-to-date information regarding the entirety of his organization, but more importantly, his plans and their eventual stations, to be placed within. The rug itself held the same magical charm as the rug within his bank, a simple set of runes that would clean the boots and clothes of those who stepped in. Alarm glyphs, hidden from view, and alerting only himself when triggered, lined his windows and doors. His bookshelves, all three of them, were home-kempt journals depicting the different businesses of the city who used his bank, information he could gather along with techniques that he had obtained through the discussions on whether or not he should invest in them. Within a single mage's room was enough economic information to break about twenty-percent of the common businesses of Blairville, ranging from magical shops to mundane ones, each bookshelf broken down into one of four categories: Individuals who had borrowed money from the bank; Individuals who sought security details from the bank; and Individuals who used the bank as a place to protect their income. And in the margins of each page were extensive details regarding their business, from names, to loved ones, to obsessive details regarding their abilities. More importantly, a list of spell-like abilities that would benefit the businesses with a name on each page. Vandarl Fenn. The Blades of Vengeance. Hades. Develop techniques for tracking targets. Big Heart Logan's Medicinal Practice. Hera. Introduce diagnosis magic here, to break down on cost efficiency between skilled healers and non-skilled healers. The Silver Arrow. Hephaestus. Magically enchant arrows and Mending on leather materials and arrows. Page upon page of information, sensitive and projected, were all listed on these bookshelves. The meticulous detailing of a young man bordering on the obsessed, through all but the machinations of a single brown book. But as the young man picked up this brown booklet, he tucked it into his robes, and stalled aside, coming to a spot on his bed. He knew what he'd done by inviting someone in here. His usually chipper face reflected a deeply serious concern, as those deep golden eyes flicked over his bookshelf. A glyph clicked away, as if warning him when the encroaching time would arrive. This would be the first of many. And hopefully, this first of many would bring with him the help, the change, that he needed for the stages of his plan to grow into what it was meant to become. @danzilla3
  22. BiggieSmalls

    Extending a Hand

    "You have got to be kidding me." The voice that spoke was shocked, in a mixture of frustration and disbelief, as it addressed its fellow speaker. A golden-eyed young man leaned over a balcony, the High Towers' Mage Guild presiding over a particularly small segment of one of many entertainment sectors within Blairville. The golden-eyed man's snowy hair seemed out of place in the building heat, as if it should have long melted from his head. But no. It remained slicked comfortably back, pressed down against the top of the young man's head. Pale, folded hands rested on the warm metal railing of the balcony, each one wringing the other in slow, deliberate motions. Finally, the pale young man flashed his redheaded companion a smile. A knowing one. The kind of gentle, inviting smile that seemed to be plastered on his face whenever he finished his learnings at the tower. "No. No no no." The redhead shook his head vigorously, irritation spreading across his freckled features. "No way. The headmasters ignored your little business, since you've maintained your studies, but this? This is downright insane, Kar!" Slightly tanned hands reached out and grabbed at the snowy-haired young man, squeezing his shoulders and shaking the poor kid back and forth, toussling his entire body as if it were made of paper. An awkward laugh resounded from the white-haired man, whose smile never faded despite his rough treatment. Though he did grunt in frustration when his head began lolling back and forth with each shake. "Alek, c'mon! It's a good idea!" The snowy-haired young man, Kar, grasped at his redheaded companion's wrists, prying them from his shoulders. That ginger-sweet smile that spread across his features seemed altogether too kind. Unbelievably so. As if there were some kind of mischievous energy beneath it, blossoming like a flower inside of him. Alek could feel it. His already pale hands were white-knuckled with worry and nerves, and energy that made each slim finger like a snake, coiled around him. "I can do it." That smooth, tenor voice. It sounded as if he were speaking to family, not to a mere friend. "I can make this change happen." His fingers loosened around Alek's wrists, freeing the now-reddened skin for the redhead's grasp to fall at his sides. The slightly taller Alek cautiously eyed his friend up and down. He went to speak, only for Kar to cut him off. "And if I don't, I can't just wait for someone else to. It's not right to the people struggling while they wait for me." There was a somber timbre to his voice now. Something old and quiet, hushed like waves lapping across a wreckage. In that moment, it was as if Kar could see every act of suffering, and vocalized the miseries it wrought about within the tangling blood vessels around his heart, the crushing grasp of his sorrows and uncertainties made clear as day. The quiet, hushed moment seemed to extend between the two of them. Alek had no words for Kar. Kar couldn't bring himself yet again to speak. Both young men were aware of the strains. Of the suffering of the people below. The terroristic actions against a controlling government resulting in casualties that were yet to be bound to either side. Uncertain folks barely clinging to life as both government agents and spell-wielding vigilantes took those futures into their hands, unprompted. Until now, Karilius had been content to watch, hoping things would work out. A child in an uncaring world, naively believing that things would change while he remained concerned with his own comforts. But now... Now he couldn't do that any longer. It had taken weeks. Perhaps a much shorter time than most would have thought, to come up with this plan. Aleksandre seemed shocked at the mere idea that Karilius had come up with this massive-scoped plan, and a means of accomplishing it, in a matter of weeks. But Kar had the motivation of violence behind him. Violence against the innocents who had done nothing wrong. Against people who had been doing naught but their jobs. "You sure?" The redhead spoke in a calm, quiet whisper, shattering the glass box of thought that isolated them from the outside world. The white-haired mage nodded, slowly, to assure his friend. This was the beginning of it all. The beginning of change. "Fine. But you get to face the Guild Council on this one. I'm not touching it." Kar gave a loud, hopeful laugh, his green-eyed friend watching him with a less-than-amused look, as the white-haired young man turned towards the balcony opening. "Well. Here goes nothing, then." Karilius, took his robe from the chair next to him, hefting it up, and flourishing it, an arcane, ghastly hand appearing to help him slide the robe around his figure. Navy blues and golden trim complimented his snowy skin, and his golden eyes seemed content to wander towards his feet, black shoes clattering against the floor as he approached the guildmasters' hall. Better late than never. Less than a week later, that same white-haired mage was putting up flyers, sticking adhesive flyers to walls, having paid his redheaded friend comfortably to craft them. A large white sun, with an outstretched hand reaching towards it. The papers themselves were labeled "The Prometheus Initiative" on top. Below the sun and hand was a simple line. "Foundation for the Accessibility of Magic and Economization of Spell Abilities seeks Mages to Join in Business and Social Pursuits. If Interested in Assisting in the Initiative, Come to the Promethean Banking and Security Building, on 12th and Sigilcrest." Despite his skinny frame and lack of muscle, the young man seemed to have been working hard as he jumped through the ethnically diverse districts, finally making his way to a larger market district, as he stuck the adhesive paper to another wall. His permit folded up and placed within a medallion around his neck, able to be popped open and revealed at the slightest provocation. Of which he'd had twelve today alone. Karilius didn't mind. He'd found a few mages here and there who were interested in the ideas he'd had to offer. Who listened to him over their own guildmasters. People who were giving him a legitimate chance. People who asked questions, who would listen to his concerns when he let them spill forth. Sure, juggling this advertisement of the foundation itself with his day job at his banking and security firm and his studies(his uncle's requirement for the guild's cooperation with his "selfish" goal) left him with little more than four or five hours of sleep everyday. But it was worth it to enact the change Blairville needed. He hoped. He looked up at the sun, to that outstretched hand reaching towards it. The bags under his eyes made his tender gaze towards his self-designed banner seem that much more tempered and uncertain, as he reached out, placing his fingertips along the sun, and flattening it up against the wall. Maybe the design was a little bit off. The hand should've been holding a piece of the sun, to offer it to the people. But it was too late for that. He was, fortunately, knocked out of his brooding as a passing cart nudged into his back, and flattened him up against the wall, his chest flattened up against the wall as he was squashed. He couldn't help but grunt in discomfort from it, as his robe hooked onto a wheel spoke. Noting it before any damage occurred, Karilius flicked his wrist, and an arcane hand formed, lifting his robe from the wheel spoke before it pulled him off in whatever direction. A few of the common folk, merchants and passersby, gave him a strange look. As if expecting more. Expecting him to zap the wheel spoke. Indeed, with the scar running down the side of his face, his snowy white hair, and his golden, sickly eyes and dark robe, he seemed more the part of a villainous mage than a simple one. His slicked back hair only added to that feel, too! But instead of allowing himself to run amock with magic, he instead turned back, placing another flyer up against the wall, pinning it in place, and smiling, the travelers, merchants, and customers all ignoring him upon realizing he was just letting the cart that'd hit him leave. His smile spread open again, thin lips parting to reveal pearly teeth, as he stuck another flyer up against the wall, this time of a small spellbook-vellum shop. No. This symbol would be fine. It was of all of the people, reaching for the sun together, trying to touch the future that they truly, deeply hoped for. It would more than make due. It was perfect for him.
  23. ARYELA: Aryela was on the third floor balcony, reclining in one of the flashy lounge chairs. She wore a tiny black dress and her hair in a sleek ponytail. Her grey and green eyes were hidden behind expensive shades, but they were forever alert for any unusual events. She had barely done her makeup, only adding a bit of blush to to liven up her eternal dead look. Her pale complexion, especially in her legs, contrasted too sharply against everything else around, much to onlookers interests, but Aryela just ignored they're ignorant stares. She sipped her drink slowly, savoring the hint of blood that the kind - too kind, actually - waiter had given her, along with a seductive look. She pitied him; she had no time for men, or any relationship at all. She preferred her solicitude and freedom rather love with ties. She did find it in her heart to leave him a rather large tip though. Aryela stood up and put on her crimson lace kimono and black beret, then swaggered over to the elevator, chin held high. She leaned her shoulder against the wall and watched the opposite wall unenthusiastically, waiting to reach the ground floor. That's when her sixth sense told her that something was wrong. She sniffed the air, maybe there was bloodshed from a fellow vampire? No...Aryela stood with her eyebrows furrowed as the doors opened and she stepped out before realizing what was going on. "Anna Claire de Marcón, you are under arrest for the deaths of the Wicth-Flynner family and several other murders. You have the right to remain silent..." Guards gave her electric shocks that made her immobile and they grabbed her body as she flopped on the floor. The only thing she was thinking about was what was wrong and how undignified she looked at the moment. She shuddered while they lay her body in the back of a police van and drove away. She heard the sounds of crowds and reporters around her but she was in too much pain to care. Then someone stuck a needle in her arm and everything blacked out. Sometime later, it felt like days, Aryela found herself in a jail cell. Her body aches all over but she was thinking clearly enough to feel that her weapons, all of them including the secret ones, had been taken. Luckily they hadn't undressed her, but this wasn't prison. But Aryela felt like that road wasn't too far away. She sat up in the bunk she was in and cringe from the bright light, hissing loudly. They had added some anti-vampire substance in the bars of the jail cell to keep her at bay. She tried to use her senses to get a hold of herself but one senses, her sense of smell, was being overwhelmed with the most beautiful and delicious aroma known to vampire-kind: human flesh and blood. Aryela bolted up, cracking some of her tight joints which sounded like knuckle cracking. She scanned around the room savagely, her neck cocked to the side in thought. Then she spotted her jail mate. She couldn't help but grimace. "What are you in here for?" she growled. IYANNA: Iyanna was lying in the grass in a ball, wild flowers surrounding her body. She fingered the stems, feeling their smooth texture, touching the petals cool surface. She nibbled on a daisy curiously. What animals tasted these beautiful plants everyday, relishing their splendid taste? Well, they weren't splendid to her. Iyanna hastily spit out the daisy and gagged as she tried to rid her mouth of the awful taste. "GET YOUR ARSE UP, SLAVE." Iyanna scrambled up and snapped her head around gazing into the furious eyes of the baker's wife, who held a tray of burnt pastries. She shoved the hot pan in front of the elf's face, smirking at her feeble cry of fright. Then she dumped the tray on Iyanna's naked feet. It was all she could for to not scream, and she quickly sent a wave of cold to her sizzling feet. Once the mean old woman had gone back inside, Iyanna scrapped up the cleanest of pastries, shoved a dirty loaf of bread into her mouth, and headed inside the small wooded area behind the bakery. She walked until she reached the pond and she crouched down, letting her white hair touching the water. She gazed down at her reflection, studying her dirty face, mangled hair, and chapped lips. Iyanna felt a wave of sorry go through her and let a stray tear run down her face before throwing pieces of the pastries into the pond and grass around her for the animals. She did this until it began to get dark and when she heard the cowbell ring. She scampered back towards the bakery, her dull brown dress, full of patches and stray strings, fly behind her. She tired to dust off her clothing as best as she could with her hands before she entered the kitchen. Just as she stepped inside though the woman grabbed her by the ear. "Listen, I need you to run to the marketplace, you here? My husband wants some of that Silver Wine, the one that only Old Jimmy sells, you know." She placed some money in Iyanna's hand pinched her along. "If you're not back in a hour, don't bother coming back, you lazy-" Iyanna was out of the bakery before the woman could finish, fresh tears streaming down her face. She let the coins jiggle in the pocket of her apron, trying to quiet her sobs. It was getting quieter and more ominous as the darkness crept in. She needed to hurry. The bakery was her only source of food and the night merchants only stayed afterhours for only a few minutes. She began to jog her way. When she finally got to the square she realized that it was deserted, and it always was on Tuesdays. She bit her lip. Was she tricked so she would be late on purpose? Iyanna forced herself not to cry. Instead she frowned hard and was about to turn around when she heard a noise in the quiet. "...hello?" She called out.
  24. LightningBolt

    An Impending Doom

    She didn't like what she was feeling as she walked down the dirth path. She placed a hand over her pulsing heart, a troubled expression on her face. Her staff was glowing brighter than normal, and it definitely wasn't because of her. There was the feeling of impending doom clawing at her, making goosebumps rise on her skin. "What was happening?" She mumbled to herself. Her staff should only respond to her magic, but her energy isn't as its highest peak nor is she feeling particularly strong. She continued to venture down the road, cautiously glancing around the woods that surrounded her. She reached into her small pouch and took out a small gem; a Selenite. Tossing it up into the air, she mumbled a few words as the flower on her staff bloomed and shot a beam of light towards the crystal. As it exploded it she raised her arm to protect herself from the debris and frowned at the dark matter that released. That crystal was meant to absorb the energy in the surrounding area and from what she's seen, everything was polluted. "What is this? What's going on?" She mumbled under her breath, now having doubts about her travels. She had meant to visit Blairville, meaning to do some exploration in the unfamiliar area. Though with the negative energy that seemed to be radiating from the town the nearer she got. She sighed softy, shaking her head. There was no point in turning back now. She was exhausted and needed a place to stay for the night. With that, she continued on her travels. ~ She glanced around the area, pulling her hat a bit lower on her head. She felt out of place and that made her a bit conscious--considering the fact that she seemed to have gained some attention. She walked over to the bar, hesitantly placing her hat down on the counter and her staff against the edge. "Excuse me." She called out to the male beside her, glancing over. "Where's the bartender?" She then suddenly took notice of his unnaturally colored eyes. One was green while the other was pure black, taking her by surprise. @Ichi
  25. Note: I am not participating in this thread, merely structuring it and offering it up on a first come, first serve basis. The thread will accept no more players after 5 join or after 10 posts, whichever comes first Event name Safe riots and kidnapping OOC thread Reward 1x forged magic license 1x flash mask (hide face from electronic and visual surveillance) 1x Object class starmetal (multiplies impact force) Requirements 1 page for 1 player; 2+ pages for 1-3 players; 3+ pages for 4-5 players Content As a consequence of the civil war, riots in Blairville over the Safeguard Act continue to escalate in violence and scope. Pro-magic and pro-safety guilds are in constant battle for dominance, and both parties find themselves in conflict with the Constabulary, Blairville's local police force. Two sizable guilds, the Crimson Ledgers and the Bronze Crescent, have recently disbanded their Blairville chapters due to the loss of life and the depletion of magical items in their most recent skirmish. In the disorganized confusion that followed, Bruga, a goblin gypsy artificer which worked for both guilds as a contractor, has been kidnapped by parties unknown. Goals Rescue Bruga from whoever kidnapped her Once rescued Bruga will reveal she was working on plans for a negabjurium amplifier. To complete her work she needs the lungs of a gargoyle. She has information on such a creature rampaging in the Unterholm On returning with the gargoyle lung, protect Bruga while she prepares her item – basically defend her against one meaningful attack, however you define this in the thread
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