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    1. Eschatologist 9 yrs ago

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Overture

Claes sat in her command tent alone and miserable. The tent itself was pleasant enough, larger than three regular tents pushed together and graced with its own small fire, over which a pot of tea sat. She wasn't ill, she wasn't tired, she wasn't uncomfortable with her armor removed and replaced with more manageable trousers and a light, clean shirt. She was miserable the same way she always was before action, as little as she liked to admit it. In her mind, the imaginary vistas of victory and adoring crowds inevitably changed to endlessly repeating visions of disaster and failure. She had wondered if other commanders thought the same way, and she knew they did. Oromis was another story, one she would have to investigate for the sake of her sanity: if a man who declares himself a deity fidgets with anxiety then the shame that burns within her is unwarranted.

The anxiety was neither helpful nor appropriate: her plans had been set, they had been edited and approved by subcommanders, and were as she sat being dispatched to an army that had won her dozens of battles. She couldn't help it, though: her mind, with all the matters fixed and ready her mind, spurred by the natural fear and anticipation, raced along pathways of self-punishment. She glanced over to her wargear, piled neatly on the far side of the burning embers. An average-sized bow, rich dark wood inlaid with ornaments and decals, hung above a sturdy chain hauberk and a gleaming steel chestplate. The assembled protection made her look strange surrounded by the grey and brown of her soldier's lammellar, but a commander was expected to be richly dressed and easily identifiable, even if it meant wasting money on armor that would almost certainly never stop a blow. Looking at the armor only caused a fresh wash of foul visions, featuring blades or arrows slicing through the steel like butter and ending her once and for all, visions she beat down with sheer force of will as she removed the tea from the fire and drank deeply.

She wished Laurence was here. Or Gordon. But they'd been sent away to perform more important tasks than attend to her girlish worry. She would take Feena, or Cole, or Jessope, or Kilburn, or even Modeg, but they were dead. Volin was in prison, Scart was likely still in Tolosi service, Phisser and Lein were on the other side of the world, and Goth'Tal was on the moons for all she knew. She wondered what they would say, if she could confide in them, would they mock her? Help her, tell her everything would be fine, lash her to anger?

'No!'

Claes stood, throwing the half-full mug at the cloth tent floor. She would not be ruled by her emotions, she would not succumb to self-doubt or fear. She would stride like a lion and earn victory for herself. She strode out of the tent, her footfalls hard and rapid. She could feel her heart pounding, her breath speeding up. She exited the tent, and as she was battered by the sudden, frigid wind, she looked to the horizon. She couldn't see Tolos, their position was a handful of minutes ride to the field surrounding the town, but she knew it was there. Her doubts fell away, her visions of shame and defeat burning up in the searing orange flames of determination. She pictured the city walls littered with enemy dead. She envisioned the Royal Quarter billowing smoke. She could see in her mind the flapping grey flag with its bright white stars above the gatehouse, and she smiled for the first time in days.

She turned her eyes to the shining moon, and heard familiar footsteps approach her just as she was chastising herself for melodrama. Sim spoke, his voice clear in the quiet night.

"Come to get some air, General? I have too; even after all this time I still shit myself the night before. I'll be right as rain tomorrow, don't worry."

Claes' smile grew my a fraction. "I don't, Major."

"You're tougher than I am, then. I'll be on my way, General. Sleep well".

She listened to him go, and once his steps faded into the soft hum of the camp she re-entered the warm enclave. She slid into her bed, and she knew her fears did not matter. Her appearance did not matter, what Sim or anyone else though of her did not matter. What mattered was victory, and unlike the dozens of people that had been lost in the flow of time, it would never leave her.
So the attack will commence at first light on the 12th of April. Sounds good to me.

Also Lex pls: we already have one shared name from the First Law, Captain Longfoot is going to have to die, if only for my sanity.

I am not sure if I should make a post in which Claes interrogates Aksel. I want to get the show on the road, so I think I will just have him be handed to the interrogation team for holding during the battle, and Ryan can do what he wants from there, within reason. I expect tearful confessions, empassioned rages and some kooky shit.
@Ashifili

That does raise the question, is there an equivalent to the Manton Effect in this game?
I've got classes for most of the day, and I didn't get much work done last night on the post, so I'll get started after Lex posts, and get the show on the road. Sorry for the delay, things should be smooth from now on.
The Widow's Tea Parlor, perched on the waterside of Spite, is clearly not what it is advertised as. At its door a handful of dazed-looking individuals milled about, milling like houseflies and only making the one sober man look all the more dangerous, his hard gaze and straight, fierce posture contrasting likely intentionally with the gaggle of wastrels. He looks at you and nods if you enter, clearly not placed to check identity but to prevent trouble from finding its way into the shoreside house.

The exterior of the house is all black wood and glazed windows, a nicer establishment than most in Spite, but still several tiers below anything to be found in Veilgarden. It abutted the sharp shingle beach, colored black and grey with notes of the confusing Pelegin zee, on which boats landed and set off surreptitiously. What causes the waves and tides underground is likely a mystery to even the most educated minds. Within the establishment is a completely different matter. While the outside is quiet, subtle and vast, the interior is loud, garish and what could be graciously called 'cozy', but would more accurately be called 'horribly cramped'. There are dozens of comfortable chairs, things of all shapes and sizes. A man sits behind a bar but there is no alcohol to be seen. The only bottles to be seen are produced to service customers in exceedingly small quantities, the same substance those card-playing suckers had been sampling, though of occasionally varying colors. One tablespoon given was red, one was blue, one was even a strange shade of Almost-Purple that you had a very hard time remembering afterwards. Irrigo, the color of Forgetfulness. The occupants are clearly delineated: the ones who are sampling the product, sprawled or lolling on seats or just planted on the floor, some chatting to others and most speaking into the thin air, and the employees, Dangerous looking men [and women] clearly on the lookout for either constables or troublesome customers. The outstanding occupant is a richly-dressed man with stubby horns and burning red eyes, his rather attractive face bearing a countenance of amusement and mocking disgust as he watched the inebriates.

The walk to the basement becomes much more serene as the rambling customers fade into the background, and the door is obvious in its elegance and bright emanating light. If you knock five times in quick succession, the door seemly opens by itself, and the room presents itself, bright, stark grey and empty except for two comfortable sofa-chairs either side of a deep mahogany coffee table.
Sorry about the delay, I had to move to college. I'll get a post up either tonight or tomorrow, I'm just now getting settled in my dorm.
Shut up, you're not my REAL DAD!

Also, post will be started today, likely finished tomorrow. Gotta get Claes all ready to fuck bitches and get money win a battle fair and square.
I'm sorry to say with college I need to downsize how many RPs I'm in, and I'm afraid this is one I'm going to have to quit. It's been a laugh, good luck in future.
I mean, at this point, I'm just assuming that this RP wouldn't actually be centered around combat, because there's a lot of people who sound/look like top-tier Chasers/Youkai.

So don't worry about it, and let's just fuck~


New title for the game

Dr.Chasers or: How I Learned to Stop Fighting and Love the D
Got my CS up. Master Asia/Kirei Kotomine is go.


>the east is burning red intensifies
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