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  1. (OOC Thread) The sun was setting on an autumn Genesaris, casting long shadows from the trees and sinking the valleys and gulleys between the mountains in deep darkness. Torie’s coat and substantial layer of insulating blubber kept her warm, though her nose felt the cold keenly. It hadn’t started snowing yet. The sky was clear and pink above the hilltops. But it was cold enough to freeze the edges of the nearby creek, mixing ice and autumn leaves together in a multicoloured mosaic. With the setting of the sun it would only get colder, she knew, and what’s more, she could sense other travelers nearby. Torie was a druid who took the form of a tiger. She was quite likely to be the largest and fattest tiger in the world, easily standing over five feet tall and with a thick, ruffled neck, and a belly that almost dragged on the ground. Her coat was thick and hid most of her unsightly rolls of fat, but it couldn’t hide her bulk. In fact, it only increased her apparent size to something enormous, though perhaps less threatening than a regular tiger. Around her neck hung a chain of pouches filled with all manner of various herbs she had picked up in her latest foray into the wilderness, though she was looking forward to returning to nearby Vdara, and all the comforts (and foods) modern city living provided. But still, it would be easy for a traveler to mistake her for a wild beast. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d have to fight off someone keen on claiming her pelt. Talking was always an option, and she’d modified her natural tiger throat to enable her to speak, but it was still a deep grumble that could easily be mistaken for growls if someone wasn’t listening properly. So she’d have to make herself look less like an animal, and the only way she could think to do that out here was to build a campfire. She gathered some fuel together in her mouth and carried it to a clearing, where she sat on her haunches and used her dinnerplate-sized paws to rub one stick into the other. It was slow-going though, and not something she practiced very often. By the time the sun had set and only the light of the moon was left, she found herself hunched over her attempted fire with nothing but a pile of dry sticks and splinters in her paws to show for it. “Morku,” she said, cursing in her native tongue, but then her ears twisted between their fatty ruffles at the sound of movement nearby. She hadn’t been listening to the earth for a while. Had the other travelers found her? “Welcome,” she said slowly, grinning into the trees in the direction of the noise – and feeling equal parts stupid and scared. “Come, please sit with me. I don’t suppose you’re skilled at lighting a fire, are you?”
  2. Cold.. bitter cold.. it always reminded him of that night. Space invaded in a heinous portrayal of discrimination against mankind. Gaia’s devotees slaughtered by Unnaturals. It was the definition of ironic. There was naught but bloodshed that night. The winds blew through the Wastelands with a burglary of one’s own heat; the only thing more outright bone-chilling was the sophistication the monstrosities took in eradicating the entire clan’s caravan. There was not much more testing than the destruction of everything one knew in life. It either forged something devastating, or it broke one beyond measure. Who was to say one did not lead to the other — No one could. The cold nights reminded him often of that fate-filled night. Walk like them until they walk like you.. it was something the old wives spoke of when telling stories of heroes and how one might aspire to be more like them in character. That night, Yshmael moved in the way of the Three, as a devout Triaditionalist of the Dead Peaks would hope to. Creation of a world where such tragedies might happen less, The Preservation of his people and their way of life, and the Destruction of those who would do wrong in Gaia’s demesne. His strength and will to survive deemed him worthy of their eye and forever cast his path into the defense of all Natural kind. The Triad had endowed him with an unwavering will and a knack for sniffing out dangers in the world, especially Unnaturals, and he had done nothing but hone these things into something that men and monsters alike paled in comparison of Will and sheer Might when the warrior-priest applied himself and his Faith. His loss had indeed broken him, and in return for giving himself to the Will of Gaia, so too was he given an Indomitable Will. In that time of mantling the Triad, he became a vessel to them as they served mutual purpose in his actions. Nothing could have prepared him in even three lifetimes for that night.. And it was that night that propelled his life into the path he now walked. Leaving the sands he and his people had spent generations on was no small task, subjectively or objectively. The Wasteland was vast and the cold encroached ever so far… so much farther than it had in his time as a child. But that was then, and this was the Now. One must not dwell on things they cannot change; another old wife’s advice for letting go. By the Will of Gaia, Yshmael survived and effectively destroyed all of the transgressors in the vicinity. He was among less than a handful of survivors; those who were unfortunately tasked with sending their dead on to the next chapter in one’s life. Once done, he made sure to deliver them to safety. Neighboring tribes in the region and those among frequented spaces gathered to give condolences in the form of words and material offerings. Someone had even spotted his horse in the near on dunes, but ultimately they had been unable to catch it. This left Him with few things left to do but pursue a state of mind and subsequently satisfy the urges set on him by his Faith. “West..” he said to himself. Directly West from the subtle temple nestled into the Dead Peaks he had been born in, and where his family had begun many lives. It had been decided by those higher than him that he head west in order to snuff out as much corruption within Gaia’s realm ashe could. The sands harbored no love, no warmth anymore; neither would he. Mercy was a liability in most worldly professions, and he had no intentions of offering such things to those that would cross him. With purpose and survival driving him, the man had managed to not only head west, but by some divine grace, his trek was made swifter by his horse finding /Him/! It was one of those little things that one ought to appreciate and take to heart. The horse had been scouted for him on his coming of age, which meant to go be among the sands for what felt like a whole year.. maybe it was longer.. shorter? The sands did not keep track of time outside of bottles, sadly. Nevertheless, his horse was home - with him - and had survived what looked to be a handful of abrasions and run ins with either wire or claw. The wounds were healed and tended to by the good work of the Nomad. His hands had been tasked with much as one of the more mature men within the caravan. With horse - and what seemed like a hefty load for a single man to have been moving across the desert with - they were off! They kept a good pace all the way through the Wasteland’s grueling biomes and into the mountain ranges south of the sands. Little activity found their way by means of Unnaturals or those who would give ill intent.. maybe they knew to stay away? No matter, he was across the sands anyways. His hand for reading common was strengthened by years of trade in the outskirts regions near the border and within the desert; a gracious moment he reminisced about when coming across signs after breaking through the border and slipping through generally without hindrance. Blairville The nearest major settlement. Yshmael had finally arrived in the skirts, much to his delight. “Food and a bit of a rest, old friend..” he uttered, rubbing the neck and mane of the decorated horse as he stood from a position of a kneeling bow against the earth. The companion whinnied in response and dug a hoof into the dirt before traversing a downward path through the foothills and mountains leading to the town. He had elected to keep to the ranges rather than main roads out of comfort’s sake until the walls of the city were upon them. Time had lapsed perfectly to deliver the man to the Market in the early morning, having set upon a main road around dawn. Already, the smells of the market hit his nose. Incense and herbs and the burning of wood. The savory foods and beverages hit his nose with mouth-watering flavors and scents. It had been some time since he walked such a large and diverse market. It was here in the market that the man dismounted and walked with a horse that generally did not bother to stretch the reins thin with distance from the Nomad. Yshmael and the horse seemed bonded.. a touching sentiment and also a helpful one. Where the man did not pay attention, the horse surely would bolster detection and security by means of constant vigilance. On and on, they walked as a pair, hardly a full (Roman) pace apart at any point. They roamed the market to gather what was needed, making small talk and even receiving condolences from merchants hailing from the sands. With Provisions gathered for the journey, as well as knowledge of which he learned upon deeper questioning of merchants regarding the settlements to the west and the procuring of a map, he began to fixate on the now. Water, a bit of food and grain split between the two, and a gear check were all addressed. His robes, bound in silks and leather and plate in various areas about his form. Yshmael’s weapon hung from the hip, with a blade tucked into the breast of his robing. Hunter’s Steel, with blessings and family names etched all over. He kept it close at all times. A sentiment and personal defense that brought him security. A scarf adorned his head to keep the wind off his neck, and it draped from his form a bit and covered a light pelt that wrapped over the back of his form from the shoulder down. Riding boots were knocked against the heel of one another to relieve them of crusted sand and mud. The armaments of his father, passed on through generations, even the very robes he wore, were in his possession. He bound them to the horse and kept a spear with it - also his father’s. The nomad’s fingers were decorated with rings of all the members he could identify and recover, however few. Necklaces and bangles dressed his body, bearing talismans and words of power, or so they had been spoken of. Heirlooms and the surviving pieces of many who fell were all he could hold onto aside from memories. Empowered by his faith and compassion for mankind, the trinkets and accessories he bore served to draw in the energies that Gaia and the earth offered to him. It was all that seemed to warm his heart outside of his horse. The nomad smiled at the graceful steed to his left, taking in a deep breath as he reminisced and relaxed for a moment within the market. It was brief, though. He needed to keep moving. Thoughts and images plagued his mind if he was not remaining aware of his surroundings. Dreams had been invaded by ruins and plagued of monsters and sickness alike. Blight on the land struck fear and motivation into his steely resolve. It was his obligation to see it destroyed and prevented from further corruption. Gypsy Market - West End Two Hours to Mid Day With all he needed wrapped up, Yshmael made way toward the western end of the city, taking a decent stride as he led the horse on rather than ride him. Unless stopped or confronted, he would be on his way out of the market and city itself. Map in tow, he moved along.
  3. There was a subtle change in the sound of the city, enough to interrupt Torie’s dreams. She woke up a little disorientated but quickly recognized her room at the inn. Sunlight streamed in through her south-facing window, the angle indicating just after noon. She stretched, and felt the floorboards shaking. “Strange,” she said. Then she noted a deeper vibration, a rumble, barely perceptible to her sensitive tiger ears, and equally faint screaming. Torie scrambled to her feet, which wasn’t easy, especially given the vast quantity of salamander meat she’d eaten the day before. With a swing of her plate-sized paw she opened the door and bolted down the stairs, flanks scraping the wall on either side. The inn was quiet, a few patrons dining for lunch. Torie headed straight for the door. Outside the sunlight was arrestingly bright, but even through squinting eyes, everything seemed normal. People, horses and carts moved up and down the cobblestone streets. Several adventures milled around a notice board further down the street. A queue had formed out the door of a discounted barber store. But the cobblestones beneath Torie’s enormous paws were ever-so-gently vibrating. She wandered north, uphill towards where she knew the castle sat on its cliffs above the coast. The buildings became taller, more ritzy, with little spires and porticos and balconies. The people were better dressed, flowing with silks and embroidery. But the ground was still vibrating, enough that she could see the windows on nearby buildings shaking. Then one of the windows shattered. People stopped in the street, looking about. Someone cried out earthquake, and more screams filled the air. If Torie didn’t have four legs she might have been worried she would fall, and turned to walk to the centre of the road, furthest from the looming stone buildings on either side. Then, one of the buildings near the centre of town vanished behind the skyline of roofs and spires, and another, and another, replaced instead by a plume of smoke and dust. “Ohh boy,” Torie said and, when the ground stopped shaking, started down the slope. *** Panicked crowds grew tighter the closer she got, though being an enormous tiger, the tide of people parted for her quickly enough. Soon she found herself standing on the edge of an enormous sinkhole, the collapsed remains of several buildings inside. And several people, covered in dust, among the rubble. “Rope, we need rope!” called a shield guard. “… foot’s trapped, need a crane or a dragon to move-“ “… ground could still give way. Get these crowds back!” Golden shields started dispersing among the crowd, hands up, shouting to the crowds to back away. One of them reached Torie, looking at her as if not sure she was a person or a wild animal. “You…” “I can help,” Torie said, slowly so she articulated well around her tiger throat. “I can pull or lift, or hold a rope.” “Wait here,” the guard said. He turned to address some people standing on the very edge, looking down at the mess of the sinkhole below, when the cobblestone road split and he and everyone near the edge disappeared into the abyss. Torie roared with surprise and terror, watching as the sinkhole grew even deeper, the square stones of buildings and people crawling over them churning as they sank deeper into the earth, as if there was a hole beneath them. Water gurgled from a broken aquiduct, washing over the rocks and people alike. Torie backed away from the edge, as if it could swallow her too, and headed back to the inn. *** She burst through the inn door. “Help! We need help,” she said around breaths gasping for air. “People, buildings… the ground’s collapsed. There are people trapped! We need rope and ladders, and healers. Please, come quickly!” She looked about at the patrons, eyeing off the most capable-looking, eyes pleading for help.
  4. Alien Abduction Arc: Prelude The hazy, haunting eyes of the “Duck” lay scorched upon a capsulated threshold between dimensions. A hissing, hungered heaving of ozone gas brushes off from the gill-like valves alongside the behemoth’s helmet. It’s eyes dig their violet-churned peepers down towards the spiraling vortex of the portal, whilst it’s gargantuan gauntlets raise the portal upwards throughout a laboratory. The laboratory, drenched in the velvet and ashy smoke of nearby factory wells, circles around the behemoth’s standing. Machinery of all sorts, ranging from that of the Enlightenment's beginning to the 1860s, is burrowed throughout the laboratory’s labyrinth, as though festering jungle greenery. Contraptions of automatons, with hints of amoeba-like DNA hinged around in bottles, are dashed dormant around the room’s interior. Collections of firearms, containing that of Greek-fire to dragoons, are laced around chlorine-rumbling racks. Vines of rusted pipes hang from the ceiling’s silhouetted crimson, as though skulking serpents of sorts. Yet, central amongst the room’s mechanical quagmire, lies the “Duck’s” own pompous ego. The “Duck’s” ego, being of a tumultuous and titanic one, drives the invention of it’s homebrew portal. Taking notation to the original source, delivered by the Observe “Duck” Dimensional Squadron, O.D.D.S. or more commonly of the D-Squad, the beast proceeded upon a fever of experimentation. Hundreds of containers, delivered by nearby disease-drunken canines and other goons of the goliath, are scattered along the floorway behind. Speckles of glass panes, each with a razored-lining of steel, are strewn around, as though in a ravaging of anger. Though, for this very moment of the beast’s holding, it has succeeded upon the last trivalation. Generators, powered by a motor of magnesium, are tentacled around the circumference of the threshold’s capsule. The lights around, decorated by oily candles and other cathedral-like chandeliers, glinter spontaneously as another gust of ozone is pelted around. The goliath’s gargantuan gauntlets seat the capsule back against a countertop, cluttered by varities of automaton parts and design-documents. The threshold has become readied in the last capsule, a thickened-container of glass used to container any instantaneous combustion gasses. Only the dealing of an ego lies, awaiting threshold’s activation. Without a moment’s spinning nor pondering, the goliath grapples a gauntlet against a lever’s hilt. The grappling, being of a viceroy’s victorious holding, draws across the level’s greasy gutters. Metal is clanged as bells of tempered-steams are shot throughout the nearby pipelines. The motors rumble with a rancorous rhythm of magnet pulling, used to act as a compass for swiping northern and southern poles across dimensions. The experimentations, served as long and hard days in between political escapades and other monarchy-meddling held by the goliath, have fruited as the threshold rings. The ringing, a serene cacophony of a tempest’s winds, beckons off throughout the crackling halls of the laboratory. The spiraling glimmer of the threshold, holding an angular and distorted doorway of another eartherian realm, courses across the chambers of the hall. The colossus’ visor draws ahead into the expelling blaze, whilst the threshold begins to invert its own container. Being of the first successful, though careless by the distractions of political orations, experiment drawn by the beast, it spectacularly failed in respects. The capsule around dents downwards, as though eating away as its own insides. The glass cracks, much to the ignorance of the goliath’s jubilation, before combusting inwards. The threshold plunges outwards, with the spiraling matter of it’s interior busting into their beast’ own domain. As though to draw only consciousness, an element forged beneath only the soul of physicality, the threshold locks down onto the “Duck”. The “Duck’s” gauntlets lower themselves slightly, from the maniacally cackling of a victorious experiment, as they wrap around a nearby tabletop. The tabletop, being drenched with mechanical oils and other polishes used for automaton construction, doesn’t hold to the behemoth’s grasp. Moreover, the beast’s gauntlet slings off from the table before sailing back towards the threshold’s vacuum. The cavern graved laboratory, relatively discarded by the threshold’s imbibing, contrasts dramatically with the “Duck’s” frantic fidgeting. The “Duck’s” gauntlets vigorously rattle around, as it’s boots plunge their steely vulture-like talons into the grounds below. Shrieks of metal and ozone course down throughout the hallway, yet, only to be met with the silencing vortex of the threshold. The gallows of the goliath’s eyes gaze down upon the threshold’s wrath, as though to impose their own stubbornness to nature’s consequences. Though, and ultimately, the beast’s punching peepers fail to scare off something of only matter. With nothing of a consciousness nor heart, the threshold forces the goliath’s grasps away. Subsequently, the “Duck” is drawn into another dimension. The “Duck’s” gauntlets are released into the obscured origins of the threshold. The blitzing, bleary blazes of light and matter course around the colossus’ torso. Holding onto the mucus-like substance within, the titan’s armor would be transported alongside. The beast’s helmet fires off another sundering of ozone, whilst it crashes down throughout the threshold’s infinity and isolation. A gauntlet's rotating wrist, freed by the struggles of absolute will, scrapes across the unyielding luminosity. The wrist’s steel continues scraping onto the blanket of fulguration, as another wrist rises around the hatched hollow. The wrists fire off thunderous thumps of sparks, as they continue shredding down onto the dimension-shifting transportation. Following the wrists, contested anonymously by the uselessness of time inside the portal, strike the lengthy leggings below. The legging’s bounding boots press their humongous heels onto the tunnel’s ravine. The talons below, coiling upwards as though a bramble of seaweed, strike onto the infinity around. The beast’s velocity decelerates, allowing for the armada of armor to cease any frictionized flames. The cowl behind, curtained as though that of a theatrical phantom, edges it’s own hooks onto the hollow’s own hinged infinity. As though a thunder of both time and space, the beast ceases it’s motion into the cosmos. Yet, the magnetite’s compassing has ceased by the lack of non-conscious matter being transported. The “Duck’s” eyes sear off throughout a vent of the celestial tunnel, lined around with several others behind, as though a musician blowing into a flute. Due to the ceasing of motion, the exitways have appeared as though internalized inside of their own portal. However, with the hastied hushing of the “Duck’s” own compass, the beast lays stranded onto a randomized hole beyond the intended region for a dropoff. The intended region, being of nearby the opposite gateway proposed by the D-Squad, remains lightyears away from the “Duck’s” own position. Taking account of a lack for any more extraordinary moment or rocketing, the goliath proceeds to gallop down throughout the exposed hollow. Following the gallop, a harsh and laser-like bleating of noise pulses offward, as the threshold compacts into absolute oblivion. Albeit the portal remains vanished into the cosmos’ clutches, a brightened and sprawling dwarf-planet lies beneath. The planet, covered in a naval-azure of atmospheric clouds, drags the “Duck” in with it’s own magnetic pulling of sorts. Hence, the beast proceeds to fire down towards the planetary shrouding of blue and the bleak. Thunders rage onwards from nearby clouds, precipitating fierce and furious fountains acid rain. Skylines, covered by an undercoating of mint-green refractions, deflect off their sunburnt rays onto the “Duck’s” armory. The behemoth continues crashing downwards, as though a mountainous meteorite, as it catches the attention of a sky-patrolling service. The sky-patrol, led by a singular mothership of carbonized titanium, takes an alienated alert upon the sight of the plummeting “Duck”. The “Duck’s” armor, built to withstand that of hydrogen explosions dealt by phoenixes, withstands the initial gravity of the atmosphere. The ‘mucus’ within crashes back against the armor’s shelling, as the g-forces pile onto the speed of sound. The mothership continues spectating onto the mountain, as a captain starts by an emergency beacon of sorts. The beacon, cluttered with an array of buttons designed for contacting different security ports of the mothership, bleats off a beckoning ring of emergency. The goliath becomes a conflagerating spear, searing the sun’s shading from it’s flames. The captain, a naked ant-like being with two bulging eyes, starts by the command center of the cockpit. The signals continue sounding, with texts devised in morse-code being presented onto a radio device of sorts. Lines of other ants, considered as Muraveys by their species title, drill down across the cockpits corners. All the ants, toned differently by shades of their exoskeletons, face onto the screening below. Shocks of horror and an utmost urgency to cease the cascading colossus’ crash, which would possibly lead towards a catastrophic fissure for the planet at the dropping acceleration. The captain, aged by a fine dealing of meteoroids, gazes down across the shooting star beyond. With a simplistic flick of his abdomen, he proclaims “... - --- .--. / - .... .- - / -.-. .-. .- .--. / ..-. .-. --- -- / -.-. .-. .- ... .... .. -. --. -.-.--”, yet with beeps filling the dashes and boops filling the dots. Promptly, with a stressful vigor of naval sailors, the rest of the Muraveys shout “.- -.-- . / .- -.-- . / -.-. .- .--. - .- .. -. -.-.--”, before flinging themselves back along the hallway of the cockpit. Arms are raised, with laser blasters and other stereotypical weaponry, as the sailors storm across the hallway. Their weapons are drawn across a hanger of sorts, holding around three starfighters of sorts. The starfighters, smaller versions of their mothership, model that of a standard, space-sprung saucer. Swiftly, without a moment for leisure, sailors mount themselves down into the saucers’ own cockpits. Engines are roared with a combustion of carbon, as the saucers drill off throughout the entryway of the hanger’s hanging. The saucers, racing at that of mach ten across the bounds of the atmosphere, sail along without any sound-based explosions due to their internal vibration-compression softwares. The saucers continue blasting bombastically across the rainy torrents of the trembling skies. After only moments, the saucers catch their crosshairs onto the sight of the “Duck”. Plummeting for only minutes after entering the atmosphere, the “Duck’s” eyes are sunk against the edges of their visor. Remaining conscious by the sheer volitionalism of the ‘mucus’, the beast’s gauntlets are spread in an attempt to parachute it’s cowl downwards. However, before any rushing ravanging constructs into ideas, the Muravery fleet catches the colossus down into a wedge of the starfighters. Following the catch and the absolute shock of the mountain being a sentient organism, the fleet begins to contain the beast. The “Duck”, brawling vigorously against the ravaging aliens, ultimately fails to cease the capture as it looms thousands of miles above the planet. Promptly, the goliath is contained into an iron-maiden like container, without any of the protruding spikes. Following the moments upon its own capture and abduction into the reigns of alienated foes, the “Duck” nonchalantly leans back against the containment. Rumbles of oxygen pounce off into the swab, yet rustic, hanger of the mothership. A screeching of the saucers, sinking back into their initial formation for slumbering, clashes off around the garrisoned gallery of the hanger. Moments continue passing, as the “Duck” is mobilized along a thin corridor of lightning lights. The lights, steep and icy with dust, line with a bluish hue. Seconds strike across the hour, as the clock for the captain’s steering time rings around a cockpit’s coliseum. Briskly, taking notice of the captain’s presence, the sailors stand at ease, whilst the captain ambles over towards the “Duck’s” containment. The “Duck”, hoisting gallons of vexation from the brief containment, rattles around inside the contaiment’s cellar. Taking notice of the container’s erratic budging, the captain orders “--- .--. . -. / - .... . / -.-. --- -. - .- .. -. . .-. / .- -. -.. / -.- . . .--. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / --. ..- -. ... / --- -. / .. - -.-.--”. The sailors, loyal to anything testing command in their meritocracy of a worldwide society, lock their blasters onto the containment’s corners. A singular sailor clasps his boney, insectoid fingers around the sequence behind the container, before opening it for the inspection of the captain. Seconds continue building into the tension of the cell, as a plumage of puffy ozone strikes off from the containment’s bolts. The electrical wiring beneath, used to house and contain anything for outdoor presentation, grasps the “Duck” down ahead of the sailors. The captain steps by the “Duck”, with an awfully surprised countenance, as it raises a blaster towards the beast. Briefly, overshadowing the light mumbling of the nearby and lower-ranked sailors, the captain barks “-.. --- / -.-- --- ..- / ..- -. -.. . .-. ... - .- -. -.. / --- ..- .-. / .-.. .- -. --. ..- .- --. . ..--.. -.-.--”. The “Duck”, confused horridly by the mismash of beeps and boops pronounced by the captain, locks it’s own violet-dug peepers onto the ant-like captain ahead. Afterwards, the visor would curve around the other forces of the Muraveys, with another gaseous gust of ozone plunging off throughout the cockpit’s corridors. The tension of the titan remains, as it jests an eye over towards the captain, taking note of the inquisitive posture and voice of him. Following brief internal remarks around the room, the “Duck” would leisurely call “I shalln’t hath anything of thy language! Shall thou speak of ancient English’s glorious tongue?!” The captain, taking the same confused marking of the “Duck” following the beast’s statements, would direct it’s buggy eyes back towards the rest of the sailors. The sailors would take the titan’s shouting and overall confusion for resentment, therefore, they’d begin sealing the container. The buttons would be pressed back against one another, as the locks file into their ravines. Yet, the colossus’ draped cowl and felty coverings would take resistance to the electrical shocks. Having not prepared for anything of electrical immunity, as most of those sorts of resources are a scarce rarity in the civilization, the Muraveys lunge backwards. Their blasters point themselves back towards the jockeying “Duck”, as the metallic mountain wrangles it’s wrists against the wiring around. Moments pass as the blasters’ bolts are loaded down with their laser-beam mechanics. The barrels are plugged with the heat of electricity, as they hold their aims onto the maddened monster. The chamber choruses off, as the beast’s helmet huffs off another raucous rhythm of ozone. The tension explodes, as the electrical wiring around the behemoth does. Sparks are flung across the domain of the chambers, as the behemoth’s gargantuan gauntlets strike off from an explosion of fiery smog. Sirens sing off the iron-maiden container, whilst the titan’s torso jolts off the remaining wires. The truest wrath and fury of the beast arises from the locking of the cell. The sulfuric, smothering smog drowns across the aisle of the “Duck”, as it begins across the cockpit’s corridors. It’s visor swings swiftly across the grouping of seven sailors, with the captain centered into the middle of their swarm. The blasters, exploding off with the tension, fire their beams towards the “Duck’s” own steely armor. Consequently, a thunderous inferno bursts off into the cockpit’s controls. The oily polish of the armor withstands the numerous blaster fires, as the plates below are stained by the scorching and cracking chaos. Only the violet visor of the beast remains deviled across the reigning room, as the controls are crumpled by ricocheting bolts. Sailors are launched across the domain, with their exoskeletons bruising down around the muddled technology. On the nail, expecting the worst of a whack, the captain rises from the gashed grounds of the cockpit. His blaster draws another bolt into it’s chambers, as the “Duck” charges piquely towards the captain’s position. A gargantuan gauntlet is raised upwards, as though a blacksmith’s slinging sledgehammer. The boney, pincered fingers tighten themselves into their palm’s basin. The knuckles, rigid as though an alley of trash-cans, prop their needles ahead of the gloving behind. Without a moment’s checking and only the tempering heat around, the fist fires down into the captain’s exo-skeleton-head. The boney exterior is slung aside by the punch’s two-tonne weight, as the behemoth weighs it’s might onto the captain’s torso. The cracking of a stew-can sizzles down throughout the bruiser’s blow, as the captain is flung across the room’s interior. Speedily, taking notice of the captain’s own blaster, “Duck” leaps onto the Muravey’s arm and flings the firearm from his grasp. Thereupon, the titan gains a grasp across the weaponry, yet it’s bolted down another reign of fire. The crew continues blitzing throughout the fumes of ashy smog, with sparks of electricity crashing across the room's center. Yet, unknown to the figures inside, the ship’s loss of control has sent it towards a thunderous streak of shrouding and has raised into the breeches of space. The brawl continues battling onwards, as the “Duck’s” cowl is tattered terribly by the blasting bolts around. Its armory is pounded punctually by the rising might of the Muravey’s machinery, compared to the luster the “Duck” believed. Although, the contest of wills remains drawn at a stalemate of warfare. The crowding of sailors slowly sieve towards the beast, with their blasters loading down another batch of beams. The clocks of the nearby thunderstorm tick onwards, as the mothership’s directional-warning systems blare off throughout the ship’s hundreds of Muraveys. Another gargantuan gauntlet rises into the arena, as the “Duck” darts towards another sailor. It’s own hijacked blaster, remaining unfired, is swiftly pistol-whipped against another sailor’s skull. The sailor, struck by the weaponry, is slung into a shielded window. The rest of the sailors start into a furied frenzy of combat, taking all the stops to cease the ravager’s rampage. Another bolt strikes against the beast’s side, sending it onto a kneecap’s plates. Another screeching of metal breaks and reverberates throughout the chambers of the mothership. Another screen for navigation is torn down, this time by the goliath’s emptied palm. Subsequently and rapidly, the screen is rammed down into a sailor’s thorax. Throughout all of the raging combat, the mothership cruises into the thunders. A striking of lightning, the size and mass of an aircraft carrier, pummels down into the mothership’s center. The saucer’s gadgets and gizmos, connected by the ports filtered into the main computers along the chasm within, are instantaneously shut down by the thunder’s countering. Hence, the mothership has become stranded across the outer regions of space’s grasp. The atmosphere of azure leaves for the sunburnt sands of the cosmos, as another pouncing of lightning crashes from below. The mothership’s controls spazz violently as it begins rocketing off towards the outer limitations of space. With the wreckage of controls inside, the compasses have taken their targets towards the next livable planet, that of the realm the “Duck” attempted to search. Now, the fruits of the fighting have concluded as the mothership begins a meteoring down towards the clutches of the eartherian world. Asteroids are crumbled by the sheer friction of the ship. Comets are swung aside by the lightspeed engines behind, now crazed by the intrusion of thunder. As the heat beyond spirals into madness, the heat within has closed into only discorded disaster. The “Duck’s” gauntlets grapple a sailor’s scalp down, whilst two of the other sailors launch themselves around the behemoths’ body. Supporting reinforcements, designated with Roman-gladoritorial armor, hurry hotfooted into the closing chambers of the cockpit. The raging brawl edges onwards, as the gravity within the ship begins sinking back towards the eartherian realm below. Machinery is canceled by the new poles of magnification. The mothership fires downwards into the atmosphere below, as though it's its own colossal comet of sorts. Debris, such as the saucer’s outer crust and the engineering platforms around the exterior’s electronics, is flung across the trailing skyline of the mothership. The breakneck speeds of the falling phantasm conclude into a singular, seismic plowing into the mountainous regions of Lagrimosa. With the mothership’s armor having shielded qualities, those of stopping any external blows or heavy fissures from friction, it would simply sink into the dunes of the mountainous rocks. Though, the mountains would rivet and rumble furiously upon the eventually landing of the vessel. After moments of shaking, only the silence would remain between the dusk and the evening beforehand. The “Duck’s” peepers pounce out into the dusty dusk of another morning, with the mountainous regions sundered in two by the vertical vessel. The goliath’s gloves-gauntlets press their palms against a shore of stones beneath, as it’s kneecaps spring upwards from the soot of stone. It’s antennae like horns, jabbed at by the radio frequencies of the mothership, now lay tuning onto the distant breezes of the mountains. Rays of smog remain dragging off the mothership’s tail. Hundreds of surviving sailors have arisen more thirsty for vengeance than ever. The painting of the brave new planet has been driven into the beast’s own vengeful visor. The brawling of it’s ego, struggling from the failures of experimentation and the superiority of the aliens, brings the ceaseless of the colossus’ own schemes for revenge. Its eyes have taken a liking onto the aliens’ transportation, the mothership. Yet, without the proper resources, the beast remains stranded across the mountainous ranges around. In consequence, the colossus pries it’s pupils around, taking an eye onto anything for technology. Hours pass as another evening grows dim onto the mountainous scaping. However, at last upon the evening’s sundown, a rampart of rubble has been discovered. The “Duck”, taking an eager and immensely curious approach upon the technology, scuttles swiftly upon the sight. It’s fingers scourge themselves down across the rampart’s plates, taking discovery to a set of transmitional machines used by the aliens for communicating amongst their starfighters. The transmitional machines are as though 1950s radios, with the same dials and styling. Using the gambles of the radio technology, the beast began a keen testing and experimentation of different frequencies. Using a sample of its own electrons, taking note towards the magnet differences between the portal’s suction and the electrical currents found to power the blasters, the behemoth takes control of a machine. Hours of tinkering follow by, whilst the tension of looming shoulders skulks by across the winding winds of the mountains. The electrons, inserted via a discarded armor-plate of ‘mucus’, are drugged into the machinery’s frequency detonation. Using the frequencies, the beast would bleat off signals for assistance, immense fortunes, magical spells, and any other telemarketing generalities. The signals, taking part towards the electrons specific to the “Duck’s” origin realm, would sound off towards anyone who’ll be persuaded to join the hunt. The “Duck’s” alien abduction hunt has begun.
  5. ((Imagine as taking place southwest of Kethlerin)) _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ A week had passed after the war in Nu Martyr, with the Watchers had decided it was time they forged a new destiny amidst the ruins of the old. On their airship, they had absconded with a number of refugees from that land with a promise of safe havens in their homeland. Their number consisted mostly of families with a few soldiers, but it was the speed at which they fled across the Great Northern Ocean that provided the most protection, as did the anonymity with which they traveled. When the ship had disembarked in Port Kyros, it was a nightmare for the Watchers to go through the problem of customs with the locals, as did the question of what to do with so many people. Very few questioned that life was going to be hard, especially for those that came from Landonia - where the proud, knightly traditions held strong. After a day or so of arguing with the customs officers, the Watchers had simply packed everyone who did not wish to remain and headed further east. A select few did leave, but most stayed and waited - huddled together amidst the ship's cavernous interior while they waited. It took another day of flight, but they reached the coast of the western edge of the Great North. To the more cautious minded, this was the ideal spot to set up, but Arthur Morn, the Watcher's second (and interim leader in Nathan's absence) thought it better to head further inland, away from prying eyes. Furthermore, he argued, the ship was borrowed from the Nu Martyr Defense Forces. It would need to be refueled, refitted and then returned once this business was concluded. It was a matter of honor. "Honor is not what keeps these people fed and happy, Arthur." Gale, the Watcher's strategist had said that evening over some of the last bottles of water and bits of bread. "We need to find someplace to drop soon or they'll start eating each other." With that, Gale and Elias volunteered to head further southeast - scouting for a different spot. It took a day, but eventually, they found it. Far to the southwest of the city of Kethlerin, on the banks of the Kethlerin's river tributary were the ruins of an old keep and some unnamed town. It was probably one of the places destroyed in the cataclysm from a previous Whispernight when the dead had risen from their graves and laid waste to much of Genesaris. Though nature had come to reclaim much of what was lost, the town's buildings remained largely intact, including a blacksmith's forge and fully stocked larders. Even better, the few clusters of the still-living dead were easy to dispatch. It took a skirmish, but the Watchers and their forces had secured and scoured away the area. Near the keep, the four members of the Watchers discussed what was to come. Four men fresh from a war they had fought and nearly died in, all for these people who were to them as complete strangers - now people under their protection. Nearly a thousand of them, just looking for someplace to go. "Much will have to be done." Gale said as the first wave of people began to arrive. Most of them women, children and the elderly. "We'll need to figure out who gets what houses and to secure a source of drinkable water." "Not to mention the security situation." Elias said, folding his arms. "We'll need to make another sweep of the area and find out if there's any more undead, or worse." "And the fact that Nathan is still missing." Max pointed out. "It's been almost ten days now. We'll need to contact him to make sure he's okay." "Jameson can take care of himself." Arthur said. "He'll contact us when he's ready. Until then, we need to follow his orders and keep these people safe. And Elias is right - we have to cover our tracks and ensure the Cult of Power does not follow us." "If the cult found out where we are, their reach would have to be long indeed." Elias said, inwardly glad his brother was so quick to agree. "I can only imagine their wrath would be terrible. Nathan made a direct threat to their leader - and more, we snatched a whole group of people from right under their noses." "Even so, this little town is as good a place as any to start over." Arthur said. He turned to his brother and the Fairy Knight. "I'll see to it that makeshift defenses are set up. Elias, run a sweep from the north and east walls. Gale, give me south and west. I want to know what's coming this way before we're gagging on it." With that, he turned to the Angel Knight. "Max, you're with me. I'm going to start organizing a militia."
  6. The thrum of a magitech engine buzzed in the background and the powerful Nehalen wind slapped against the mighty airship's windows. But, no matter hard it may try, mere wind could never break into the exterior of Clockwork Grind, one of the most powerful airships of Genesaris. Instead, as if a child's toy, the ocean's blades simply bounced off. Behind Clockwork Grind followed a myriad of other airships, some keeping pace and others struggling to do so against the Nehalen ocean winds. Black clouds rumbled in the distance and bright lines of lightning struck randomly. That was there destination: the isle of Nede. Or so Ankou had reported it was called. After landing in Nede, Ankou, Khaki, and Sera had fought and defeated what they called a Demon Lord. In return, Ankou had gained a throne of near absolute power within a domain. If what he said was true, perhaps Nehalen was what she'd been looking for. What she'd thought Nu Martyr had been. Lilith wasn't entirely sure what "it" was, but somehow that didn't stop her from searching. As they approached the start of the storm clouds, massive creatures broke through the clouds in an obvious rage. Cloaked in all elements under the sun, Dragons began to attack the army of airships approaching Nede. At the beginning, Lilith stayed where she was in the airships control center. Standing and watching through the large windows as her Paragons used the Cult's black fog magic to combat the beasts midair. Probably guardians of the floating island. A moment longer of watching and Lilith was certain the guardian creatures weren't simply dragons. "Elder dragons?" she muttered, unsure. Definitely more powerful than the average dragons- that she was positive of. It wasn't until she saw the occasional pitch black scale on some and the rotting scales on others that her eyes widened. "Ah. Demonic and Undead. No wonder." @danzilla3 @Zashiii @AngryCacti @The North Wind @Casanova @TheShadow @J. A. Horton @Veloci-Rapture (for those who have expressed interest) OOC: This thread is completely open. I'd prefer a PM first, but it's not needed. Just jump in!
  7. Welcome to King Milorian’s coronation masquerade ball! OOC: Things to Note: A Council of Dryads from the Free Marches are holding a meeting in the garden to discuss the current state of nature of Ursa Madeum. They are open to inquiries and are partial to acorns. The Lounge has been occupied by a group of dwarves who are far into their cups for the night. They are holding an arm-wrestling competition; the winner gets a prize. Participants: Open How-to: Dice Rolling Thread - Look at the result for the D2. If a 1 is rolled, you won! If a 2 is rolled, then you lose that round. There will be 3 rounds per-participant. You need a 2/3 win to get the prize. A mourning fairy has taken advantage of the famous festivities. Its victims experience sudden feelings of grief, and if the fairy is not caught, the grief can turn one mad. Catch the fairy and receive a reward. A witch is dropping elemental rune stones around the castle! These stones can be used to enchant weapons, armor, or yourself; only two stones per participant, please. Stones: wind, water, fire, earth Layout: Red is off limits; Green is open Milorian felt extremely uncomfortable; Milorian looked extremely uncomfortable. He wasn't exactly sure what his attitude should be towards the gathered individuals, and it left him feeling adrift among the large crowd. To his right was Primera all dazzling in her glamour and dress; to his left was an emptiness he felt right down to his very core. Birdy was not there to accompany him during this rather momentous - strange - moment in their lives. When he was made King, she was made his Queen; he hates to think what her absence will cause. On the other hand, he was pleased that she was hidden somewhere, safe and comfortable. He was not going to burden her with superficial gestures that could risk her comfort and health. Comfortably married for a short time, the two had maintained a sense of privacy from the moment they took vows in silence. It worried him that there may be a demand they marry in front of the entirety of Ursa Madeum, just to ensure that neither were manipulating their position and power by lying to their fellow citizens. The elf prayed they'd leave Birdy alone. At least he can speak of his wife; there had been a few compliments towards his attire. Birdy, Primera, and Odelia had ambushed him with options of different suits that would fit his newly acquired position, though he doesn't know why. Whatever opinion he had about the attire was quickly swept aside by one of the women. It took them four days to decide on a simple black suit void of any embellishments - four. days. When it was time for the masquerade, they threw a cape over his right shoulder that carried the Mythal wolf and pinned the fabric with a variety of golden chains that now hung from his shoulder. He hated it, but he had no opinion. Primera was rude enough to point out he was blind, so it didn't matter what he thought since he can't see. "You're a rather quiet host, my King." Primera dragged the sour-faced elf to the dance floor that was overly crowded with excitable company. He had to right himself when she manipulated him to hold her irresponsibly close, but the lack of space on the dance floor made it impossible to be appropriate. Without much choice, he was forced into a quickstep that shook a few laughs from his dry lungs and drew a smile across his usually tight features. "There you are! Such a handsome King should smile, it'll make the ladies weak." Milo rolled his sapphire eyes, not sure if he should feel complimented or not. He didn't care if the people should find him handsome or not, what mattered was what they thought of his behavior and his actions. Though he understood the small spread of truth behind her evaluation; a kind and thoughtful individual on the throne could sway the uneasiest of hearts, as first impressions do matter. Being an elf sitting on a somewhat changeable throne, a smile and some kindness could do him some good. "I suppose I can smile every now and then," he said begrudgingly. The two made it out alive and took refuge on the outskirts of the dancing crowd. Unable to hide it, there were flecks of pride in his blind gaze as he "watched" the elves of his land mingle with the rest of the crowd. The normality of the sight was endearing, he never really expected such a thing to happen yet always yearned for it. Such an amazing view was exemplified by the laughter, the teasing, and the general conversation coming from differing individuals. Even if it's just for now, even if it's just for show, he can take these small triumphs and covet them when needed. Primera looked up at the elf who was clearly lost in the moment. Teasingly, she elbowed the gentleman, knocking him down back to earth. "You are a regal sort, you know. Seeing you as you are, in all your kingly glory, it's a marvel." "You keep feeding me these compliments, and I'll become fat on pride." "Oh? Is that why your belt is cinched extra tight?" The Grand Kommadant reached down and pulled at his elaborate belt all shiny in gold and jewels. Aghast, the elf slapped her hand away - a handsy woman! "I beg your pardon, my lady, but it's not very ... lady-like to just grab at a man's belt." "I beg your pardon my King, but that all depends on the gentleman." They were in a public place with eyes already drawn to their playfulness, the last thing he needs is this pompous woman speaking far too candidly for her own good. Damn her! He could see a few individuals hiding their smiles behind sips of wine and the flush of fans; they were going to talk, and it's all her fault. He certainly did not help the situation by laughing behind his gloved hand, the terrible attempt only exasperated the crude comment. The masquerade was to introduce him to the rest of society and open the doors for conversation. He did not want to talk politics, he barely wanted to acknowledge his newly acquired title, but he understood that parties as these are opportunities to get your foot in the door. With the party currently gliding towards its peak, Milorian has spoken to many people who have all welcomed him and nothing more. He was grateful that, at least for a moment, his people can enjoy a single night of celebration without any underhandedness. "I hate you," he finally said. He couldn't see it, but he certainly could tell that she was beaming. Which she was, from ear to ear, her smile reached; opal hues glittered and glowed with amusement behind the elaborate mask she wore.
  8. Ataraxy

    [GS] Gemini

    ・・・】 God: Gemini ・・・】 God Slayer: Me (Ataraxy) ・・・】 OOC: Thread Gemini, though having lost the strength that made him a god above mortals due to the Grand Kommadant, nonetheless attempts to serve his duty as a God. A protector. Having seen the effects of Paragons in Nu Martyr, Gemini comes crashing into the province. He might not be able to grow into indefinite portions within this new, limited body but that doesn't mean he won't still make giants look like ants. With his absurd strength, Gemini summons enormous boulders from the divine realm and hurls them down toward his enemies. In a rage for all the good Renovations that died in the invasion of outsiders, Gemini attempts to vanquish all before him.
  9. Current Status Read Before Posting Tavern of Legend OOC Thread When you're ready to leave the TOL and explore Valucre, check out these transition suggestions. Note these are suggestions and you are not limited to the options detailed there. The Tavern of Legend is a jumping off point for new members, a sort of sandbox where new members can play with other new members while getting used to the site. This is especially useful for those new to online role-playing in general. Only members registered on the site for 90 days or less can post in the ToL unless otherwise approved (such as select events or mentors). We strongly encourage participating in Tavern quests and activities as a starting point, but this isn't required and a member can leave the ToL at any time. The new member guide can assist you as you go forward. The water cooler is a good place to check out when you're ready. You don't have to read the whole thread. Given the amount of new members that get funneled into the ToL on a regular basis, members aren't expected to read dozens or hundreds of pages. You read this post to get an understanding of the tavern, the last few posts to get a handle on what other members are doing, then you're free to introduce your character in whatever fashion you deem fit. The Tavern of Legend is an RP forum that is quasi-canon; nothing here is canonized as 'world of Valucre' lore, but its internal canon is consistent. Note that the tavern also "heals itself", so things like holes in the wall and accidental fires won't affect the overall aesthetic. What you do in the ToL can be referenced later on in other RP threads within the world of Valucre. Any quests you complete for the Tavern that take place in canon lands can be canonized as well. The Tavern They say the road to the tavern was once a nondescript journey, traveling through nothingness until you happened upon a quiet little hamlet out in the middle of nowhere. Farmers would wave, children following a short distance behind, curious as to your origins and intent. Only, things have changed now. You travel through lands scarred by fires and death, through an atmosphere of despair laden with only the slightest traces of hope. Burned down buildings are as common a sight as are the rats and vultures still searching for morsels. At this time, people still bury their dead- and there is many, while others hurry to get back within the cover of what remains of their home. Eventually, your journey leads you down a dimly lit path, finding that night has come upon you faster than you first expected. You come to a location said to be the corner of all existence, the point between the world of Valucre and all other possibilities. There sits a quaint structure, small and unassuming. It is only one story, hardly more than a shack, and certainly nothing like what was promised by those claiming to have once stayed within its walls. The paint is peeling, the sign is careworn and faded. Perhaps you feel cheated, having come all this way just to find some hole in the wall that gives only a welcome home to drunks too far into their cups to notice the difference. Still, there is an inviting smell coming from inside, a welcome change from the smell of death you left behind. Perhaps you should enter then, and stay for a drink or two. Even if this tavern is not what was promised, a drink and a hot meal would do you some good. And there you find that the Tavern is all that was promised you - and more. It reaches high, higher than you could have even imagined, the ceiling reaching hundreds of feet above. Layers upon layers of rafters fill in the gaps, where some patrons sit, served by a young man who traverses them with ease. Down below, the sprawling layout reveals a tavern with more than a dozen corners (each with its own table), despite the improbability. At the center of establishment is a large stage, where bands of bards play and leave- their lineup and styles as random as anything could be. Along what could be called the back, a long bar stretches out, ending at a doorway leading to the kitchens. Also in the back are stairs leading up to an upstairs that cannot be seen from here, and a door that leads down to the storage basement. Weapons can be checked at the door or brought to the weapons counter, where the character will be relieved of their weapon and given a chip when they're ready to reclaim it Staff The staff is varied. Some are transient, coming and going within a few days, and others are permanent fixtures of the tavern's setting. Some are from the world of Valucre, and others are wanderers from further off. The only constants in this ever-shifting tapestry are the core staff members who manage the tavern itself, each serving their own special function. Attractions Recurring Wait Staff Young Attractive Barmaid: Early 20’s, Green eyes and chestnut hair, with a noticeably large bust. Her name is Gwen. Young exhausted Barmaid: Just out of her teens, always looks worn out and haggard. Smaller frame on top, but generous hips below. Her name is Beatrice. Young scrawny barmaid: New on the job, looks nervous and eager to please. Often speaks in a rehearsed manner, quite rapidly. Tiny, but looks healthy otherwise. Average looking. Her name is Clair. Young man with dark skin and bare feet: The Rafters server, as nimble and acrobatic as an ape in the jungles, he was hired for his abilities to assist those patrons with difficult logistical seating placements. His name is Tova. Man in his mid-twenties, blond, frequently scruffy. Rather friendly, a bit boisterous at times. He gets along well with anyone, and is known for flirting with the prettier customers who don’t come in with obvious attachment. His name is Fjorn (pronounced Fee-orn). Woman in her late forties, wavy, short grey hair and blue eyes. She has no patience for the workers she thinks are lazy and will be quick to click her tongue and chastise slackers. She is stocky but short, with old battle scars she says she earned from "Fighting in the pits, earning her freedom with blood." She's willing to tell a tale or two about her past fights. Her name is Wentree. [Hired recently] Younger man in his mid twenties, about 5'10 but huge build and a bald head, with nearly black skin. He speaks with a mild accent, but he is happy to repeat himself when required--but you have to make sure he knows you missed it, because he has a tendency to miss those signs, among other things. He seems to zone out a lot, and will trip over objects too. His name is Fendrel. He does not flirt, as his Husband wouldn't like it. [Hired Recently] Young man with long, red braids and grey eyes. He is perhaps 18, and quite talkative. He has his left eyebrow pierced three times and both ears filled with hoops and cuffs on his cartilage. He sometimes gets distracted by the bard, or pretty women. Wentree frequently gets on him about staying about his work. His name is Mism. [Hired Recently] Toilet Scrubber Not all the dragons fell during battle. One so-called "Tom" managed to fall inside the range of Ghallen's protective magic, sparing his life when the Dragon Cultist General decided to hit friends and foes with a blast of necrotic magic designed to drain life from others. Ghallen later found him playing "dead" as he was told to, and could see that the dragon-kin really did feel bad about the whole ordeal--those cultists, they sure can be convincing! So, Ghallen got him patched up, but not all is amended yet. The Tavern expects people to earn their keep, and that those who wish to reform their way should do so through hard labor. Vaddock set the dragon-kin to work as the official toilet-scrubber, keeping the privies clean. So far, he's been doing a pretty good job. His name is Zezzicryt, but most just call him "Z." He is 7' tall, and rather intimidating at first glance, especially for those who fought them. The veterans of the battle eye him suspiciously, but Vaddock feels like he might really mean to turn over a new leaf. Nevertheless, he still has Hand keep a close eye on him.
  10. 16, April 1678AY Archipelago, Garuda-Scarab Thursday, 12:00P.M The word had not reached the newly found island yet that a force of evil was coming. That the people would not be prepared and though they would not be, they had something on their side, a Valentina. But they would still be outmatched. Salsa stood outside the city of Archipelago, as she wondered how things were doing for Jack. He had lost his form to a shard, had the legendary sword and shield that was corroding him. Yet, she was wary as to not letting him trick her. Inside the town hall, elder Ridley Vira Nebulous-Ashlyn had been forming a plan. His maps laid out as his grey eyes stared at it still. The thing was that the demons of old resided here at one point. They changed the subjects--people into creatures, or even demons. The oldest elf family of October remained untouched but for how long? "Ser?" The young elf knight, Vanilla June Zenith October asked as she looked at the elder with pink-white eyes. "Still can't figure out a plan?" "Unfortunately not. Even if the Valentina attacked, and even with the other Valentina helping us--we're still outnumbered." Ridley spoke as he looked up. "Gallus, any ideas to figure something out?" "Well, we do have those soldiers trained from Athentha, plus the Valentina and October houses. We have a fair shot at this, as long as we don't lose the mages." Gallus replied. Ridley sighed. It was a long shot indeed.
  11. Athentha's Bloodied Past Book VI, Ascending the Stars of the Shattered Symphony Chapter I: 17, August 1678AY Is it wrong to lock her up in that mirror? That crystalized hell that we didn't know would occur? Was I wrong to believe that we made a mistake because we were blind to the war spreading among Athentha? That the first war broke out because we allowed it? --Excerpt from Augustus's Journal, in Athentha's Bloodied Past, Book II, Page 37-- Kogal closed the book as he sighed. He had been sitting there for a while now, knowing Yral was calling for war. Absolon hadn't been the best as he allowed those creatures--monsters into his head. That demon Ra, those cloaked in the Red Blood Moon Organization cloaks, he couldn't get it out of his head. His thoughts. Times were only getting worse for the island. Augustus eyed his young pupil, the worry in Kogal's eyes were not that easily discarded. The wise shaman had been at Absolon's side since the expedition here. As he grew in power, Absolon tossed him aside as he took in a new apprentice, a man who had ties to both organizations, even created them. Kogal leaned back into his chair as he rubbed his temples with a sigh, Grant Lyon wouldn't just stand by and let Athentha push them around. "It's inevitable isn't it?" Kogal asked. "Absolon has pushed too far this time hasn't he? That Lyon will raise war. And that organization, where did it come from? Why now of all times? I don't understand." "Only if you give up hope that it becomes inevitable Kogal." Augustus said as he leaned his lanky form against the wall. "He possibly did, but we don't know yet. Lyon hasn't declared anything yet. We know where. That woman named Ra." Kogal looked at his mentor as he tilted his head. He had heard stories of the sunbird and her origins. Yet, he didn't think it was possible she'd come to Athentha and create a cult. Especially one Absolon would wholeheartedly support. It didn't make sense. Augustus shook his head once more at this, the young demon man still confused. "Well, there were two islands not included with Athentha's making. Garuda-Scarab, which remains silent still. And the other one that houses creatures like her, the Red Blood Mirror. So, that's figured out. Listen," Augustus paused as Kogal rubbed his temples even more, "Kogal, we will need to think of a plan. Sayndar and Vex won't be enough to combat that cult." Kogal groaned. He didn't like where this was going. Wendelin had stood there, against the southeast corner, silent. The Valentinas were always involved in high stakes affairs, usually ones that involved saving the world or some stupid thing. Rhaspody remained on her left, also silent. Crescendo hasn't shown yet.Wendelin said softly. Kogal and Augustus looked towards her, a bit in shock. She probably got in a tight spot during the spying mission. I sent her to spy on Ra and her cult. Hopefully, it didn't go south as it-- "How long have you been there?" Kogal asked as he caught the stare of Wendelin's smoky green eyes. "And why are you here? It's not like we need the help." You do actually. Rhaspody spoke up. Ra isn't a pushover. And from what I heard, she's leading the charge of the war towards Yral. With Absolon's blessing of course. Crescendo should be by soon. She'll have the plans we need. Wendelin hoped her sister was alright. It was Ra after all and she was a threat. Though it was late and Crescendo hadn't shown yet. Augustus eyed the worry as he stumbled back to his chambers through his hoards of scripture, parchments and books. Kogal remained seated. ---- Crescendo had remained under cover for a good week. She hadn't let on she was a Valentina yet she knew she wasn't out of danger. Crescendo had read the books every day that Ra gave her to read. And through her prowness, she became one of the sunbird's favorites. Meaning more eyes were upon the young elf. Crescendo still wasn't sure why Wendelin picked her for this mission. If Malachite was still about, he could have been picked. He was a better spy than her. But their brother was on another mission. And because this one was important, knowing why Absolon wanted war, she was picked. She was a small elf, 5'2 and 100lbs. She had black teal hair that was stopped against her mid-back and braided. Her eyes were blank golden irises. She wore black silk like robes that were a bit too big for her. As Crescendo read the books, she was starting to get immersed into the teachings. It had almost ensnared her once or twice. She had to keep reminding herself that she was on a mission to keep Athentha from being torn asunder. Reminding herself this cult was not good. That this cult would be the end of Athentha should it allow to flourish. Yet, it remained in the back of her head that this cult might be something better. It had a cool name after all. Crescendo sighed as she was late getting back to her sister to report the information she held. Yet, Ra seemed to be misunderstood and she wanted to know more about the sunbird. Which would be easy since she was the new favorite. The elf closed the book as she leaned back against the chair in her chambers. Something was wrong here yet Crescendo couldn't figure it out yet. The seeds sounded wonderful, such good upgrades at the cost of something no longer needed. She would consider it later. For now she scribbled down in her notepad in a code should she be comprised. I should be heading back soon… Wendelin starts to worry when I'm late... Crescendo thought as a knock came to her door. She hesitated to answer it.
  12. It was a long trip back home from what was now known as Taiyomichi. Prior to such a trip, he was not mentally matured or prepared enough to understand the gravity of his title; Of his position. During the several days at sea it took to return here on a fisherman's vessel at that, he had plenty of time to digest on the information and knowledge gained both directly and indirectly; From a wide variety of Human and Yokai sources that differed from those found here among the vast psionic populace. He had learned from his father that one had to make sacrifices to protect and ensure what was most precious to themselves. Sisu-sama had tought him that honor was tied to one's duty, one's fate; That one didn't always choose the life they were born into, and that responsibility had to be taken on anyone's account. Months before either however, he'd learned from his mother, and affirmed with his aforementioned guardians, that love seemed to be the one thing in the balance that disturbed such a thing. Love creates pain, and pain changes people. Though said change could not be predicted person to person, it had become a veritable truth in his mind that such a thing was too unpredictable to allow one's self to become overly attached to anyone or anything by choice. Though what he had been born in bondage to was already as much a part of himself as any other part in mind, body, and spirit. First and foremost he was born a son, his first duty being to those whom came before him; His parents and his Sisu. Then came the fact that he was born a Prince. The Bastard Prince as he was coming to be called, cared not for the illegitimate nature of his claim to the court. For he was the only child born of the Scarlet Queen. Once docked, the boy had done as he had his entire trip, masked his presence by way of bending the way minds perceived him. Where a boy and his cat stowed away on a ship, it appeared it was just two cats that went largely unperturbed. Together the duo traversed the roads of crushed stone beneath there feet, still warm to his senses as he remembered when he'd left. That was good, the Keep's defenses were still up and running, which meant that as he'd assumed, his Mother was in fact still alive where ever she was. He would find her one day, though in the mean time it had fallen upon his shoulders to pick up the reins where she'd prematurely left off. He had to restore stability within there lands, at least in the Keep itself, or he ran the risk of leaving his Mother's people more or less abandoned, as well as the risk of leaving his Mother with nothing to return to. As he made his way, Kairos took note of the environment overall. While the economy and it's people hadn't necessarily fallen or suffered great losses, it was apparent that excluding the recent feast hosted by the Order of Force, this region had grown rather stagnant. even to the point that adventurer's failed to lay claim to their outstanding Quests. This coupled with the silence of their sibling nations, save for the Taiyomichi, as well as with the empty council sitting in the Queen's place here, it was all just more evidence that he was right. Somebody had to do something, and soon. If only he'd realized sooner that he was just that somebody. Many would deny the claim a child made to a thrown, though his parents had provided him with the tools necessary to appear in whatever manner the people needed to see most in their minds. Creeping into the shadows of a nearby alleyway, the two cats vanished from sight for the briefest of moments. The Prince took a deep breath as he gathered himself, mentally preparing to put everything he'd learned to the test. For if he could not succeed here, now, then he'd have no hope to succeed in the future. While still incredibly young, he was wise well beyond his years; One of few consolations of being born to a Psion and a Cambion. He was a prodigy, gifted with advance Psionic capabilities that he still hadn't fully grasped an understanding on himself. Yet each day he understood more, each day he grew stronger and smarter...Each day, with every ounce of gained awareness, the boy gained confidence. Stepping from the shadows once more, the boy emerged in likeliness to how he appeared when seen in Taiyomichi, the day it was named such. Those that were present or aware of his appearance that day would undoubtedly recognize him now, giving some semblance of weight behind his words when he inevitably came to speak them. Stepping center-most into town, now with what was undoubtedly a lion, he cleared his throat and began by announcing himself and his claim before committing. Regardless of the apparent reception of his words here and now, he'd made up his mind on this matter. With or without the support of his nation, he would serve and protect them the way that he knew his Mother would, if not better. "Ladies, gentlemen, children of Predator's Keep; Lend me your ears, and your minds as well as your hearts!" He paused as he obviously gained quite a bit of attention from them all. A crowd began to gather as some ran to tell others to come and see before it was too late. Even one of the Order's Knight ran to tell the Master Knight himself that a spectacle was on the rise while other's remained around to observe the speech that was about to be delivered. "As most of you are aware, the budding Scarlet Empire ha taken quite a slide back in our Queen's absence. While the Keep itself has suffered the least, it is obviously thanks to the allowance of the Order of Force's presence within our lands. This Force however, is not a governing one, and with the realized loss of the Scarlet Council, it has become apparent that such responsibility falls upon myself; Your Prince!" Confusion became apparent among them, for the Prince was but a we lad. A far cry from a young man. Surely this man was an impostor? "It is true, I assure you all. While I left here mere weeks ago a boy, I return to you a man. While this may be difficult to accept as the truth, it does nothing to change the fact that it is. I am not lost to the fact that I am widely known among you all as The Bastard Prince. While I can do nothing to change the circumstance of my heritage, I can only assure you my Mother's blood runs through my veins, and that there is no alternative as far as genetic alternatives are concerned. As a result, I'm here this morn to tell you all that your Prince has returned, and that he, I, am going to absorb whats left of the Scarlet Council into my board of advisers...Without another to oppose my claim to the throne by right of birth or blood, I am issuing an open challenge to any and all whom would oppose me now. You have until sunset two moons from now to prove you are the more worthy to replace me on the throne. In the mean time, I'll begin by currently claiming it as it's interim monarch." As the crowds grew chaotic in their confusion and rejections, the Prince merely began to walk with purpose towards the Bastion; His Lion by his side. The crowds birthed a path for them to pass throw regardless of their acceptance to his speech. Formally, he'd placed himself out there to the public, and now it was time for him to appeal to perhaps the only person that truly could prove an issue for him moving forward. James Eredas. So far as Kairos was concerned, the OFM was nothing more than an over-glorified military force that specializes in Demon slaying. Curiously enough, it seemed to stand that his Father wasn't here, or else the man would've shown himself already. Not like his immediate attendance would've served a purpose in slowing the Khaliq down, let alone stopping him.
  13. Black. Pitch black darkness. All that awaited Saint Reverie by using her first sense, her sense of sight, was an absolute nothingness. Such had been the cost of her life after she'd become plagued with a divine illness. For months her body had been racked with unbearable pain and she'd been in and out of consciousness for the majority of it. And, yet, though she had no idea what living creature had managed to save her from certain death, the Saint knew it had been by the power of the Creator. After waking from her coma in a cold sweat, locked in some deep part of Grad na Ang'eli, she'd heard a call. A sound. A cry for help from hundreds of thousands of tortured souls. Knowing those voices called to her, and likely only her as an opportunity granted to her by the Creator, she made her way toward them. Such a path was more difficult for her than before the illness, for though she could hear the cries and hopes of souls, she could no longer see. Brilliant golden iris' turned a dull silver, nearly gray in opacity. Covering them with with a metallic band known in Grad na Ang'eli as the Creator's Calling Crown, the angels had dropped Reverie in the aftermath of The Commander's war with Nu Martyr. Dead center of it, as the crying souls pleaded. Taking such pleas as the commands of her Creator, Reverie sent a message out using Nu Martyr's underground system to call for any and all good souls to help her make a way of hope throughout the desperate Province. If she could help so much as only one creature, it would all be worth it. Saint Reverie sat upright and comfortable in an old rocking chair just outside a destroyed church. It was not a church of the Creator, but nonetheless had deserved more respect than it'd had received. In her past Saint Reverie had caught glimpses of Primera, but had never taken the Grand Kommadant as one to commit a genocide against her gods. They were, after all, more than just creatures of power. They were symbols and the people believed in those symbols. Relied on them. Without faith and without hope, it was only a matter of time before the Province as a whole fell into a pit so deep it would never escape. She raised a hand to stroke against the metallic band clasped firmly around her head, conflicting emotions sparking with the contact. Valucre had too long forgotten the importance of deities. Of faith and of goodness. Law was not goodness and proof was not faith. Unity discarded for individual pride and success. Families discarded over mere divides of land. Equality all but destroyed, replaced by a greed so ugly that it had blinded many more than the deadly illness she'd been infected with. And thus she waited for those heroes who'd help her to make Nu Martyr, once again, a place where humanity could stand tall and proud. @Mickey Flash @Meraxa @ticklefarte @Sanonymous @Zashiii
  14. The outside appears to be minimal and modern with slabs of marble and stacked stone in a grey palette. The inside is warm with distressed wood paneled walls, a romantic, whimsical canopy of trees overhead, and the soft twinkling of lights as an open fire glows in the stone fireplace. Small, curtained windows framed by wooden shutters let some light filter through, and small, intimate tables are arranged for the flow of impeccable service. It is clear is meant to be an oasis of intimacy and romance. An impressive stretch of marble slab makes up the main counter top, a clear path indicating a newcomer may start there. The floors are equally distressed but maintained, the air clean from the artfully placed trees inside. The menu was rumored to be small but flavorful, based solely on the wines provided at the time. A portion of the counter was lined with baskets filled with fresh snacking goods from nuts to bread and spiced oils, some which came as suggestions to pair with a favorite wine. A path leads around to a second room, which also boasts a counter, flanked by an impressive array of local and imported wines. On display are various retired swords, tools, and artifacts—their ethereal abilities long spent and merely for decor. After lunch in the late afternoon, the Enoteca would open its doors for a few hours, allowing the locale and tourists trailing in from Port Kyros to make their reservations and dine for the wine or see their wares inspected, repaired, or built to order. The cellar would open as the orders for the best of the best wines make their way in. Meals are prepared light and are not meant to satisfy those who are voraciously hungry. Built for refinement, elegance and courtesy—drunken debauchery is heavily frowned upon and security is never far. -- Welcome to the Enoteca: the chic, romantic sister-bar to The Sadira Amar. With the Port City’s arboretum taking off and growing a variety of fruits, it became clear to Raveena that capitalizing on the wine industry would bolster tourism significantly. While the Sadira Amar is open and inviting, the Enoteca is an establishment designed for intimacy and privacy. Like its sister-bar in Hyperion, the Enoteca doubles as a workshop where Genesarian artifacts and weapons can be repaired or built to order. Shopping patrons are escorted to the adjacent room where a workshop beneath the floors going into the cellar has been fleshed out. An up-and-coming Artificer and Scrivener in the service of the Queen resides here and can give anyone a quick lesson on their artifacts, its history and its use for a fair fee. Stop by to sample the local flavor, delve into the mystery of Port Kyros and it's potent source of magic. There's rumors of ghosts of fallen soldiers that haunt the memorial, of secret societies and vanishing cities. From the magical to the mysterious, the Enoteca welcomes you in.
  15. ...well that happened Word spread surprisingly fast in Izral, especially considering the disparity of power between the classes and a lack of any true governmental organization at play. That news could even traverse the expanse of the region was miraculous enough, never mind the veracity of the claims. They, being the talkers that ‘They’ were, claimed the slave market of Izral was in ruins. The life blood of several powerful merchant princes was being spilt and the grossly wealthy addressed the issue as only they could...by throwing money at it. With the slave trade on its last legs many merchant Princes were forced to protect their own interests: a mercenary’s wet dream. The call for bounty hunters had never been so loud as it was now. Velleh Ah’bjyd was far from the wealthiest merchant prince, but he was certainly the most vain. Unfortunately, for Ah’bjyd his obsessive need for the finer things in life left him practically destitute. Aside from his lavish estate, the Merchant Prince was virtually penniless and with the slave trade dwindling, necessity saw him parting with some of his more exotic artifacts just to maintain his luxurious lifestyle. Mercenaries and bounty hunters alike flocked to the various merchant princes to offer their services. Whether to fill the ranks of the Prince's personal guard, or to hunt down any fleeing servants who thought to make off with pricey trinkets amidst the turmoil. So it was that Garland found himself welcomed with open arms (so to speak) at the Ah’bjyd estate. In truth, his reasons for being there had little to do with the acquisition of coin and everything to do with sweet, sweet revenge. It took every ounce of Garland's self control to even look at the Ah'bjyd estate without vomiting. Every step he made felt weighed down by the shackles no longer fastened about his limbs. Peering down at scarred wrists, the youth ran an absent minded hand over the white patches of flesh that marred his otherwise tan complexion. It truly was a miraculous happenstance, this thorn in slavery’s side. No one thought the tall broad youth anything more than another sell sword. The heavyset man stationed at the guard house, waved Garland in and gestured for him to stand out of the doorway. "It's protocol..." the large man said, running thick fingers through his patchwork beard. "We get so many of you folks...er...I mean workers...not Izrali...I'm half-Izrali myself, on my mother's side...um...." Garland quirked a brow, uncertain exactly how one addressed a harmless faux pas. Truthfully, there were a great many social cues, the broad youth was rather clueless about. "Is Lord Ah'bjyd at the estate?" Garland asked, struggling to keep an even tone. The guard nodded. "Doesn't leave...um...er...Oh, I need your name...and uh...oh yeah, are you applying for a guard posting or were you um...here for something else." Garland pointed at the man, "The first one...the Guard posting. Yep. I'm a...expert at...keeping people alive," The heavyset man nodded his head and flipped through various forms on the table. "Great! Great! We...ah...we've been a little short staffed as of late...um...what with the um...difficulties with the unpaid laborers departing." Unpaid laborers? Garland had never heard slaves referred to as such, but he supposed it wasn't technically wrong. The heavyset guard rose from his chair and handed Garland a slip of parchment and a pen. "Fill this out and we'll contact you within 48 hours..." Garland did not take the pen. "I was hoping to start immediately." The guard paused and shook his head. "Captain Rothschild will want to do a small background check on you, it's not strenuous...just a cursory thing..." Garland peered down at the pen. It was going to be difficult to fill that form out when he couldn't even read. Already things seemed to be derailing in a monumental fashion. "Ah...I can't really read." Garland explained. "Just never really picked it up." It wasn't unheard of, some children from the Izrali slums never attended a day of school...so long as they assumed Garland to be an Izrali peasant and not an escaped slave... "Oh...um...what did you say your name was again?" The guard asked, turning back towards his desk, a large pudgy hand reaching for his radio." Garland moved without thinking and slammed his hand into the guard's back, using a rush of air to slam the large man against the desk with enough force to drive the wind out of him and send a stream of spittle against safety glass in front of him. "So much for that plan..." Garland muttered to himself, reaching down to snap the guard's neck with practiced ease. The sound and scent of loosening bowels filled the guardhouse, prompting Garland to sigh heavily. "Well...I don't think your pants would have fit me anyway..."
  16. A brand new day welcomed the crew as they woke up after a good night sleep in the forest in the wilds of Fracture, west of Sidereal Lake. They had been here for a while, taking a break from the monsters and adventures, much to Shelly’s pleasure, and Dauner and Gozen's displeasure. Dauner was mostly using this as a chance to lay off most of the fighting while refining his iroki and training his sword skill. For the last couple of days, he would wake up, work out, hunt, have breakfast and then spend the rest of the day in deep meditation, bonding with his surroundings. Gozen too took advantage of the moment and refined his iroki and dragon skin coating technique. Shelly on the other hand, trained her sword wielding and multiple magic sword wielding speed and skill. On the eight day, the crew got ready to return to their adventuring. Seven days of inactivity had Dauner and Gozen itching for action. Shelly, on the other hand, would have preferred if they took a couple more weeks off the dangerous adventures. The crew then set out in the direction that seemed to call out most to them. In this case, east, the direction had the most restlessness about it. After a quarter day of walking, the group arrived at the bottom of a steep hill. The wall was pointed vertically upwards to about 3 meters in height, where it became a gentler slope uphill. Dauner felt something strange about the wall. He could hear the breathing it produced, but the breathing was uneven about a particular area. He walked up to the place and placed his hand on it. He then laid his ear against it and tried to listen more closely. “Is there a problem D?” Gozen asked looking confused. “Did you find something interesting?” Shelly asked excitedly. Dauner motioned for them to keep quiet which is what they did. After moving about the wall for a while, Dauner drew on of his swords and drew the shape of a door on the wall. “I can sense a pathway behind this spot” he said to the group. “Really? What do you want us to do then?” Gozen asked puzzled. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m gonna smash it” Dauner said grinning. “Hold your horses. If there really is a door there, then someone must have put it there and we can’t just break in when this person might be at home” Shelly explained. “I suggest we use a more quite method of entering. Gozen, Can you silently melt the door Dauner drew out?”
  17. Fantastic Fuckery Afoot: So You Want to Be the God of War? [Location]Vast Gigante; Xaengri-la [Type] long term; action adventure; political intrigue; celestials and demons; ghosts and goblins; dark fantasy [combat] pve; scripted ”Heavy is the head that wears the crown? Then why not melt it down?” The scent of blood is in the air and it pleases him. The chaos of ensuing destruction, the fear of unknown calamity, the despair of souls being torn apart in vain...fuck, it makes him hard. The lesser spirits are in a frenzy of fear and in their madness tear themselves apart. He has not observed the entirety of the battle, but he watches as the few remaining demon warriors attempt to feast upon eachother, all of them striving for greater strength. In an atmosphere dense with the scent of putrid flesh and soiled bodies writhing in the a river of excrement, he lifts his nose heavenward and inhales deeply. It is a warm meal after a famine, it is the musky scent of sex that he can just barely taste on the tip of his tongue. Korbolo Dom happily inhabits a particular position amongst the denizens of the spirit realm, that of a First Hero. It is not so grand a title as it appears, at least not to his mind. It is a condescending way of saying ‘close but no cigar’. Something of a Demi-god, something of a ghost...this is the path he treads, the prison to which he is bound. Or so it once was. Soft lips part into a wicked grin. Something brews beyond the horizon, something *******, the current God of War, the Lord of Autumn, well knows. Korbolo Dom stands atop the lone spite of a ruined castle and reached down to adjust his sword belt. Eyes close and his crown lifts towards the heavens as he bathes in the ambience. Whilst ****** will seek to leverage the abundance of death in a vain attempt to retain his position, pragmatists such as Korbolo Dom will use this opportunity to upend the current deity’s position. Chaos is ever a king maker and Korbolo Dom is no longer content to stand anywhere but atop Autumn’s Battlements as its new lord. The Vaste Lord can feel the swelling energy as the lesser spirits beneath his feet cry out to be devoured. Saliva fills his mouth and escapes from the creases of his lips. Pale tresses shift as a rare breeze passes through. The final demon is left standing and in his triumph he will not know the danger that stalks him. Where once Korbolo Dom stood there is now a blank landscape and a crumbling spire. The demonic warrior turns his head to witness this sign of his ascension and feels only the pride of his accomplishment and the promise of good things to come. His existence is blinked out unceremoniously. He is dead before he can realize that he is not a predatory, but prey. Korbolo Dom clutches an oozing pulsating black valved heart between thumb and index finger, paying the pulp at his feet no further thought. He raises his prize, preparing to savor the fruits of the demons labor, when he gives pause. His head tilts and is now even with the plain of his shoulders. “You will reveal yourself, interloper.” It is not a question. A large figure steps out from behind a mound of bodies. He is a behemoth if a creature, standing over a head and a half taller than Korbolo Dom and twice as broad. The remnants of the fellow Vasto Lorde’s shattered bone mask cling to his face in a parody of tribal ornamentation. Korbolo Dom’s stern gaze turns into sneer of derision at the arrival of the other Hollow. “Urlung Puck...” Dom’s voice is both disgusted and amused at the other warriors arrival. “I’d thought you dead after that trouble with the Althane Warlord Prince. It seems your bootlicking cowardice has served you well.” Urlung Puck does not move, his barrel chest gives no inclination that he even draws breath. “Korbolo Dom,” he says with deference. “You are wise and cunning, First Hero. I am, however, tasked by the Lord of Autumn to bring him the prizes you lay claim to.” Korbolo Dom turns on his heel to address the larger figure. “If the Lord of Autumn wishes a prize, he should lay claim to it himself. Sending the whore who licks his arse, is far less impressive.” Korbolo’s voice is gnashing steel kneaded into stone. A mix of rage, shame and fear cross Urlung Puck’s broad flat features. Korbolo Dom’s harsh and angular visage sharpens with this grin. “You cannot challenge the Lord...,” The Vasto Lorde’s rumbling bass intones, but he grows silent at the sound of bone scraping bone. Korbolo Dom stares at Puck in impatience, a long bone claw extending from the fingertips of free hand’s index finger to tap at the bone plate covering Dom’s jaw. “That is exactly what I can do, Urlung Puck.” He moves slowly and each drawn out soft click of his finger against bone coincides with a step encroaching on Urlung Puck. “Do you think your Master will grant you the prize of First Hero, Urlong Puck?” The Hollow’s name is a slur spat from the First Hero’s lips. “As pathetic a reward as that is, Urlong Puck...” Korbolo Dom is within the larger Vasto Lorde’s reach, but the monolith is still. “It is not a boon given, like some whore’s trinket, Ur-long P-uck.” He comes to a halt beneath the shadow of Puck’s gargantuan form. His piercing accusatory eyes rip through the figure before him. Seized by fear, Urlung Puck’s power courses through him, his form shifts violently against the landscape in a display of light bending static energy to disguise the path of his retreat. Eyes wide and mouth agape, Urlong Puck peers down at Korbolo Dom’s arm buried deep into his chest. Dom’s grin of excitement fades to disgust. His other hand still dangles the demon’s heart from pristine fingertips and it is with a slow sensuality that he dangles the muscular organ over his own scowling face. Lips part and a long inhuman tongue slithers out and plucks the heart from his grasp. As he devours the heart, Korbolo Dom watches the light fade from Puck’s eyes. “True power,” the First Hero says, feeling the rush of demonic energy surge within “is taken.” The larger Vaste Lorde’s form fell prone as Korbolo Dom wrenched Puck’s heart free. Shaking ebon blood from his hand, Dom runs the appendage across his crown to slick his hair back. Walking over Puck’s body, Korbolo Dom strolls through the sea of corpses as he moves deeper into Vast Gigante. He’s playing a dangerous game declaring war on ******, but clean hands never settle in a throne for long and lessons written in blood are not soon forgotten.
  18. [Recap] In these past events, the Kingdom of Taurus and it's Ruler has seen much change. Seeking answers in regard to his origins and his fathers legacy, Proteus Rauz found himself exiled to the Celestial Realm---Where the Absolute Authority, confines and contains the remaining progenitors of his race. Time stood still there... he was subjected to their test, trials and tribulations and experimentation, meanwhile the kingdom and home he knew would be devoid of his presence for over 1,000 years. Proteus' liberation came at the expense of the captives lives. Destroying the last remnants of his bloodline, retaking prized possessions destined for his ownership and flinging himself back across the planes of existence and back home where he emerged anew. Proteus Rauz had emerged Anew. Changed. Different. Not only was he far older, hardened even, his powers had grown exponentially as did his control over them. His views and outlooks on his path and those of his people had also been altered. Having established a relationship with the powers that be in the lands of Alterion, Proteus, under his own power had moved the entirety of his kingdom from the Lands of Genesaris, to the Spirit Realm of Xaengri-La. Where he would be free from mortal observation. Where his prominence could have neither positive or negative effects on the lands surrounding his kingdom, so that no balances could be tipped or disturbed and that no other governing body could benefit nor suffer. However, even as he established his kingdom, and their outer realm territories, Proteus Rauz' ideals and goals have widened and expanded. He had become somewhat of a Nihilist, embracing what he had discovered what his original intent and reason for being was. TO BRING ABOUT DEATH AND DESTRUCTION, TO ALL. His re-emergence , and return to the throne under this new ideology has put many of his closest ally's and family at an unease, Even the Queen, Priscilla---His birth mother, and the one who worked the hardest to bury the secrets of Bulls origins and true nature, has found herself at her absolute wits end as to how to guide or manager her son, and after his re-emergence, far to under-powered to force anything upon him. So silently she has watched, ever so diligently as Proteus sets about procuring the knowledge needed to accomplish his goal. His one true ideal, his one true intention----TO BECOME DEATH ITSELF. [And now....] His throne room used to bathe light. Every square inch of it, illuminated from the free flowing light from yonder. That has drastically changed. Large metal shutters existed where windows once were. They kept this place devoid of light. It was insulated, sounds were equally scarce save for that of the constant HUM of raw unbridled power flowing through 4 massive umbilical cords that ran beneath the ground up behind his throne and into a custom fitment that affixed into hard points on his back. The ONLY light present within this rume was from the Rune Brands aglow along his body in a blood red hue. It was there that he sat. His body constantly absorbing and harmonizing the seemingly limitless ebb and flow of spatio-temporal-anima present in the limitless expanse of this spiritual realm. Disconnected from his people. Departed from a society that he helped to sculpt and once coveted, but nowadays, feared him as they never have before. The Council had long been killed and disbanded by his own hand save for one who squandered away still within the confines of their prison. In truth there was only one thing that could keep Proteus situated as he was now. He had no intent on moving, nor a desire to do so because simply put he was waiting on something. That something was coveted. Desired and favored above anything at this time and it was the only thing that eluded him these days. It was pure. It was valued by anything and everyone be they Man, King or God. There was nothing exempt from it's benefit and there in it lied no TRUE face value for it, but there was also no limit to what would be expended for it. Knowledge. Plain and simple. He needed the means and understanding as to how to go about achieving his goal---which for the most part was thought to be inconceivable and impossible, however, when the Absolute authority. The Omnipotent one. "The Creator" himself, assures you that such is NOT beyond the realm of a being such as himself----You take that notion for what it's worth. There was one individual who had such knowledge, or at least could point him in the direction. This being, is and always will be favored. His most beloved. One to whom he trusted the most. Covets the most. Priscilla...The Queen, and his mother. Despite who she was to him she has also coincidentally been the greatest source of obscurity and deception. The understanding of these facts and the dynamics of them all has left Proteus shifted in stance. Wavered, somewhat unsure. As a child he clung to her every word. She molded his beliefs, directed his ideals and aspirations, All for what?? To lie? To keep the truth away from him? For what purpose? Some selfish ideal of goal of her own? It was to much for him to understand. To much for him to process, and whenever his mother was around the King was nothing short of contrived. However....she held the keys, she knew the ways, and his current goals and aspirations although no favored by her, were goals she could help him achieve. So he sat....and waited. For her.. @Lacernella Rubra
  19. 7 September 1670AY Zephyr Archipelago-Val Libra Archipelago, Val Roux 10:00 A.M Lucinda stood there watching Esmil and Emilia practicing their sword fighting. Her honeyed hazel eyes going over each step the twins took, every technique, every move against the other. She knew that preparing for the capture of the elusive elf, Esben, wouldn't be easy at all. And they needed all the practice they could get. Ferghas had finally become knight commander of the Archipelago-Aries knights. A step up from his last position. He had worked tiredlessly to achieve this. Unfortunately for them, they had no idea that Ferghas Gilchrist, the man who once fought for justice--for the people, was twisted and a part of Morwen's influence. But he told no-one about that. Lucinda had noticed something off about Ferghas though she kept those suspicions to herself for now. "Something wrong Lucinda?" Ferghas asked as he caught those weird looks and glances from the elf. "Esmil and Emilia showing you up again bothering you? Or is it something more serious? You look concerned." "It's nothing." Lucinda replied as she shook her head. "Though, the twins are getting better at their techniques at least. So that's something. I do think you're running them a little more ragged these days. Care to tell me why Ferghas?" Ferghas said nothing as he shrugged. This made her suspicious even more. Why would he not answer her? It didn't make her feel any better as Esmil and Emilia came up to her, finished with their training. Tired and exhausted, they were proud of their productiveness.
  20. Peter

    Lyonesse

    Irryn arrived in Lyonesse through one of the gateways of the Tavern of Legend, as usual equiped with his dragon scale armour, wearing a backpack to which two tonfa blades were attached. He casually walked around the streets, moving his way through the crowd, occasionally even bumping into someone because he was distracted by looking at all the surrounding buildings. He didn't know what to expect from the island, but that's exactly why he was there. To explore.
  21. Nak’mbu. Valley of the lost. Oasis in the jungle. The location formerly known as: Biazo Swallowtail Geoball Stadium, sponsored by: Sanzang Electronics, home of the Twenty-Second Geoball Reigning Champions, the Biazo Batters. All of these descriptors not quite accurate, each not quite capturing the full extent to which history has left a mark upon the place now called Nak’mbu. Once the widest enclosed space imaginable, formerly torn asunder and exposed to the sun, now encroached upon by vine and undergrowth; concrete once white, formerly blasted black, now colored by damp and darkrot. Once, tens of thousands of cheering mouths. Formerly, the silence of none. Now? A village of some sixty inhabitants, but quiet, still so quiet. The hypothetical visitor finds Nak’mbu only with great difficulty, from the exterior hardly distinguished from the remainder of the jungle. From the east stands of the stadium it is impossible to sight any sign of residence; only on an approach from the north (for the south has long collapsed into a canyon pit) might the first signs of residence resolve to the eye. Leaf-thatched roofs emerge between the trees. Hard-fought clearings grow elephantine yams and cassava. The signs of fire percolate through the foliage. The footpath – note the singular – leads one house to another, all in a chain, for it is easier to tread old roads than to hack new ones from the earth. At the near end of the footpath is the beat-wood clinic of one Isabel Payne. At the far end past the last homes and up the stands is the announcers’ box of the stadium, now one of a handful of vantages from which one may see the sweeping canopy of the jungle and, on lonely nights, glimpse lights flickering from the tops of other towers scattered across the dead city. And one may dream of one day meeting one another across a green-vined eternity of distance. There are other points of note. In the middle of the old freeway to the North has erupted a grand old palm, entirely alone up to an altitude of a hundred feet, on the ground poisoning everything that grows within a hundred yards. Water collects in its roots’ asphalt eaves, attracting the local wildlife and the villagers alike. The animals and villagers do not yet realize it, but palm water is an exceptional abortive, which is why the waters are ever-clear and free of mosquitoes. If our hypothetical visitor should look west, they will see the heart of Bi’le’ah, an emerald glow like some radiant fallout from a weapon long ago. The glow ripples, on dark nights, upwards as a spear thrust from the heart of the world. To the south, a long gash exposes caves from which half-men and unnaturals look upwards, and into which the above-ground visitor may look down. The two worlds are exposed to one another but are not incident, not here, and not now. This hypothetical visitor remains entirely hypothetical. There are, after all, no roads leading into Nak’mbu. It is a lost place, entirely forgotten. Those who find it are just as like to have forgotten what they really came here for, no? Because when they arrive, they will find that they have found exactly that which they remember: Nothing at all.
  22. The citizens of Lunaris are piiiiised! Even though jungle pigs have invaded Taen a long time ago, the native carnivores have kept their numbers in check. Recently, their population exploded, and their war with the zkriz'ka population spilled over into Lunaris. Now, a crowd of citizens surround the City Hall, shouting at the government. "Those fucking pigs ravaged my pasture!" "They ate my whole garden!" "They killed my baby!" "We can't go outside safely!" Then one person starts a chant. "Pigs out now! Pigs out now! Pigs out now!" As chants normally do, this one also catches on with the surrounding people. "PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW!" It isn't long until the entire crowd is chanting "PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW! PIGS OUT NOW!" @danzilla3
  23. It was a brisk morning, the sun had just began to come up. Rays of sunlight were slowly peaking up from the horizon to bring life unto the city. There was a light gust that brought in a fairly cold wind, winter would be on it's way soon enough. Some flocks of birds could be seen already making their trip to warmer pastures. Few townsfolk were lining the streets, getting ready for a busy weekend. Just on the edge of town, a merchant vessel, loaded down with building supplies, was pulling into the stables. A large hairy ox was pulling the cart, all by its lonesome. At the reigns was a merchant, Lexicus Thoren to be precise, with his short blonde hair beginning to shine as the sun had struck him. It was the day of progress for him. Flyers had been distributed to the local recruiting hubs and job postings for an armed escort job with business opportunities from a start up company that supposedly was a big business. It was time to meet up with whomever was going to show for the position. Considering how the first job posting had started, there wasn't high hopes. It took some time to remove the harness and unhitch the large ox creature from it spot on the cart, grab a satchel of trade bars and a bag full of documents, pay for the spot in the stables, and pay a bit extra trade bars to add security to the cart's contents, not really that it was needed but it kept questions from arising. Lexicus, donning his regular light plate, was starting to shine some as the sun was reflecting off his armor. The walk to the recruiting site was not going to take too long but he wanted to make sure he beat the rush of folk flocking to the streets. That and being punctual was his preferred style. Lexicus had informed the recruiting hubs to direct anyone that was interested to a local tavern so that way the merchant could get to know the folk he would be working with more intimately and in an open and very informal setting. After all, Lexicus was looking for potential long term employees as well as bodyguards and mercs to work with. All anyone had to go on was his name and a brief description of what he looked like. After a good short 'hike' around the town, Lexicus had came to the tavern, had ordered a large table for business meeting, paid up for the inconvenience of having to set up such a table, and had paid for the tavern's time for hosting an event. It would be a little expense that would be paid back after he would finally get set up in his location for the site. For now, Lexicus ordered a light drink of non-alcoholic house special, in this case being a cold mug of some kind of pint, smooth enough, but not very strong in alcohol. It was close enough. The blonde haired merchant took the time to sit back, take a breather, and compose his sales pitch to anyone that was coming to the business opportunity. It was his hope that he'd get a few bites and could have enough people to not have to call in off world talent to get started. Though, he'd already called for a meeting with his other talents, just in case things went sideways at this meeting. It was still fairly early in the morning to really make a call. Lexicus put a lot of hope into this job, he was hoping it would pay off, for now he waited for anyone to answer the posting he set.
  24. Theme[spoiler]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lMbVzFtvM8[/spoiler]   Acreos had been traveling all night. He was exhausted. Fatigued. Famished. His black beard somehow felt like weight on his face, eyes stinging, body weak. He had lost his caravan to bandits. His men, his coin, his supplies—gone. Ashville, he hoped, would offer valuable enough restock to get back on track, but for now he was a merchant whose fortunes had become fines, and whose pockets of depth had become pockets of debt. He had put everything into that endeavor. Everything…   Well, at least tonight he could afford himself some slivers of solace, actually managing to find comfort in the drink and the food and the warmth of the inn he had decided would be his resting place for the night. The Traveler’s Tug was positioned about halfway in between Ashville and the Forgotten Wood, allowing a resting period for anyone traveling in either direction. Though enjoying a consistency of customer activity, the inn was no fancy establishment, preferring simpler architecture and basic layout; the 'everyman's inn'. Located where flat grassland began to take place toward Ashville, its outside color of a slightly dark yellow was selected to allow more obvious detection by persons farther away.   Acreos had chosen to sit in the middle of the inn's dining floor, enjoying the swarm of activity that elevated the atmosphere; an all too welcome change from the cold loneliness of an arduous voyage. To make things that much more quaint, alongside a roaring fire, the smell of stewed cabbage and salted meat and the aftertaste of average ale, the incoherent rampage of mixed conversations which ruled the ambiance was overthrown by the majesty of music.   Instruments took cue in their performance. Acreos felt himself smile, heart beating faster, at the sight of the beautiful woman who came to open her mouth and let escape an angelic voice if ever the man had heard one. Her singing was…intense. Taking a slow swig of his ale that suddenly tasted much better, he resided to sitting in comfort, imagining for himself a wife like the woman who had stolen his attention. 
  25. Nesy would be walking through the wilds of Fracture. He stepped on branches that cracked by his every step since they were on the ground. The sound of the forest engulfed him and it was peaceful; meaning it was quiet and there were no animals around. It may be because of Nesy's precense but maybe they're just more uncommon at his location. Nesy wore a black armor with a matching helmet along with a contraption which was an electromagnetic gun(Railgun) which was capable of firing projectiles at colossal speeds. Overhanging branches on top of the tall trees blocked most of the sun's rays from passing through. It was a dimm forest with many varriations of green plants and just as any other alien planet he had been in there was always something unique about them. How their composition was made up which made him very interested in what elements it could bear as it could prove to be useful in the future. He continued to venture through the strange forest. As any other life-planets he had been in, this planet proved to be one of his interesting findings. He thought about the extra-terrestrial war that went on the wilds of Terrenus or somewhere along that area. He had fought a terrorist apperently but he was mostly calm but very tired after his adventures with other people. He remembered the Preistress and Dauner who were his 2 new companions. Except, she probabaly got ate up by the dragon or kidnapped and Dauner went to chase after it to save her. These were some memories he had which made him smile. They were also funny but grusome as well, being almost destroyed by a dragon was a classic thing that happened to Nesy. Looks like Nesy had been here a lot of times. The thoughts spiraled in his head as he went through the woods of Fracture. His goal was to find more information about this particular planet, to boost his research in the process too. He had been to worse places like lava planets or even celestial bodies that were beyond the size of the largest star he had ever known in the multiverse. Technically, he has never landed on any of the stars because he would obviously be incinirated! The craziest place he had been in was presumingly planet: Aurora which had many aurora borialises scattered across the planet. That was sure a crazy memory. Ohh.. The memories were so satisfying. Nesy, a multiversal member of the Celvestian race. He came here to explore and adventure just like any other curious alien beings that step foot on this planet. Though, he's presumingly the first alien to come here unless if there were other aliens too because he does not know anything else that he was the only living Celvestian on this planet. What will happen now? What will he meet? It'll be the time to find out.
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