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  1. 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. 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
  2. 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.
  3. 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
  4. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Tharraleos vs Sera Location: Center of Martial Town - Palgard
  5. 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."
  6. 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
  7. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Zoburiss vs Tharraleos Location: Outskirts of S'vora, a walled-off village near Barnstable Coast
  8. 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
  9. 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
  10. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Tharraleos vs Rai Location: Outskirts of Dougton
  11. supernal

    [MT2:1] Crow vs Litalis

    MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Crow vs Litalis Location: Outskirts of Casper
  12. 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
  13. 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
  14. "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
  15. MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Zoburiis vs Torgal Location: Outskirts of Tia
  16. supernal

    [MT2:1] Stumbler vs Sera

    MOBS Tournament v2 Fighters: Stumbler vs Sera Location: Outskirts of Martial Town - Palgard
  17. Her name is Ser Manah Sol-Wren Morwenna Bastian II. She has a grand lineage courting back to her father, Sir Damsacus Bastian. He was a royal knight to the leader of Talia, before his death. She however was here on another inquiry. She had come to get new equipment. Her sword and shield had been worn through many battles of evil, and even lost during her encounter with the princess herself. But that was behind her now. Terrenus had blacksmiths. She had heard among her travels. But the best place to go was the Black Anvil Hub. And so here the knight was. Though she knew nothing about the land. She had never been to Terrenus. And so it took her a long time to get here. But after hours of walking, she arrived. Hopefully she had enough money to acquire a new set of weapons.[/font]
  18. Eliza took a drag of her electronic cigarette and blew the smoke out in the shape of rings. She followed the sunset from a rooftop, legs dangling from the edge. A scaly hand followed the shape of her left horn, while she was lost in thought. It was almost time. For a moment longer, everything was bathed in a delicate, pink light, and for a few heartbeats it seemed as though her red skin was glowing. Then the last beams of sunlight disappeared in the horizon. She took one last drag. The smoke hung in the air; that and a light smell of strawberries was the only sign that she had been there. She grabbed a hold of the edge and slid down the wall of the house. Her long nails, almost claws, grabbed a ledge. She hung there for a moment longer before making the jump all the way down. She crunched down a bit, but kept her balance when her feet hit the ground. She corrected the binoculars that hung from a string around her neck and walked down the narrow street. The almost six feet tall woman ignored the looks she received, the whispers she heard from the door frames and alleys as she passed. She had grown so accustomed to being an outsider that it barely bothered her anymore. Four, five, six... She counted the number of alleys she passed, then suddenly turned down the seventh, leading to a larger street. She looked left, then right, momentarily disoriented. She unzipped her waist bag and found a small, round object that had the appearance of an old compass. However, when she pressed a button in the back of it, it lit up. She whispered the name of a tavern. With a little beep, the device's color turned red. The needle pointed east, and she followed the directions with a sigh of relief. She couldn't be late - the gang-leader had been clear about as much.
  19. Generic Perfection

    [MT1:Finals] Trilith v Ruiser

    From her perspective a series of cool blue and frosty white pixels fell into place, blended together, and steadily built an increasingly clear image. For the outsider looking in, she is a series of black, red, and white pixels falling into place atop the highest peak of Shawnee Glacier. As the digi-struct process finishes, Trilith is hit with a sudden sense of cold. It's the type of cold that effortlessly breaches through barriers of clothing and near instantly strikes the body numb. Before she has the time necessary to finish processing the abrupt change strands of her hair, as well as her eyelashes, have nearly frozen solid. The very moisture of her breath condenses and falls to the ground as a light flurry of snow. “Thu-thu-thu-the f-f-fuck?” Her arms wrap around her chest, her hands dig into her arm pits, and her teeth chatter so violently that she becomes consciously concerned that she might shatter them. “Fuck this.” She forces his arm out into a full extension. As the does so her aura flares to life. Scarlet tresses flutter up into the air, the color draining from them in the process and leaving vermilion streaks in the air. Flames of passion circle around her pupils before finally erupting from her smoldering irides. A gaze as blue and cold as the arena glares at the mountain ranges and peaks. A faint golden hue flutters to life around her body, whipping snow and chunks of crystalized energy into a frenzy around her. Steadily the materials darken into a fine, dark powder, that starts to clump together. By the time the Saint Queen takes her first step, a half dozen five foot long spears of phoenix coal hover in the air, encircling her. With her second step she comes to the edge of the peak, and with her third she descends over the edge. It is impossible to say if her feet every strike the edge of the mountain, but the flurry of snow and ice that billows out behind her suggests as much. When the ground levels out she takes a few running steps before transitioning into a walk. The cloud of frozen particulates engulfs her as it rushes past and surges through a tribal village, leaving a dusting of powder on their dwellings and a mound of snow at her heels. By the time she reaches the center, near a active and well fed fire pit, the spears have caught up.
  20. ~Harlow.

    [MT1:2] Aldorto vs Jack

    Unimpressed with the predetermined attire she’d been outfitted with in her first match, Jack paused prior to her re-entry to scroll through a library of her former ring gear. After about a ten seconds of scrutiny, she settled on one with a nostalgic chuckle - much like one might give when coming across an old, fond memory - before closing her eyes to enter the simulation. A steady wind greeted Jack as her feet sunk into the sand of The Wastelands. She was suddenly thankful for the onyx that now shaded her cheekbones, with a coating of ivory makeup to frame them. As she lifted her head to gaze out at the dunes ahead, long locks of golden hair danced away to reveal the emblazoned skull and bones on her face, collarbone, and hands. Hastily-smeared, uneven marks of darkness split and thinned her lips and maiden features. The lower half of her body still sported the classic wrestling boots and shin guards combination, while upon her shoulders she now furbished a black, thin blazer. Jack glanced down at a decorated hand with a pleased nod. The choice she'd made was every bit the psychological play, but largely for herself. What she wore now had been Jack's first in-ring attire, what she had debuted in several years ago, hoping that the switch would bolster her confidence in this new version of The Ring. The roaring chants of marks echoed in her head, and she couldn't help but feel the reminiscent twinge of her first-time jitters, “Much better than last time.” Rolling up her sleeves, she hopped to her toes, warming up her stance as she eyed the area for her next opponent.
  21. Generic Perfection

    [MT1:2] Ina Akeno vs Trilith

    MOBS Tourney Ina vs Trilith Standing on the landing deck, looking over the edge, Trilith can barely make out the buildings down below. She'd been to Hell's Gate only once before, although then it looked more like Hell than it does now. Auranite FAE's had leveled a good portion of the city, reduced it to little more than flaming rubble. The airship docks, which she's hanging out at now, most certainly weren't standing after that. Even though it is artificial, it is beautiful. From this height she can see for what seems like forever. The landing pad, nearly two thousand feet in the air, is little more than a vaguely flower-esque mesh of metal, that is suspended out into the open air, with one stairwell off to the side that leads to an elevator. With each step, Trilith can feel it bend and vibrate. It doesn't fill her with a sense of security, but any fear she might have is chased off by the curiosity that the instability inspires. "How do you suppose it supports the weight of an airship?" She asks, while tucking several scarlet tresses behind her ear. The act is pointless, as a gust of wind immediately whips hair hair into a frenzy. "I guess maybe another ponytail is in order?"
  22. Fighters: Ina Akeno vs Erekall Location: A mining operation near Witch's Cave
  23. Fighters: Dove vs Trilith Location: Little Weland in Martial Town, Palgard
  24. Fighters: Athena Yanitza vs Jack Dashing Location: A burned out hotel in Last Chance
  25. Fighters: Paroxysm vs Fennis Ursai Location: A farmstead located on the edge of Coconino Marsh