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  1. There's always a few places one can go to in order to relax and find some peace. One of those places happened to be Patia, a kingdom ruled by a devil, but they serve a damn good ale in the bars. Godric enjoyed it there, it was a nice place to lay low, to think on things in life, and to await his next assignment from his employers at Book Ends. Of course there was always plenty of things to get into when the drink wasn't enough to pass the time. “Deep breath.” He inhaled, crossbow aimed at the target a hundred yards away. Practice made perfect, and his accuracy was pretty damn close by his own opinion. His index finger curled around the trigger, squeezing it for just a moment, releasing the bolt, then watching it fly to the target. Plunk! Three inches off of dead center. Respectable, but not what he was hoping for. Resting the weapon onto his shoulder, he gingerly walked over to the straw target, removing the bolt and inspecting it for any damage. Damned things were expensive, so he was careful not to break them, especially on such a lack luster shot. Depositing the projectile into a quiver he kept at his right leg, Godric Uldwar began to walk back to his firing position in the shooting range. It was a cold, sunny day, so he dressed in a warm brown jacket with a dark blue scarf and tan pants capped off with strong leather boots. He was a strong man now, having proven himself as an adventurer, for retrieving books and stopping monsters when the mood struck. Though it had cost him plenty, he wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world, well, maybe for something, or someone, that is. “Deep breath, and we get the shot right this time.” He said with a smile, loading the bolt and taking aim. @LikelyMissFortune
  2. "A domain of evil it is. In you must go." "What's in there?" "Only what you take with you." ____ There is a place in the Black City where all are welcome, regardless of race or creed. Be you hero or villain, adventurer or pioneer, the great doors at the base of the Lore-Spire are never closed. You, young man, have traveled far to come to this place, and now that you are here, there is nothing to stop you. Have you come for council? Is it knowledge you seek? Stay awhile and listen, and the Lord of the Black City will share with you tales of yore, and dispense age-old wisdom to help guide you down your path. But you are young, and chances are you already know everything. Better yet, perhaps you have come seeking favor in this cold and dismal place. Stand before the Outsider and endure the weight of his scrutiny, and he may just see for himself the ember of potential you espy so proudly within. For a piece of your soul or a favor in the future, you may persuade the Outsider to impart more than wisdom, but action. A token of his esteem, an artifact of great power, or even an act of his own accord, speak to him of your desires, but be warned: ask yourself what you're willing to sacrifice for them. But you are young and powerful, and you need nothing from the Outsider. You, young man, may have come for something far more bold - you have come for the Outsider himself. The Lord of the Black City has no shortage of enemies, and they, like all, are just as welcome in his hall. Look around you, young man. There are no guards here to stop you, you have not been made to surrender your weapons or your gifts, and the walls do not sing with prophylactic measures against violence, esoteric or otherwise. You stand before a thing of grandiloquent power and prestige, and it knows nothing of fear or trepidation. Draw your weapon, show him the strength of your convictions, and know you will be interred beneath the marble you will make your final stand upon. Whatever your reasons for coming to this sacred hall, the Outsider has set aside time and attention for you. Welcome to the Black City, young man. Welcome to the Hall of the Devil-King.
  3. It had been a time - perhaps more than a year since the demoness had walked the roads of Terrenus. There was a certain scent here that was almost nostalgic from her time at Predator’s Keep – the time before she had been slain. While it was similar in aspects, the fragrance of the Black City was different in a number of ways. It reminded her of the devil she owed a favor to. There was something to be said of making deals with devils. Don’t. Unfortunately, the vixen had little choice in the matter. Red had made a call to arms, those closest to her summoned to bring the daiyokai back to life. The devil had assisted in her resurrection and so, here she was to pay back a life debt. Without a direct beacon to her destination, the Outsider himself, Akako crossed the veil with her retainer in tow within Patia near the Lore-Spire. There was a ripple of yoki, the kitsune’s celestial magic, and then the woman stepped from what looked like a ripple in the water. Many passersby stopped mid-step to watch the woman and her familiar walk through an invisible door. Another wave of Akako’s power then it was concealed, drawn into her being as to not alarm any unfamiliar with her kind. Long ebony locks lifted in a stray breeze that came in off the coast while Akako’s amber gaze narrowed on the Lore-Spire. At her side, the serpent – Aiyoku, walked in perfect tandem. Her normally long stride was shortened to remain a pace behind the elder demoness. Both women moved like a current in the water through the city, effortlessly graceful as most beings of their caliber were. The pair were similarly dressed in black leather pants, though Akako wore stilettoed boots where-as Aiyoku wore combat boots. The serpent was dressed warmly, an oversized red sweater that met her upper thighs. Meanwhile, Akako wore a white top that was cropped at her lower rib cage showing a hint of her midriff. She made a point to dress casually for this particular trip as she had no one in particular to impress. It wasn't a secret that Akako wasn't fond of Roen, however they managed to coexist peacefully. Red was likely the reason for that because Akako wasn't one to be around someone she particularly didn't like. Roen was fortunate, however, because Akako was very much distracted by someone that she loathed even more than him. Xartia. There was a moment during the trip that Akako had mused over asking Roen to assist in the retrieval of something that the Cambion had commandeered in some misplaced sense of heroism. The imbecile thought he was keeping her safe, but without her orb, Akako wasn't nearly as powerful as she should be. Though, that being the case, she was still dangerous. That much had been made clear during her stint with Arthur and Xartia at that godforsaken island that was overrun with the undead. Even so, Akako wanted what was hers, but making another deal wasn't something she was too keen on. The duo stepped into the spire and Akako took a breath, an inhale through her nose as she sifted through scents to find the one she was searching for. Aiyoku did similar, parting her lips and drawing in a breath, forked tongue tasting the air before they both moved forward. Aiyoku’s nearly blind eyes were useless in the darkened room and there wasn’t enough heat for her to make heads or tails of anything. Akako kept a few paces ahead, her body aglow with heat and power. She was the lighthouse that Aiyoku followed through the maze of the Lore-Spire. Brimstone, flint, leather, and musk was enough to direct Akako to where he was. The woman navigated winding passages with ease as if she had lived there for years. Aiyoku was close on her heels as they managed to find their way. Closing her eyes and slowing in her steps, Akako took another breath. Her head turned as she peered down a hall and finally turned on her heel. Click. Click. Click. He would hear her coming as she made her approach to his study. Akako's gait was distinct, her heel coming down with confidence, as her hips swayed. Aiyoku, kept her footfalls light, nearly silent in comparisons to Akako. The serpent knew that Akako did this to alert those of her presence when she didn't want to expand her yoki to make the announcement, otherwise Akako would normally move in stealth. In this instance, she was letting the Outsider know that he had company so he would pay rapt attention. The pair slowed and Akako stepped beyond the threshold into Roen's office, Aiyoku following, to confront the Devil that summoned her. @Roen
  4. Roen


    “There you are.” Raising a hand, the Outsider offered a finger up towards the vines. In reply, the O’o chirped shrilly at him. Ruffling its gold and black plumage, hopping to another part of the lattice, the bird shook itself out and turned its head, leveling the weight of a small, beady eye on its creator and the garden’s latest visitor. Roen frowned, and kept his peace while the O’o pick up its song again. He watched it flit from lattice to lattice, calling into the nameless night for the mate that would never came. As he watched the O’o, the Outsider reflected on its creation not for the first time. In the mein, the Outsider’s predilections for the esoteric did not center on the arts of destruction. In violence, he was above all else an intimate thing, with a preference for bladework or the use of his hands. In ability, or as some would colloquially refer to as magic, the Outsider was a conjuror; he was a shaper, a maker, and even a namer of things, all subtle and profound. To amaze and delight children with cantrips and hastily invoked toys to plying his craft to artificing dangerous and beautiful items for constituents and servants, he preferred to create, not destroy. From rings of promise to spires of lore, to marble fountains in gardens on islands of eternal summer, to jewels that thrummed and beat with heat, the Outsider crafted all, but the O’o was different. He had spun it out of gossamer black and heady thought, wove its being from the knowledge of its loss, and gave it a sympathetic link to the realm. However, the Outsider could not create life, for that was the purview of mortals and Gods. To bring the O’o into the world, there had to be sacrifice. He had to give it something more, something that was divine. He gave it a flicker of himself, a thimble; a drop of will, and though he was not divine, in him was the backhand of God, and that was enough. Roen followed the O’o as it flitted through the gardens, its song a thrill of counterpoint to the soft, subtle chirp of crickets all around. He followed until he realized he was being lead, and allowed himself to be drawn, guided. The Outsider had not come to admire his handiwork, or consider the implications of the gift he had given to Leoa. The bird was sadness and hope and loneliness and perseverance, and the Outsider was -- here, here because he had been called, because even a world away, his name had power to summon him. The O’o landed on a marble bench near the center fountain, and Roen was there beside it. By the light of the moon, he was dressed finely this evening. Hair long and loose, unbound by the ribbon that normally held back the tide, he adjusted his britches and took a knee beside the bench, and laid a bare, calloused palm across the surface, touching it with his labor-roughened fingertips. The O’o danced away though did not take flight, its song quiet, now. Tail flicking low, stemming out just beneath the cut of his patterned gray waistcoat, the devil’s appendage swayed with the quiet contemplation of a predator. He was unarmed tonight, as unarmed as he had been for many moons now. A swordless knight, a blade unreturned, the Outsider seemed much less of what he had always been, colorless without his long, outrageously colored coat, without Hræðilegr on his person, without companion or friend. He had the O’o, though. The O’o would suffice. Taking his hand away from the bench with a scratch of skin across stone, the Outsider turned and flicked his dark, angry-red eyes towards the ground, that self-same hand of his reaching, touching and feeling. The O’o returned to its mournful cries, and the Outsider knew. Keen as the beast he was, his olfactory senses registered what had been watered down with the vague attempt at being washed away, and he sighed, closing his eyes. Blood, a great deal of it, overly abundant with oxygen that hinted at an arterial wound. Breathing in, he smelled orange blossoms. His heart contracted with the swift ache of pain, and Roen sighed again, more forcibly now as if he were choked. Passing a hand across his face and through his hair, the Outsider laid himself down beside the spot and curled slightly, his palm sliding across the stones as if he could reach into the past. He would move soon, of course. Eventually, when the clench of melancholy around his heart wasn’t so strong, when fury dulled the ache and he was able to function; but not yet, no. He indulged in this, unable to do anything but, and as he lay there, he listened to the endling above singing, singing for the mate that was long, long gone.
  5. @Roen @Red the Ambivalent HAPPY NEW YEARS! ___________________________ Patia is a dark city. The narrow streets huddled together, the plain stone and timber buildings leaning on on each other for support. Outleaning upper storeys bowed to each other like tired old men, shutting out the light, but even in the closeness there was little relief from the winter cold. Winter had come early to the dark city of Patia, ushered in by blistering winds full of sleet and snow and bitter cold. Thick blankets of snow lay heavily across the roofs and street, the last of the day’s pedestrian traffic struggled through the muddy slush, slipping and sliding and cursing each other through numb lips. The cold wind cut through the thickest furs, the frostbite gnawed savagely at exposed flesh. Winter had come to Patia, and honed its cutting edge on the slow moving and infirm. It was late in the evening, the sun a bloody reminder of Patia’s warmer days on this starless night. The street lamps glowed bravely against the dark, islands of amber light in the endless gloom. Ruddy lanterns hung from horses and carriages, bobbing like live coals on the near night. And trudging through the cold and dark came Haesten and Isobel, friends and comrades and members of the feared Advocacy. Somewhere up ahead in the narrow streets in the narrow streets and alleyways of the Northside lay a dead man. It wasn't clear why he was dead. Apparently the investigating Constables were still trying to find some of the pieces. Murder was nothing new in the Northside. Every city has a dark and cruel side to its nature, and Patia was no different. Patia was a dark city, ever since Justice had cancerously inserted itself into the civilian life. It was the rotten apple that spoiled the rest of the city. Ever since murder openly flourished in the Northside. Fueled by supporters of the terrorist organization, their hate for those who support Patia's king and their bitter need to usurp the throne. People died there for reasons of passion, desperation, and business. Even so, this latest in line of bloody murders had shocked even the hardened Northsiders. So the King sent in Haesten and Isobel. There wasn't much that could shock them. Haesten is tall, dark, and no longer handsome. He wears a black silk patch over his right eye, and a series of old scars run down the right side of his face, showing pale against his tanned skin. Wearing a long furred jacket and trousers, and a heavy black cloak. He is lean and wiry rather than muscular, and he was beginning to build a stomach. He wore his long dark hair swept back from his forehead and tied with a silver clasp at the nape. He has only just turned thirty, but already there were streaks of grey in his hair. It would have been easy to dismiss Haesten as just another bravo, perhaps a little past his prime and going to seed, but there was something about Haesten; something hard and unyielding and almost sinister. People walked quietly around him, and careful to keeps their voices calm and reasonable. On his right hip Haesten carried a short handled axe instead of a sword. He was very good with an axe. He’d had lots if practice in his years as a member of the Advocacy. Isobel walked at Haesten’s side, echoing his pace with long companionship. She is tall, easily over six feet in height, lithely muscular, and her long blond hair fell to her waist in a single thick plait, weighted at the tip with a polished steel ball. She was in her mid- to late-twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful. There was a rawboned harshness to her face which contrasted strongly with her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. Somewhere in the past, something had scoured all the human weaknesses out of her, and it showed. Like Haesten, she wore the Advocacy’s standard uniform for winter, with a sword at her left hip. Her hand rested comfortably on the pommel. A thin mist hung about the street, though the King’s sorcerers had been trying to clear it for hours. The cold seeped relentlessly into Haesten's bones as he strode along, and he stamped his boots hard into the slush to try and keep some warmth in his feet. His hands were curled into fists inside his gloves, but it didn't seem to be helping much. Haesten hated the cold, hated the way it leached all the warmth and life out of him. And in particular, he hated being out in the cold and dark at such an ungodly hour of the evening. But the Advocacy paid the best, and he and Isobel needed the money, so… Haesten shrugged irritably, trying to get his cloak to fall more comfortably around him. He hated wearing a cloak; it always git in the way during fights. But braving the winter cold without a cloak was about as sensible as skinny-dipping in an alligator pool; you tend to lose important parts of your anatomy. So Haesten wore his cloak, and moaned about it a lot. He shrugged his shoulders again, and tugged surreptitiously at the cloaks hem. “Leave that cloak alone,” said Isobel, without looking at him. “It looks fine.” Haesten sniffed “It doesn't feel right. The days supposed to get warmer, anyway. If the mist clears up, I think I might drop this cloak off somewhere and pick it up at the end of this shift.” Isobel shifted her blue gaze to him. “You'll do no such thing. You know you get colds and flus easily, and I’m not nursing you through another one of those. A couple of degrees of fever and you think you’re dying.” Haesten stared straight ahead, pretending he hadn't heard that. “Where is this body we’re supposed to look at, anyway?” “Silver Street. Just down here, on the left. It sounded fairly gruesome. Do you suppose it’ll look like the others?” Haesten sighed. “I hope so,” he said. “I’d hate to think there is another one of those bastards running around on our patch.” Isobel nodded glumly. “I hate monsters. They don't play by the rules. Trying to figure out their motives is enough to drive you crazy.” Haesten smiled slightly, but the smile didn't last long. If The corpse was as bad as the others he’d seen, it wasn't going to be a pretty sight. A Guard Constable had found the first body down by the Devil’s Hook, drained of blood and hanging from a lamppost on a rope made from its own intestines. The second been found scattered the length of Bandit’s Alley. The killer had got inventive with the third victim, on the Lower Northside. Like the rest, it had been drained of blood. The hands had been nailed to a wall. The head was found floating in a water butt. There was no trace of the bodies genitals. Haesten and Isobel turned into Silver Street, and found a crowd already gathered despite the late hour. Nothing like a good murder to bring out a crowd. Haesten wondered briefly what the hell these people were doing out on the streets at such an unearthly hour, but he knew better than to ask. They’d only lie. The Northside never slept, There was someone ready to make a deal, and someone else ready to cheat him. Haesten and Isobel pushed their way through the crowd. Some of the sightseers reacted angrily at being jostled out of the way, but quickly fell silent as they saw the two. Haesten paused briefly at the thick like of blue chalk dusty the Guard Doctor had laid down to keep the crowd back, and then he took a deep breath and walked quickly over it. The Advocate’s torc at his wrist, his badge if office, protected him from the ward’s magic, but the blue line always made him nervous. He’d once made the mistake of crossing the line on the day he’d absent-mindedly left his torc st home, and the agonising muscle cramps had lasted the better part of an hour. Which was why the crowd had pushed right up to the edge the line but made no move to cross it. Thus ensuring the scene of the crime remained undisturbed and the Guard Doctor had room to work. A Guard Constable was standing by, at a respectful distance from the body. His dark red cloak and tunic looked almost garish against the white snow. He nodded affably to Haesten and Isobel. The Doctor was squatting in the bloodstained snow beside the body, but rose to his feet to nod briefly to the two Advocates. He was a short, delicate man with a pale face and eyes, with large clever hands. His official cloak was too large for him and looked like a hand-me-down, but he had the standard look of clam assurance that all doctors seem to be issued along with their diplomas. “I’m glad you’re here, I’m doctor Blackstone. I haven't much time with the body yet, but I can tell you this much: The killer didn't use a weapon. He used his bare hands.” Haesten looked at the body, and had to fight to keep his face impassive. The arms had been torn out of their sockets. The torso had been ripped open from throat to groin and the internal organs pulled out and strewn across the bloody snow. Some half eaten. The legs broken repeatedly. Jagged splinters of bone pierced the tattered skin. There was no sign of the head. “Hell’s teeth.” Haesten tried to imagine hiw much strength was needed to destroy a body so completely, and a disturbing thought came to him. “Doctor, is there any chance this could have been a nonhuman assailant? Werewolf, vampire, ghoul?” Blackstone nodded his head grimly. “There is evidence of blood drainage; you can see for yourself it wasn't too hungry. There is also some evidence of claw and teeth marks, but unlike the others its as though it wasn't interested in feeding, similar to the last body.” “Great,” said Isobel. “Just great. How long before the forensic sorcerer gets here?” Blackstone shrugged. “ Your guess is as good as mine. He hates to be dragged from his nice warm bed at this hour.” Shit. “All right,” said Haesten. “We can't wait; the trail will get cold. We’d better use your magic to get things started, Doctor how much can you do?”
  6. The Abbadon Triumvirate: Patian Hub - The Tempestuous Abyss Schematic Description Entombed beneath a high security warehouse on the outskirts of the Black City, darkness swells. As if alive, it ebbs and flows, sending its blasphemous paramours, glutted with the corpses of the unworthy and drunk on the blood of the innocent, to ravage the three continents and their faithful defenders. These fell champions, the bane of all that is good and holy, are the harbingers of a new age, a force impinging on all that is static to engender chaos and breed ambition in an eternal pursuit of true power. This is their fortress, an unpresuming structure that models the chaotic order and ordered chaos with which the organization is concerned. Encased in a 10-ft high brick wall topped with barbed wire and tiled with an obsidian façade, the warehouse lies. Aside from the three basic two-story guard towers that lie with it, a variety of adjoining gated security fences, a large security department, a surprisingly well-stocked company garage, a staggeringly secure vault, and a massive office in which the bosses of the warehouse are domiciled, this warehouse appears to be a fully functional storage facility like any other. With an onsite livery and a garage for local deliveries and pick-ups, programs and partnerships urging employees to live healthy, fulfilling lives and equipping them with the tools to do so, and bang-up insurance policies for clients and employees, the warehouse atop the Tempestuous Abyss, owned and operated by Anitant and Pavlovovich Warehousing, is widely regarded as a progressive company by its employees and clients. Anitant and Pavlovovich Warehousing employs a disproportionately large quantity of formerly disadvantaged Patians, priding itself on the substantial increase in the quality of life of its employees. The social environment of the warehouse is so enriching that the owners of the company, Ker Anitant and Ninel "Nines" Pavlovovich (who jointly acquired the then-dilapidated warehouse in 27 AO (under mysterious circumstances), miraculously rebuilt it in less than a month, and aggressively hired staff and bid for lucrative shipping contracts to fill the warehouse within that same month), are half-jokingly referred to as Big Sister Anitant and Little Sister Nines behind their backs. In fact, it is not uncommon for the "sisters," who, unbeknownst to the Patian public, live in the boss's office, to give and receive care packages to and from employees when said employees go on holiday. When Anitant and Pavlovovich Warehousing (APW) opened its doors to merchants early in 27 AO, the facility catered to merchants importing lavish textiles for Patia's growing middle and upper classes. From the start, the facility set itself apart from the crowd, offering to pick-up and deliver goods locally for a nominal fee. A flourishing market for luxury goods led to expansions to the facility and the addition of a magitech-enhanced pallet racking system in late 27 AO. In early 28 AO, the warehouse's administrative facilities were moved to the new second floor of the building to free up room for additional acquisitions and a vault was installed to accommodate shipments of exotic materials to and from the warehouse's Patian clientele. In late 28 AO, APW announced that it planned to offer customers guides and security teams "to the ends of the mountain range and back if not further" as "a boon to our clients" and "in support of the courageous men and women who have vowed to keep those routes safe" as early as 29 AO. The warehouse itself buzzes with activity 24/7. As a reputable, efficient distribution center for both large and small businesses, items are handled and change hands as stipulated in signed contract documents. Cargo is shipped and received at all hours of the day. When space isn't at a premium, APW even serves individuals moving house. APW's valued staff members are always busy tending to this and that - they earn a honest pay for honest work. Of the guard towers, there is little to say. Each is a post from which security team members monitor the warehouse grounds. The guard towers comfortably shelter security team members from inhospitable weather conditions and provide them with the materials they need to fill out reports on suspicious activities and alert other guard towers, the security office, and Patian law enforcement to security breaches by means of magically linked beacons (lighting one beacon lights all of the beacons with color-coded flames identifying the security checkpoint that broadcasted the alert) that are shielded from the elements and sirens. Guards in these towers are charged with controlling the sliding steel gates that admit vehicles and personnel to the grounds. Six ordinary guards (stationed in the guard towers (two each)) and four elite guards (stationed in the security office and manning the defense grid (two each)) are active for the duration of a shift. Some (but not all) of the ordinary guards may be called away to provide security for local pick-ups and deliveries. Before each shift, employees are required to perform directed calisthenics to improve group cohesion and fitness levels. When appropriate, these exercises occur on the landscaped strip of grass to the left of the building as shown in the schematic. The security team routinely makes use of this strip of land for combat training exercises. The strip of land to the right of the building as shown in the schematic is a designated pasture for the horses the company maintains. These horses reside in the barn-like company garage with a couple of freight wagons. The staff parking lot is designed to harbor mechanical and organic transportation for the duration of employees' 8-hour shifts, but these vehicles and animals are segregated from company property. Not far from the staff "parking lot" is a clearly delineated smoking area which is the one and only official smoking area on the premises. Beyond the magitech vault, the humongous security office, and the boss's office, the remainder of the warehouse is more or less what one would expect of a warehouse. Pallets on racks anchored to the floor (sorted by magitech forklift-esque instruments) form neat columns on the ground floor of the warehouse. Vehicles park in the loading and unloading bays, their cargo is inspected by armed quality control agents, forms are signed in triplicate, etcetera. The break room is cozier than most, the lockers and restrooms are invariably spick-and-span, the administrative offices are actually a blend of offices and cubicles, the maintenance chambers are stocked with concentrated industrial cleaners, and the cafeteria is more of an unstaffed kitchen than a cafeteria, but none of that is really worth writing home about. Likewise, the magitech vault opens only for Ker and Nines, the security officers are "loaded for bear" (by the touchstone of warehouse security, that is - most of the guards are armed with a steel side-sword and a yew crossbow but wear a crimson doublet, breeches, polished black boots, a waterproof black tricorne, and, in bad weather, a waterproof white cloak), and Ker's flat and Ninel's flat are located behind locked, wooden doors in the boss's office. The very existence of the "Fallout Shelter," on the other hand, is a secret to everybody. Hidden passages in the boss's office, the vault, the garage, and the basement of a rundown pub in the neighborhood lead to the manned and trapped defensive grid in front of the reinforced cement base. Construction of the Tempestuous Abyss was completed a week or so ago, and nonessential objects are still being moved into the base. The mahogany-floored training room is furnished with custom wall-sized mirrors, thick mats, weights, weight training benches, training (blunted) weaponry, a sparring ring, a fenced range, and a sandy pit for killing beasts (caged in the detention center until they are needed) and other live opponents. Each member's quarters are furnished with four-poster beds, dressers, desks, bookshelves, bathrooms, and compact laundry facilities (though not all of these rooms are identical). The meeting room (which appears to contain the magitech HVAC system) and the game room are largely unfurnished at the moment, but the kitchen, with its burgundy-colored tile floor, mahogany cabinetry, and mock obsidian counter tops, is well-appointed (featuring silverware, a wine rack, a titanic refrigerator and freezer, magitech appliances, fresh produce, and the like) as is the unornamented storage room (for non-perishables that are not legitimate weapons). The polished metal armory is neither unfurnished nor well-appointed, holding a handful of mundane bows, swords, halberds, and hammers but little else.
  7. The missive distributed had catalyzed a portent that, while seemingly no different than several in Terrenus’ past, had come at a moment tailored to the fancies and deep needs of those that sought a foundation worthy enough to support them. Boldly distributed to the masses, this lack of discrimination provided the perfect veil to cover the meeting that would be held within the embrace of the Patian industrial sector on this day. Whoever managed to decipher the location of this meeting was worthy of attention, though this attention could easily become warped and unforgiving. The burgeoning arm of industry that the Outsider had managed to conjure provided ripe opportunity for advancement but an even greater opportunity for those who preyed on the greed that it freely coaxed. Such greed was enough to convince one of the entrepreneurs to host an ‘advancement meeting’ supported by the promise of ephemeral exclusivity for the span of two weeks from a branch of their choice. So this is where the three pronged weapon given the symbolic name of ‘The Abaddon Triumvirate’ decided to conduct this meeting for the time being. The promise of the attendance of at least one of the triumvirs should have been enough to establish the importance of this gathering. Would it be the charismatic black knight or the artistic sculptor that would make themselves visible immediately? Nay. The third appendage of this triumvirate would be the first to grace the attendees with its presence. The current manager of this meeting oozed into the limelight, an almost gelatinous black liquid slowly coalescing at the head of a long table. The liquid pooled for a few seconds on the floor before elevating itself to a level that was several feet high. The room was simplistic in nature and nothing like the haven that Ker had established for them. Some of the attendees were likely to be fledglings within this organization so they would need to earn the honor of entering into their home which would only be bestowed should they prove how much commitment they had to the ideals of this organization. The conference room that would host this meeting, while significantly large with a seating area and bar, was mundane enough to avoid tickling those who would simply wish to leech off of the ideals and efforts of others here. Those who were here needed to be fully committed or at least willing to execute fruitful actions that would edify and bring them closer to their goal. Crimson spheres slowly emerged from the mass of liquid to observe whoever was already present within the room. Time would be given for annoying pleasantries and fellowship as the meeting would not commence for another hour. Though this marketing campaign that Ker had orchestrated should attract potential members with enough intelligence to decipher the location of this meeting, Agony was far more concerned with making sure the ones who would operate under his leadership were worth his time. The rigor of what they had to accomplish to even be present in this meeting would be sufficient to weed out the worthless and those of ill intent. The others who had already established themselves within the group would be presented with an opportunity to finally meet other members of this budding organization. The days of sparse operations and communication have been discontinued. It was a bittersweet development in the eyes of Agony who abhorred communicating with most but was now realigned into a role that would inevitably mean more social interaction and much more complexity. Even worse now was the temporary absence of Ker and Rodan, leaving him the ‘honor’ of the open address. Undulating black would remain immobile at the head of the table with the occasional shift of those crimson orbs. Each individual orb would move of its own accord, sliding across the black liquid-like mass that did not decide to take any form whatsoever just yet. The amorphous triumvir was infamous for behaving outside of what some would consider the norm. The few that have managed to survive encounters with him were still deprived of the stability that came with having a face to associate with the name. With his left eye focusing on the door behind him and his right eye staring across the long table of this meeting area, he would wait for everyone to establish their position before having to endure what would come next.
  8. @Stumbler Beyond the haze of the new dawn's fog, the bright yellow sun began its climb from its resting place below the horizon, bound to make its daily trek across the sky. A lone man strolled along the quiet mountain path, occasionally stopping to admire a plant or tree which had once been an unfortunate passerby he'd encountered during his periodic trips down this trail. Known as the "Mad Mutater" by the few who actually knew enough of him to be able to grant him a nickname, this strange man was also known by his proper name, Rodan Allagi. Though in appearance he was a relatively normal-looking fellow, with slightly darker features and black, greasy hair, the man possessed the rare and terrifying gift to be able to manipulate organic matter in near-limitless ways. For years since being driven from his home, he had wondered the roads and highways of Terrenus, often experimenting with his abilities upon his fellow travelers when no witnesses existed to warn the authorities of his acts. By the time he had arrived in Patia, he had become proficient enough to be able to mold the characteristics of plant, animal and fungi together seamlessly, allowing easy fabrication of fully sentient flora from his victims without the need of easily reversible spells. He at last came to a stop in a small clearing, where a tree that bore the shape of a woman had been residing for several weeks. Rodan looked up at the two somewhat fleshy-looking eyes peaking-out from the semblance of a face that was formed from the bark. These slowly moved to glare at him, though little emotion could be ascertained from them thanks to the tree's inability to move anything besides the eyeballs themselves. "Good morning, Kaley." Rodan greeted the tree in a tone of arrogant mockery, "I hope you don't mind, but I have a meeting that must be held here in your little patch of forest. I'm certain you will not mind." He then turned his back and leaned against the tree, so that he could face the road from where he anticipated his contact to appear from. This meeting, unlike the many chance encounters that rarely turned out well for the soul not named Rodan Allagi, was strictly business in nature. Some time after arriving in Patia, Rodan had come into the company of two other powerful beings, who he deemed to be worthy peers. The three soon formed a new organization, known now to the local public as The Abaddon Triumvirate; an organization which was currently in the process of aggressive expansion. One of the three leaders, a fearsome shape-shifting mutant known as Agony, was to hold an open event back in the city itself on this very day, though Rodan's own appointment prevented him from attending. Instead, his mission was to meet, on a far more personal basis, with a single intriguing individual and recruit him into the ranks. To do this so far from the safety of the Triumvirate headquarters might seem a foolish move to some, but in truth he would likely have been alone even if the meeting was arranged within the city. The organization had not yet recruited a substantial army of minions to call upon, nor were Agony or the third leader of the organization, a centaur named Ker Anitant, available to provide backup at the moment. For Rodan, this meant such a meeting would be best done in a place where he held the advantage. Such a place would not be within the city and its unnatural structures of steel, stone and brick, which so defiantly rejected Rodan's touch, but would rather be out in the mountain woodlands where organic matter existed in plenty. And so here he was, miles from the civilization that sat near the summit of the great mount range, awaiting the arrival of his appointment with anticipation. The cool winds tugged upon the Mutater's cowl and cloak as he remained propped against the poor jogger who had been made into a permanent resident of this remote clearing. The sun soon began to banish the fog into oblivion, as Rodan idly toyed with the organic pieces of jewelry that adorned his person while awaiting the arrival of the one he was fated to meet...
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