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Found 48 results

  1. supernal

    MT3:1 - Teresa vs Akiris

    MOBS Tournament v3 Fighters: Ataraxy vs Akiris
  2. MOBS Tournament v3 Fighters: Illyana vs Tharraleos
  3. Tyler

    The Long Road Home

    @Dolor Aeternum @jaistlyn The faintest rays of sunlight filtered through the thick forest canopy as the odd trio trudged onward toward the great mountain range that separated the Dark Forest from the vast, central Terran savannas. Many miles behind them lie the Anima Imperium, site of their organization's first great failure, and where they had left behind a madness-inducing entity that had been released during their stay there. While the sequence of events that had unfolded there could certainly have gone far worse, there was no doubt that the result was disastrous nonetheless. The focus of their mission, Gabriela DuGrace, Queen of Orisia, had been retaken by her consorts, while their supposed ally in Marigold Ravenspire had betrayed them in a deluge of sentimental weakness. One of their fellow Abbadon members, Nines, had vanished the night before, Rodan's potential recruit in Immie Gladstone had likewise disappeared in the chaos of the following day, and their secondary prisoner Arashi Sato had been turned over to Marigold, who no doubt still had possession of her, presuming he still lived. And as if all these losses had not been enough, the Abbadon Triumvirate was now known to the ruler of the Carmine Empire, and not in a good way. But if he delayed in seeking revenge upon them, then his rival Roen may just beat him to the punch. The Crimson King had played host to the Triumvirate prior to the events involving the Orisian Queen, allowing them to house their main base of operations in his city of Patia. It was far less certain if Roen now held the same animosity for Abbadon as Rafael did, but the risk was certainly there. As the days had gone, the few conversations held between the three had mostly been relaying to one-another all that they had encountered and experienced during the course of the mission, thus allowing them to get a clear picture of what had happened and what went wrong. But the topic was soon to turn to the matter of where to go from here. And with the security of their main base, if not entire organization, now in question, that was to be an important topic indeed.
  4. Current Location: Hell’s Gate, Terrenus; Western District - Ivory Estates Apartment Complex. Personage: Belvardi, Capria Twisted and contorted, rolling and bending and bowing, is a body in turmoil. Or is it the mind encased behind closed and twitching eyes? Plagued by memories further defiled by monsters of imagination, the beautifully shadowed dreamer cries out. Agony and sadness the only salvation earned from a job well done. Upon awakening, there is little to say or dwell on in the face of glittering rays of sunlight that burst in through the edges of dark curtains. Equivalent to the colors of the sun, freshly illuminated eyes sparkle at nothing more than the bubbled ceiling overhead. Suddenly, yet ever so gently, the maw of a creature in resemblance to a very large and scraggly wolf lays its head against an outstretched upturned palm. Gold and red hues collaborate silently in a moment of mutual understanding before they both move. One dissipates into the shadows of the room while the other peels herself from wrinkled sheets. Sitting up, turning so that her legs may slide off the bed, and then standing in order to start the day. Bubbles in the joints pop as the lengths of arms and legs are stretched while in walking motion. First, the menial tasks like using the restroom, brushing teeth, and tossing a sweater on are performed. Then comes breakfast. Another simple, but necessary task in order to sustain stamina and health. Friction, a sound produced by paper scraping against tile causes hooked fingers to hesitate in opening the kitchen refrigerator. When nothing follows, the woman continues onward to relieve the frigid device of a premade smoothie packaged in an [approximately 32 oz] glass jar. It is one of the multiples sealed and lined very neatly on the top shelf where nothing aside from them is contained throughout the entire compartment. The door to it is shut, and a pivot of the heel brings her attention to a bare counter from whence a drawer is open, a straw is produced; a twist of the cap emits a metallic pop so that she may penetrate the cold thick reddish multicolor-speckled sludge with the thin hollow cylindrical object. However ideal this may be, the further process of bringing it to her lips is interrupted by the subtle whimper of her bestial counterpart at the front door. Removing herself from the small cubby like area, although she cannot see his frame the ember-glow of his eyes and the placement of them draws her attention to the floor. More specifically the small space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Nails scoop the rectangular business card from the cool flat stone to view the picture depicted on the front before flipping it over to reveal a brief message and a selective sequence of numerical and alphabetical coding. This thread is an artifact quest, specifically for Odin’s Mask.
  5. KittyvonCupcake

    The Search for a Sword [B|E & Co.]

    In the southeastern side of Hell’s Gate lay a patch of greenery that rested peacefully under the shade of the megacity’s surrounding glass towers and massive monoliths that hid beneath the underbellies of drifting clouds. Framed by now offline lightning railways that were constructed on lifted tracks, the relatively small neighborhood colloquially known as Haze’s Kitchen functioned as a place that collected the refugees and the drifters and placed them alongside blue collar workers and their families. The roads were cracked from disrepair, but desert dandelions found this as an opportunity to thrust their copper red heads out from the dry earth and sway in the sunlight. Through skinny streets of small shops and restaurants packed on top of and alongside each other, past a deli covered in a colorful mural of hybrid creatures and a storefront inexplicably decorated with a giant mustache, led travelers down to a lot overtaken by a mechanic’s garage before it gave way to a residential area. The houses were comfortably squished together as they wandered up and down a sloping hill. Some appear to have stumbled along their streets and settled haphazardly on their neighbor. Others were missing windows. Others had fallen down completely, leaving behind nothing but their miraculously intact porch and a warning to avoid blind experimentation with alchemistry sets. The address that Ioreth had given the Leper and Stello led up to rowhouse that, unlike its brethren, contained a soaring tree that had erupted through its center. Its pale branches and brilliant blue leaves granted respite from the noonday sun. Beneath this shade was a woman dressed in sleeveless gray coveralls that was wiping dust off of a black motorcycle. The dust appeared to be invisible to any eye spare her own. She, however, had reached a point of contentment that one can only achieve when one becomes so engrossed in their work that the outside world ceases to exist. This was Hanya Ina, and this was her home. As soon as the blacksmith and the Leper crossed over into her slightly overgrown yard, they would have been held at rag point while a thunderous “HEY!” rattled their eardrums. At first (and second, and possibly third) glance, Hanya was the type of woman that could make even a worn out microfiber cleaning cloth look threatening. Not only did she stand at precisely seven feet tall without including the additional height granted by the ram-like horns that curved on her head, she had thighs that looked like they could crush a man’s skull before that unfortunate individual could even pick a god and pray. Despite this, there were a few signs upon her person that indicated a less than bloodthirsty nature. Light freckles dusted her dusky olive green skin, her amber eyes would have been doe-like had they not been currently squinting with glaring suspicion, and a patch on the back of her coveralls read “Too Ill to Kill” alongside an embroidered hunk of tofu in sunglasses. This was, in case anyone had been interested, located adjacent to another patch that read “Crows before Bros.” While the former suggested vegetarianism, the latter was most likely just a play on words rather than a declaration of affection for crows. The focus of her rag rested chiefly on Stello. Had it a laser point, he would have seen a red dot directly over his heart. “I don’t care what he’s paying you! Tell that necromancer that no means no and he can shove that shambling reanimated corpse right up his---” Perhaps this is the time to mention that Hanya Ina is also nearsighted. Once she realized that the Leper was, in fact, not a reanimated corpse and he didn’t even really shamble all that much, she took in a bellyful of air and released it in a cross between a flabbergasted sputter and a self deprecating chuckle. “Oh,” was her astute observation. “Shit. Um. My bad, sorry about that. You want Ioreth, right? Give me a moment.” She strode across the lawn like a woman on mission, stuck her hand through one of the open front windows on the ground floor, and rapped her fist against the wall hard. “IORETH,” she shouted, ducking her head through the window so that her voice would reverberate around the living room. “You’ve got people!” Stello and the Leper could each hear the sound of a body hitting the wooden floor with a heavy thump. Another smaller thud soon followed, although this sounded more like the spine of a book bouncing off of somebody’s forehead. Something blurry appeared in the window. It had what was either a partially solidified cloud or a nest for an eagle crafted out of tangled silver thread that concealed the majority of its facial features. Beneath this poked out a thin neck that was followed by an oversized rumpled sweater. “Early,” it groaned. “Whozzat?” Hanya leaned one shoulder against the shutters, neatly crossed one heavy boot in front of the other, and flashed a lazy grin at the Whozzats in question. “Your clients. For that research thing, right?” No answer met her simple question, only a gasp and a stream of Duendaic terminologies that would not be appropriate to translate for polite audiences. Instead, shall we direct our attention back to the seven foot tall woman that was laughing with delight at the small flurry of panic she had caused? After recovering from her moment of mirth, Hanya wiped off her hands on the rag and stuffed it into her pocket. “Name’s Hanya Ina,” she said. “Who are you two supposed to be again?” After satisfactory introductions were made and she shook their hands with a grip that could stun a buffalo, she led the two men up the sagging porch and through the front entryway. Once in the foyer, a small room overtaken by an array of houseplants that preferred semidarkness and a shrine to Gaia, Hanya kicked off her boots with an ingrained ease that comes with performing a daily habit. Displayed above the incense and arranged collection of earthy crystals was a framed photograph of a middle aged dwarvish couple and a beaming young Hanya. Her blood orange hued hair, which was now shaved spare a center strip of twisted braids that she tossed over shoulder, appeared to have had a traumatic event with a pair of violent scissors. Hanya’s rag obliterated a smudge on the glass. “Bless Ma’s heart,” she said with fond smile, “but she never knew what to do with my hair.” Creaking wooden floors announced their entrance into the living area, but Ioreth was nowhere within sight. There were a few signs that betrayed her presence: a heap of woven blankets on the low sofa by the window, an empty wine glass smeared with dark violet lip stain standing sentry on a pile of leather bound books, and an abandoned black cardigan laying forlorn at the base of the set of iron stairs that spiralled around the thick trunk of the house’s tree. A clank, rattle, and moan of pipes chugging water upstairs offered a hint as to where the night elf had fled. “There goes my hot water,” Hanya snorted. She gestured around to the living room, an open area filled with airy light, heavy bookcases stuffed with everything from mechanic journals to paperback romance novels, thick upholstered armchairs, and colorfully embroidered floor cushions. Blueprints for vintage Terran vehicles hung on the walls alongside family photographs and tribal tapestries. Shoved in the corner before the wooden floor gave way to the ceramic tiled kitchen was a cheerfully battered dining set. “Go ahead and find a spot to sit. You can chuck your shit anywhere, it doesn’t really matter.” As she spoke, Hanya wove her way around the tree and into her kitchen. Over her shoulder and over the sound of moody thumping music drifting down the stairwell, she called out, “Coffee or tea? There’s a few berry tarts and a tempeh casserole in the fridge if you’re hungry. Oh, and your contracts are on the table. Ioreth said it was typical Book|Ends stuff, that they can help cover your funeral costs if you get gored out in the Wilds or whatever.” She gave a nonchalant shrug as she rummaged through the pantry and placed a tin of eldarleaf tea on the counter. "But you two should feel special. She's not overcharging you---" her horns tipped in Stello's direction before her chin jerked towards the Leper "---or underpaying you. Are you riding with Ioreth or can I interest you in the best damn magitech bikes on this side of the Slipstick?" @B2BBear & @LastLight
  6. MOBS Tournament v3 Fighters: Valk vs Arnau Dermont
  7. Aleksei

    To Fellows & Friends

    They told her to sit down and don't move, which she did because she is rather fantastic at following directions. Hell's Gate is new to her; she itched to discover and explore the many wonders that make the place so delightful appearing. The brightness of the buildings did not convey the feelings of the people filtering through the thin streets. It's said things are changing in Terrenus, that magic is in some strange way involved and those involvements are tempering the people. Her protectors had briefed her about why she has to stay put and not move, that they will return in time to scoop her back up. So she sat on her bench, next to a river with a name she doesn't know, slowly munching away at the apple slice that tasted too sweet. The closer they got to Hell's Gate, the more nauseous she felt. It has been about a month and a few weeks since she has seen Michael, and when they parted it was on beautiful terms - have things changed? What has happened between now and then? Sure, they've spoken briefly over the communication crystals, but they've been busy to the point silence has taken over a majority of their time apart. In a way, it's been a blessing. Her little journey to the Witch's Cave would probably not please him in the slightest. Michael isn't the sort to restrain another from doing what they must, but she has placed herself in enough danger that could age the poor man by ten years. The guard he sent with her has undoubtedly turned gray and old, having to watch the elf rush into trouble without thinking twice about it and barely making it out. After the ordeal with the cave, they decided that it was best to head back to Hell's Gate, something about reporting in or the like. Smiling around a bite of apple, she thinks it's not about reporting in but resting their poor nerves. Sitting surrounded by tall buildings and hustling people did not calm her much. The last leg of their journey had been by far the hardest - long, dangerous, tiresome, and all around unbearable. There's been little eating on her part, her stomach so upset that it has refused even the smallest sip of water. Waves of nausea hit her at random times out of the day, causing the ground to swirl under her feet and create headaches that are threatening enough to push her head off her shoulders. She's assumed her journey through the cave has left her weak, creating these terrible changes to her body that become more and more obnoxious. Forcing down another bite of her apple, she is happy to report that the day will be full of wandering through markets and their kind. The attack on Last Chance left her without a weapon, and the Witch's Cave reminded her how useless her magic is in times when shield and sword are needed. Today they will be gathering a few items for her to make a new staff, giving them all an excuse to enjoy the day like ordinary folk. @amenities @Metty
  8. MOBS Tournament v3 Fighters: Arashi vs Marshall Gamesly
  9. Given everything that had happened in the past few weeks, he could have easily cancelled the meeting and rescheduled it for another time. Between attending to his business in Hell's Gate, being forced to make a quick exit, and taking some time to lay low, his life had been busy as of late. Taking a bit more time to rest and recover from it all was a tempting prospect. However, this day had been a long time in the planning; and he was excited to see it come to fruition. Now he sat waiting in the darkened room, illuminated by the holographic billboard that it was situated behind; positioned at the northern point of a triangular table, waiting for the others to arrive. For the occasion, he had decided to dress a bit more formally than usual; a classic three piece black suit. The shadows that obscured his identity were the lone holdover from his normal work attire; keeping his head and neck covered, and glowing white dots representing his eyes. He had debated whether or not to conceal his face from his allies, but had decided that he still didn't trust them enough for that yet. Though the Triptych had been formed quite some time ago, this would be the first time they met in person. When his comrades arrived, they would walk through a door that they alone had the code to open. Once they walked in, they would go through a corridor to the room he now sat in, each coming in from the left and right side of the room respectively. When they walked in, he would greet them. "Thank you for coming. I trust that introductions are not necessary, and we can move straight to business." @Ataraxy @ourlachesism
  10. Intro - The Black Anvil Hymn is a weapon and armor shop ( no horseshoes, nails, wagon wheels, ploughs, etc to be found here ) owned and operated by Stello Lavis. Coming from a wealthy family, he was able to afford to set up in the downtown metropolitan area of Hell’s Gate, a move that would have seemed otherwise strange if it weren’t for the country’s fixation on combat, which has resulted from a variety of different cultural aspects of Terrenus. One such example is the practice of holo-projected combat tournaments that were popular once upon a time. However, it can be said that the true culprits are the several stories of brave adventurers setting out to truly make a difference in the world, good or bad. The working types who will never find the need to wear armor and wield a weapon go into his shop to hold a sword and perhaps feel like one of the adventurers to bring an end to the Eternal Night, as distant from the real thing as it may be. A surprising number of people seem to find that to be as novel an idea as visiting a teddy bear or candy shop, both of which would be considered to be more conventional sources of “fun.” In the end, the true purpose of this shop is for Stello to engage in a hobby that he thoroughly enjoys, so much so that he doesn’t concern himself with sales. Being filthy rich, he can afford not to make a profit or even close down for a few months and come back when it suits him. He doesn’t sell to those with criminal records ( consent for background checks must be provided ) and has also refused to sell his wares to foolhardy ignorant types before, believing it to be shameful for an idiot to be running around swinging one of his weapons or wearing some of his armor. Weapons and armor purchased from the Black Anvil Hymn can be identified by a small blackened anvil imprint somewhere on them. Description - Due to its location, the shop was built to be attractive and is two stories tall. Its outer layers of smooth cement plaster are accentuated by dark gray ferrous plates with fine vertical grains throughout. The fore is presented through large clear windows that are bisected by metallic cross bars, through which many of his wares can be seen. There are longswords, arming swords, axes, warhammers, spears, etc ( all medieval European, no Japanese, Chinese or other for now ). The door that leads into the shop is constructed of steel that has had the temper colors in it brought out and preserved. To the left, the material is an almost “white gray” tone. A third of a way the metal starts to develop a light straw sheen and towards the center, those brownish hues turn darker. Past that, the metal starts to become purple blue, then a pure deep and dark blue, and finally a more natural gray that that is no longer bright enough to appear white in certain light. Above the entrance, there is a large metal plate with a blackened imprint in the shape of an anvil. The name of the shop, Black Anvil Hymn, rests just above it in elegant lettering. Each time someone moves through the doors, the rich ping of a hammer striking a well made anvil echoes through the establishment. The first floor is the shop itself and it starts with a starkly decorated lobby with comfortable cushioned seats, a magi tech vending machine and a holo-screen on the wall showing the daily news available to customers. There are more items suspended along the walls, including business flyers pertaining to the Hymn and partner companies that can be seen once inside and the area is separated from the smithy itself by one thick division made of red brick, which gives the impression of an olden forge tucked away within a modern building. A rectangular aperture in that brick wall serves as the reception counter, bearing stacks of Hymn and Hymn affiliate business cards on its surface. Other than that, the shop welcomes customers with a display of Stello’s favorite designs hanging above it in airtight chambers attached to brass rimmed ovular slabs of mahogany wood. One is a Bec de Corbin design dubbed Earth, another a bastard sword design he calls Water, a kite shield he calls Shade and a longsword design named Fire. Across the counter, the smithy itself is visible. Front and center is an anvil of steel dark enough to appear black sitting on an altar of resplendent lazurite crystal pillars and surrounded by various power tools like a power hammer, grinding and sanding belts, various tongs hanging from a rack and additional equipment that is used for powder forging. A metal scanner, powered by magi-tech like most of his equipment, sits on one of the far corners and the whole smithy is ventilated by two powerful fans built into the walls that filter out the workspace when necessary. The scent of burning coal, as is common in traditional forges, is decidedly absent because Stello relies on a propane powered forge instead ( Hell’s Gate city regulations strive to maintain cleanliness in commercial areas ). Since he does keep decent amounts of lumber around, the most prominent scent there can be is that of processed wood, at least whenever he’s not using acid of any kind to bring out a the beauty in a metal. When the shop is open, this is where he is usually found, seen operating his equipment and bashing metal into shapes while wearing ear protection. On the far wall, there is a staircase leading up to the second floor, which is restricted to clients. Upstairs is actually his place of residence, complete with a well stocked kitchen and a living room with a huge holo-screen and powerful sound system. In every facet, the whole establishment is basically a man cave. Finally, there is a receiving section at the rearmost section of the first floor with a large steel gate. This is basically the Hymn’s warehouse, where the metals, lumbers, quenching oils, acids, sanding paper and all manner of other equipment and resources are stored. Personnel Stello Lavis - Foul mouthed, modern-centric owner and smith of the Black Anvil Hymn. Being rich, he hardly concerns himself with the financial state of his establishment. Crafting weapons and armor is a hobby for him and he's privileged to be able to dabble in it without having to make a profit to sustain it. The shop is more a self-satisfying endeavor, allowing him to do what he loves and teach simple city folk about what he's learned throughout the years. Lexicus Thoren - Another smith, albeit with a more traditional approach to his profession ( and demeanor overall ) in comparison to the owner of the establishment. He arrived after the destruction of his own shop on an ox driven cart, bearing what remained of his work as he searched for a new forge to operate out of. He ascertains that the piece of his past that burned down his previous work place is no longer an issue but the old world smith has other underlying motivations that he is not so keen on sharing with others. Audio Logs These are logs that can be accessed via Stello’s CROOK terminal in his shop. ( beware, these could be loud ) He Who Smelt It ( Smelting company ) Correspondence Black Anvil 1 Black Anvil 2 He Who Smelt It 1 Black Anvil 3 He Who Smelt It 2 Black Anvil 4 Leper The Amnesiac Ioreth The Librarian Lexicus Smith Knight ( Knight Smith? ) Affiliates @KittyvonCupcake Book|Ends Hub Business Flyers Credit to KittyvonCupcake Business Cards Credit to KittyvonCupcake Rules Send me a private message if you’re interested in visiting the Hymn. Once everything is good to go, you can either use this hub thread or you can start a separate thread in the same board ( Cities of Terrenus ) that you can use for future visits. Noteworthy Designs Water Fire Earth Shade
  11. danzilla3

    Desolation (Hell's Gate)

    Hell's Gate. In the opinion of the shadow figure that lingered in the dark corners of the room overlooking the Air Ship Docks, that name had never been more appropriate. Soon he would usher in a time of fear and suffering for the people of this city; most of all in those who called themselves Gaianist. He would strip away their hopes, their dreams, their faith itself, until they were left cold and afraid in the face of an indifferent world. The faith they clung to was a lie, and he intended to expose it for the farce it was. Only once there was nothing left, no lies between them and reality, would he allow them; and more importantly, himself, to rest. Starting with his current guest. Father Martin was a middle aged man who had at one time had probably been quite handsome, and the echoes of that time were still evident in his appearance. He was still in reasonably good shape, a slight paunch, but not enough to be truly called fat. His carefully cropped hair now had equal amounts of black and grey in it, framing warm eyes that sparkled when he laughed. Not that he had been laughing much in the past twelve hours. Currently he was being forced to kneel, hands held outstretched to either side by shackles bolted to the wall. He had been stripped naked, and was bruised and bleeding from multiple wounds all over his body. Most noticeably, the skin on his back had been sliced down the middle, and then spread out behind him like a pair of grotesque wings. Despite these grievous injuries, the Priest's chest still rose and fell as he breathed. The shadowy figure stalked over to kneel in front of the man, grabbing him by his hair and roughly yanking his head up to look into his glowing eyes. "Father... good to see you're still with us. You see, I wanted to discuss a passage from your Bible." Martin's eyes fluttered and he began to sink back into unconsciousness before his captor narrowed his eyes, and the Priest's whole body tensed up like he had grabbed a live wire. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound managed to escape his seizing throat. After a few seconds, the figure seemed to relent, and the Priest's whole body seemed to go limp. "Don't ignore me Martin. Didn't you hear me say I wanted to have a religious discussion with you?" "Which... passage" gasped the priest "Book three, Chapter two, The Desolater. It speaks of a figure, born from darkness, that is twisted into a tool of evil after its death by some depraved madman. Eventually, it breaks free, and becomes the being known as the Desolater." The figure knelt before the man, "The story seems to imply that the evil that birthed this, Desolater, simply... existed. It was ever present, a force that existed in the shadow of the light. But I feel that this is wrong." A hand reached out from the shadows to grab Martin by the throat, "Evil does not simply exist. It is created by hatred. And the greatest hatred is born from the greatest love." The Apostate let the priest go, rising to stand above him, his eyes glowing brighter and brighter. Now the priest did scream, a sound of anguish and agony that echoed through the room like thunder after a lightning strike. His flesh began to pulsate and squirm, as though a horde of insects walked just beneath the skin. Eventually the incision made to flay the mans back began to spread in lines from the original cut, leaving ribbons of flesh that then peeled themselves off of the priest, leaving only his face and head untouched. Surely the man should have been dead by now, but it was as though some fell force kept him alive. But The Apostate was not yet done. Seemingly with a thought, the ribbons of flesh coiled themselves into an orb the size of a golf ball. The orb then moved to hover before the flayed man, who managed to stop screaming and look at the thing. "Open your mouth." The skinless mans eyes widened and he shook his head, looking down at the floor to avoid meeting the shrouded gaze of his captor. His head snapped upward, and there was a crunching, popping sound as his jaw was forced open. Once again he tried to scream, but with his mouth held open, the sound came out as a series of panicked whimpers. The whimpers grew more frantic as the orb drew closer and closer to his mouth. Whimpering gave way to choking as the ball was forced down his throat and held there. Martin's whole body violently spasmed, and he attempted to vomit, but the orb in his throat kept everything from coming out. The Priests eyes rolled back into his head, and the convulsing stopped. Now the Apostate raised a hand once more, and cloud of thick black smoke seemed to rise up from the freshly deceased corpse. The smoke coalesced into a skeletal humanoid, a poltergeist that the killer then called to him. Now the shadowy looked at the floating camera that had captured the entire murder from multiple angles. "Make a copy, and send it to the television stations." he said. Then he looked straight at the camera. "Desolation has come." *static* @Ataraxy
  12. amenities

    The Cost of Victory

    What drives most attacks against any well-supplied city in Terrenus is often the desire for power or resources. What drives a successful attack against these cities is an understanding of the foe you’re going up against. In the lull between these attacks, though, when an attacker or defender enjoys majority reign over an area— within this lull is the sweet safety to pursue their dreams that the civilians demand most largely. And safety demands victory over the attackers. Victory demands a price. The port kingdom of Last Chance had taken some hits in recent weeks to pay the price for its safety. Indeed the safety of the city and its denizens had come at the cost of many lives, but the sun rose the next day and with it rose the city. In an encampment north of there were held interrogations for days and weeks that worked to varying degrees of avail. The wet of war in soldiers’ socks could not be washed away until the encampment was swept up. The encampment could not be swept up until interrogations in encampment bunkers were completed. After the encampment was finally taken care of, individuals deemed to be in possession of sufficient intelligence from the Legion were transported in a heavily guarded caravan straight north to Hell’s Gate, where more intensive and extensive questioning could take place. With that caravan went Peacekeeper No. 5. All the walking had crumbled the dirt from his shoes, but he wore the same muddied blouse he’d pummeled his enemies with. The pampered suits inside would find him a grim reminder of what the field was like. When he arrived in Hell’s Gate he absconded from the ensemble and made his lone way for a towering behemoth of a building that represented Terran military might in Hell’s Gate. Grass sifted with the overcast breeze sweeping the courtyard at the building’s foot. Michael’s face turned upward as he drew the cool scent of rain, following the building’s face all the way up to its crown of clouds. Entering the building’s foyer, his boots tapped mutedly against white tiles. All he knew was that he was to debrief his fellow officers and superiors on the situation. He had brought with him an encrypted dossier crystal to elaborate on any observations whose sharpness may dull en route. His thick soles led him up the stairs to a fluorescent mezzanine punctuated in the middle by a U-shaped desk. This morning was his third day awake; he couldn’t sleep with fresh details and plans of action clacking through his head like a turnstile at rush hour. The receptionist would see it in the accordioned skin beneath his eyes. “Commager for 0600.” The receptionist looked up from her work and procured a clear crystal in her palm. It rose to Michael's human and gem eye level. A conical ray of light extended from one of its facets, illuminating his scarred face to perform a series of retinal, magical, and physiological scans to verify his identity. "Room B30," she responded. Behind closed doors Michael explained the failed attempt on Last Chance by a villain named Dredge and submitted a request to take liberty on chasing him down. He outlined several outliers who played critical roles in the defense and attacking of the city, naming names and all for which they were responsible indiscriminately, factually. Afterward he was taken aside by a scientist he had never met before. There was a conversation about artificial intelligence, Michael vaguely remembered, but this is where his memory became somewhat fuzzy... Waking up in a comfortable bed in a warmly lit room alone, Michael shot into a sitting position. Wheeling on the suddenly disheveled axis in his brain, he brought a palm to his dizzied head. Where the Roseus Oculus- the red gem that dealt death from his eye socket- used to be, there were now bands of gauze diagonally draped over his head. He could feel a healing spell augmenting the recovery of an optical organ beneath that he hadn't had for almost ten years. Tiny sinews stitched a human eye together, stretching over and retrograding the scar tissue that once served cradle to the RO. He looked at the waffle-pattern blanket in his lap and flexed his fingers. He felt... angry. Looking to his right at the bedside table, however, shifted his mood entirely. There sat the Roseus Oculus. At least, what used to be the Roseus Oculus.
  13. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Tharraleos vs Sera Location: Center of Martial Town - Palgard
  14. Wade

    Hasa Diga Eebowai

    There was something powerful about Terrenus’ military budget. It built tanks and submarines. Aired commercials that moved the hearts of millions. Rained napalm on unsuspecting ‘villages' and generally scared the shit out of the Renovatian printing press. It also gave Echo all the toys she could ever want. Exhibit A: the assault golem she built last week. Made possible by a stupid amount of money only the government could ever justify. The parts alone costed more than what she'd made at her old job. Waaaaaaay more; too much more, if she was being honest. People would have killed for the motherboard on its own. Hell, she would have killed for the motherboard on its own. For different reasons, obviously, but hey, merchandise was merchandise. All to say that, had she still been working for the university, slaving away in her lab at one in the morning, she could’ve maybe afforded to install just the optic sensors before having to make do with a toaster and one of those weird asparagus peelers. The funny thing was, back in her research days, Echo hadn’t understood the visceral pleasure that lied in weaponry. That rush you got when something went boom. At least, not until she’d attended first tour around the Hell’s Gate military campus. Word had reached the bigwigs that a certain engineer was making waves in their district, so they decided to invite her over for a cunning bit of show and tell. Cunning, in the sense that they’d given her a manathrower to hold, then essentially told her to go nuts. She remembered standing there, not knowing exactly what to do with it. It had felt like someone had given her a top hat and told her to pull a rabbit out of it. When the target dummy in front of her was eventually nothing more than a pile of molten waste, she’d been shocked. Terrified. But at the same time, curiously ecstatic. It had been as if Gaia herself stepped down from the heavens and declared in the voice of a thousand angels, “This is the best goddamn shit on the whole goddamn planet." If she recalled correctly, people called that an epiphany. She quit her job the next day. And then there was Exhibit B: the sports facility. Big as ten cathedrals put together and more polished than a businessman’s shoes, all crammed into the tree-like base of one of Hell’s Gate's monolithic skyscrapers. It housed four individual stadiums, a three-story gym, two ginormous pools, and one Boosty Juicy for your protein-related needs. As far as anyone was concerned, you could’ve hosted the Olympics in here. The best part? It was all free. No deductibles, no discount services, just sheer, unlimited access so long as you were willing to wear the uniform. Of course, the Boosty Juicy stood as the exception to this. Teenagers needed to make money too, and that meant letting capitalism have its day. For now, though, Echo would settle on kicking some ass in a friendly game of volleyball. “DO IT!” Her hand slammed into the ball. Before any of the blockers could even reach the net, it had already plummeted to the ground like a mortar going off. AWOO WOO WOO! went one side of the stands. Yeeeeeaaaaah guuuuuuuuurl! went the other. Everyone else was just making noise with those plasticky, inflatable batons, which were mostly bland in design apart from the ones with improvised sharpie doodles. Echo’s team rallied to her side. They were screaming things like We did it! and Fuck yeah! and Sergeant Woodlecky can suck my dick! That last bit was important. Generally speaking, no one on her team had dicks. Woodlecky and his pack of monkeys thought they could beat the girls’ volleyball club because of ‘muh superior male genes’ but little did they know that at least half of the girls had played competitively at some point in their lives. Echo herself had been the outside hitter for the Titans at Hell’s Gate Second Charter University. Of the six years she'd spent there as a student, five of them had taken her to nationals; of the five, three had seen her walking out with a gold medal hanging around her neck. On the other side of the court, Woodlecky and his goons started lining up. Echo signalled for her team to do the same. Both met up in the middle shook hands while passing each other. “Good game, good game, good game…” and so it went. Then it was her turn to shake Woodlecky’s hand. She smiled at him. “Good game." Woodlecky bowed his head slightly. “Good game,” he said, shame bobbing in his throat. Echo watched him disappear into the locker room. Nicer people might've felt bad for him but she wasn’t one of them. Putting people in their place had always satisfied her immensely, and humiliating a sexist bigot like Woodlecky was a black joy she couldn’t deny herself. Now for the finishing touch. After a lengthy shower with her teammates, Echo pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Her strawberry blonde hair, somewhat frazzled after blowdrying it, was tied back in a loose ponytail. The Boosty Juicy called to her as she passed, tempting her with thoughts of a Guava Splash. She resisted, and instead kept walking towards the elevator, phone buzzing silently in her hand. A boyish voice answered on the other side. “Ma’am?" “Hey, Capozza. You busy?” “Um.” She heard him pulling sheets off of himself. “It’s 9:15.” “I’m sorry, is it past your bedtime?” There was silence. Then a sigh. “No.” “Good.” The elevator doors chimed open, and she pressed the button for the twentieth floor. "I’m going to need you to swing by my office soon. Fifteen minutes work for you?" “Sure. And you mean the lab, right?” “No, I mean my office. Room 20134.” Confusion. “...Okay. Yeah, okay. Is there, uh, anything else?” The elevator started rising. She barely made it two floors before it stopped. “Yeah, I’m actually going to need you to bring a couple of things.” A flood of people forced her into a corner. “The first being spray paint." “And the second thing?” Echo waited while the floors ticked upwards, progressively filtering people in and out of the lift. “Go to R&R and grab me a six pack.” “Of beer?” “Of beer. If anyone asks, tell them it’s Friday night and Sinclair needs inspiration for her next experiment. They’ll understand." Echo ended the call before he could ask any more questions. The doors glided open to reveal an empty hallway, and she began walking towards room 20134. True to his word, Luke Capozza showed up fifteen minutes later. He was a nervous kid, no older than nineteen, with naive little cheeks and a nose that could do no wrong. Like her, he was a private. Bottom of the barrel, scraping his way to the top. In spite of their shared rank, he always insisted on calling her ma’am. Never her first or last name. She thought it had something to do with seniority, or the fact that she’d been granted her own research space. It could’ve also been her height. She knew a lot of people who found tall women intimidating. “Wow, it’s dark in here,” Luke commented. “Can I turn on the lights?" Echo ignored him. “You bring everything?” She glanced over the office’s desktop. Luke rummaged around in a cloth bag and sat the spray paint on her desk. The six pack came next. Echo grinned, ripped one of the beer cans free from its plastic casing, then coated it in frost with a touch of her finger. She guzzled half of its contents in a single tilt. Luke watched her unsurely. “You want to tell me what I’m doing here, ma’am?” In response, Echo tossed him two cans, one spray paint, the other beer. “Crack ‘em open and go to town.” “I’m sorry?” She took another guzzle and threw the empty can over her shoulder. “Drink the beer, spray the paint.” The computer in front of her flashed a slab of angry red text, briefly illuminating her face. “Shit. Uh, y’see these walls? They’re your canvas. Let the alcohol flow and make Bub Russ proud.” To clear any doubt in his mind, she unleashed an indiscriminate cloud of pink on the cabinet to her right. She didn’t bother checking for a reaction, since she was too busy focusing on the screen in front of her. It was showing her the words RONOVÉ and Authorization now. She made sure to tick off all the right boxes, forward the paperwork to her work e-mail, and thoroughly erase the last hour's history. When she signed off, Luke was drawing… something. If she had to guess, it was a stickman with a banana. “Capozza, that’s the wrong kind of banana.” “Huh?” Echo got up from her chair. The thing she painted on the wall and the one beside it was large, veiny, and very phallic. “I don’t understand. Why are we doing this?” “You haven’t touched your beer yet,” Echo noted. “I don’t feel like drinking.” It almost sounded like a question. “But you feel like vandalizing someone’s office?” “I mean, it’s not vandalizing if you gave me permission, right? Also, I didn’t even know you had an office.” “Is it really mine, though?” Luke froze. Slowly, he went to go turn on the lights. Flick! “Oh my god.” He was pointing at something on the desk. Something he hadn’t seen in the dark. Echo picked it up. It was long, thin, black, and read Sgt. Adam Woodlecky in chalky white letters. Luke whimpered. “Are you insane?” “A little bit.” Echo reached for her second beer. Crack! Psst! Aaaaaaaaah. “But don’t worry. You won’t get in trouble.” “Why not?” “‘Cause I’m smart.” Glug glug glug. “At least, I think I am. Took care of the cameras, computer history, paperwork, bribes, fingerprints-“ She snapped her fingers and a mysterious purple light briefly illuminated the room. “-and that just leaves the beer cans. Can’t leave those lying around. Of course, Woodlecky will have his suspicions but he’ll have nothing to prove it was you or me. On top of that, I’ll be long gone tomorrow. No way investigation’s going to pull me from a mission just to ask me about the giant dick I might or might not have drawn in his office.” “But why am I here?” Luke demanded. “Dunno. Maybe I like having you around?” Echo shrugged and picked up the evidence littering the room. “I might've also needed the extra time to hack his computer. I doubt I could’ve done that and grab the beer and paint before they closed off the floor. Speaking of which, that’s in seven minutes. We better go.” A dab of magic locked the door behind them, and soon the pair were riding the elevator down to the first floor. “So, Capozza. What do you have planned for the rest of the night?” Luke didn’t look at her. “I’m going to try to convince myself I’m not going to wake up in court tomorrow.” Echo nodded. “I hear alcohol helps with that.” “Yes, ma’am.” “We’ve still got four cans left.” “Mhmm.” “You wanna hit the park? Three of ‘em are yours.” Luke sighed, not for the last time that night. “Sure, ma’am."
  15. The Alexandrian

    Chasing Damaged Threads [Closed]

    [Hell's Gate - Terrenus Military Garrison - Front Office/Reception/Guard Post - 0842] Wraiths whispered throughout the night, penning their tragedy in cold, damp air. Imprisoned on this mortal plane, the vengeful dead gravitated to the cursed blade the debutante stowed on the "gunner's" seat of her family's private airship as she was whisked her across the abandoned countryside for what felt like a short eternity. The whip-poor-whills commiserated, decrying the injustice of the world to all who would listen and many who would not. The muddy road ahead was illuminated only by the searchlights of the airship as she wove through the gnarled forest, the relative silence of the deserted land as comforting as it was intolerable. Anxiously, she gripped the shotgun in her lap and glanced at the magnetically sealed hatch on her right. The comic book she was reading en route to the dark festival had been carelessly brushed into a nearby storage bin. Periodically, she leaned forward and peered past the holographic display in front of her to check the status of the three monsters she had nabbed on her way home. Blindfolded, bound, and gagged, they lied on a plastic tarp in the other compartment, separated from the debutante by a transparent wall. They were secured to the floor with a cable Caeceila's servants used to tie down her luggage when she traveled to Ignatz to shop so they could not roll around the cabin or soil her property. When the light of day banishes the evil lurking in the dark of night, Caeceila relaxes somewhat. She is alone; no crafts, civilian, military, paramilitary, or otherwise, are pursuing her. In the distance, she spies the familiar city of Hell's Gate silhouetted against the rising sun. Ceceila is exhausted from a sleepless night, but she has the good sense to change the bandage wound around her injured leg. She winces as she peels the bloodied bandage from her skin and replaces it with a clean strip of gauze. The same morning, an armored personal airship, shaped like a flying saucer and registered to the well respected Glasmann family, requests permission to dock in a bay typically reserved for military contractors. The pilot, claiming to be Caeceila Glasmann, heiress to Glasmann Cyronics (a company specializing in vitrifying severely wounded individuals wherever adequate medical treatment is not available to prevent their condition from deteriorating during transport to advanced treatment facilities and artificial organ synthesis and storage), insists that Tormo has been sacked, an appalling party was hosted within an encampment erected on Tormo's "lukewarm carcass," and that she is in no mood for games and will eject the three prisoners she captured after her raid on the encampment concluded if the requested docking space is not provided. She informs the operator that he/she "will be responsible for scraping the pancaked matter of these three monsters, who were consuming human flesh in the midst of the depraved festivities, off of the godsdamned floor because I won't have these pissants on my vessel for a minute more than I absolutely have to." Assuming her demands are met, the debutante will dock in the space she desired. The saucer's landing gear will lower and the airship will quickly set down on the platform. A metal ramp extends from the bottom of the vessel. Almost immediately, the three prisoners mentioned above, a female Yuan-Ti, a rat man, and a male Kenku, roll down the ramp and onto the platform. Their faces are caked in blood and their clothing has been ripped off of their bodies, which are in surprisingly good condition considering that it was Caeceila who apprehended them. The reason for their nakedness will be apparent to any observers: human blood is smeared on other parts of the rat man's body and the contents of the dazed Yuan-Ti's stomach are causing it to bulge outward revealing the horrifying outline of something's hand. Caeceila Glasman, sporting a bloodstained pink t-shirt with hearts printed on it, designer jeans, and fitted pink work boots, descends from the vessel. She is armed with a stubby, double-barrelled "super shotgun," etched with smoldering daemonic sigils and a cruel, high-frequency Muramasa-styled katana sheathed in a sleek, black scabbard hanging at her left side. Her shiny blonde hair sweeps down to the small of her back, and her icy blue eyes detract from her more appealing feminine qualities. All the same, she is astonishingly comely for a maniac. She scowls at her payload as she limps past, favoring her right leg over her poorly bandaged, shrapnel-ridden left leg. She stops at the bottom of the ramp to spit in the rat man's left eye before hobbling in the direction of the welcoming party. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the scum of the earth! You heard me right; I have gen-u-ine murderers, cannibals, and rapists for you to interrogate, and they can be yours today for the low, low price of proper medical treatment and a breakfast sandwich! I would also ask that someone clean the inside of my craft; it reeks of monster in there." @supernal
  16. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Zoburiss vs Tharraleos Location: Outskirts of S'vora, a walled-off village near Barnstable Coast
  17. Grubbistch

    [MT2:2] Torgal vs Sera

    [OOC thread Tor'Gal versus Sera] One chance, he had one chance to redeem himself in the virtual arena, to right the wrong he committed in losing his first match. Standing at the outskirts of Blairville, the half orc paladin who called himself Tor'Gal waited for his opponent to enter the field to engage him in combat. It would be here in this fantasy realm that he showed all of Terrenus what he was truly made of. With his claymore resting upon his shoulder, the warrior priest thought on the day he was asked to return to this strange tournament of fictional battle. His believed failure could finally be rectified, the stain of his dishonor could finally be erased, and he had one more shot now to help his fellow brothers and sisters in arms. Now all he needed to do was win, to be victorious in battle, to defeat all challengers, so that he may take home that prize money. Much was riding on this victory, even more now than before his first battle, for his pride was doubly on the line. "Soon, the battle will commence." @Zashiii
  18. supernal

    MOBS tournament lounge

    Picture labelled for noncommercial reuse Lounging area inside of the Holosseum where participants can wait for their match to start, or cool off after concluding a match. All food and drink is complimentary and the lounge is open 24/7. Tournament lobby
  19. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Tharraleos vs Rai Location: Outskirts of Dougton
  20. supernal

    [MT2:1] Crow vs Litalis

    MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Crow vs Litalis Location: Outskirts of Casper
  21. danzilla3


    "Tell me what you desire." The abandoned warehouse was hardly the most luxurious of dwellings that Iblis Faust had inhabited in his centuries long life; but after spending a century locked in a crypt, even the dilapidated setting he now found himself in was an improvement. At least he could feel the sun on his face as it shone through one of the many holes in the roof; could smell the air as it rattled the sheet metal walls. Even the ever present cacophony of city life was like hearing a favorite song after the silence of his former prison. Of course, he was also keen to hear actual music after so long without; and a record player serenaded the occupants of the structure; an old tune from a string instrument that he quite liked. To him the music brightened up the entire room just a bit; and hopefully put his visitors at ease. "We haven't much to pay you with sir..." Iblis stood on the second floor of the warehouse that was effectively a stage; staring out at the humans below. Like all those who came before him lately, they had an air of desperation about them; with their clothing and general hygiene suggesting a few nights spent outdoors. The man. who he presumed was the father/husband was the one who addressed him; while a woman held a girl no older than ten close to her. The girl was quiet, save for the occasional cough. "You shall tell me what you want, and then I will tell you the price. Then you can decide for yourself whether or not you can afford it." The man swallowed, but nodded, "It's my daughter sir. She's taken ill; burning with fever for three days now, and her throat is so sore she can't even speak. We've no money for doctors, we can barely afford to feed ourselves..." "You wish me to heal her?" when the man began to nod, Iblis shook his head, "You must say the words. Tell me exactly what you want." The man looked confused, but replied, "I want you to heal my daughter." Faust regarded the girl; silently using his magic to see if it was within his current power to heal the child. When he was sure that it was, he turned his attention back to the father. "I can grant your wish; but at the cost of some of your own life energy," at the look of alarm on the man's face, he held up a hand, "No more than a year off your life in the end. One year is a fair trade for the decades your child may live no?" To his credit, the man barely hesitated before saying, "I accept." The Djinn smiled widely, and in an instant he had bridged the gap between him and the man. He held out his hand for the father to shake, and after a moment of hesitation, the man clasped his outstretched hand firmly. As soon as contact was made, a flash of light shone from between their hands; and when the man pulled his hand back, Faust's sigil was upon it, as though it had been tattooed. "What the..." Ignoring the baffled man, Faust walked forward and gestured for the mother to stand the girl up so that he could look at her. The child looked up at him with a spark of fear in her eyes, looking back to her mother for reassurance. The Djinn smiled and placed his palm on the girls forehead. After a moment, the girl perked up visibly, and turned to her mother. "Mommy?" The girls words, spoken in a clear voice were enough to bring tears of joy to her parents. They pulled her into a hug, and checked to see if her temperature had normalized; becoming even more ecstatic when they found it had. The father almost reluctantly turned to Faust, a huge grin plastered on his face. "Thank you so much sir!" "You needn't thank me. I shall take my payment over the next few days. You will feel tired, but will recover by weeks end." "Is there anything else we can do?" Faust thought for a moment and then nodded, "Yes. Tell the two outside to quit skulking around my home and come in." Once again, the man looked confused, but nodded and left with his family. Faust meanwhile prepared to receive his guests; the people he had been calling out to for some time now. He imagined they had come for answers... or perhaps to kill him to cease the call. He would find out soon either way. @carrionjackal
  22. Artist: aisxos Purpose The Holosseum is the spectator area for the MOBS tournament. Not pictured above is the central ring, which is a high-fidelity holographic projection of whatever environment in which the two combatants are squaring off. This is the area where spectators come for entertainment, food, drinks, and betting; there are several betting parlors peppered throughout the large infrastructure. Security Guards armed with modernized magi-tech weaponry ranging from stun batons to handheld laser pistols to Power Words which inflict blindness, deafness, or paralysis Recording devices (visual, auditory, magical) Other stuff when I think of it
  23. "I'm not ready." Yates had been here before. In this chair. At this table. Staring into the flat brown eyes of the man that sat opposite him. They were of equal station in the eyes of the church now, that was the main difference. Before the meeting had been a priest handing down a dictate to an apprentice; now their meeting was of a priest urging another to take the burden of the faith and raise it still higher. "You found the temple, didn't you? You fulfilled the Mother's mandate admirably." "I wasn't alone." "That doesn't matter. What you –" "I wasn't prepared to face the Outsider and it almost killed me. And if it did it would have found that farmer and those children too. It can't be like that again. I'm telling you that I'm not ready to command a unit and you'll just have to trust me." ~~~~~~~~~~ The AI revolts had not been kind to Hell's Gate. Racing towards the city aboard a private-class airship, peering at it through the ballistic glass of a small circular window, one could easily be convinced that the metropolis had managed to come out of the civil skirmishes unscathed, but once one dropped past the veneer projected by Hell's Gate's sterling infrastructure, the streets revealed the truth behind the curtain. Graffiti, broken windows, and litter-filled, piss-stained sidewalks did not scream moral bankruptcy or felony crime, but Yates knew that these were the minor symptoms of a much more insidious disease. If left unchecked, this deviancy would snowball down a slippery slope and all present would be trapped under the avalanche. His Gaian robe drew the occasional sidelong glance, the occasional sneer, the occasional disparaging catcall, and Yates paid equal mind to all of these – which is to say none at all. He was so engrossed with the task at hand that time lost its meaning until his hand was pushing against the roughly hewn, beer stained door of the Weary Orc. Waiting inside of its doorframe, Yates scanned the interior for other robed members of the clergy. OOC
  24. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Zoburiis vs Torgal Location: Outskirts of Tia
  25. supernal

    [MT2:1] Stumbler vs Sera

    MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Stumbler vs Sera Location: Outskirts of Martial Town - Palgard