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7 yrs ago
Current You did good, McGregor. Made us proud.
4 likes
7 yrs ago
No offense intended. But there's a sweet spot on the sliding scale of realism, and most of the interest checks I usually see skew too far to the realism end for me.
2 likes
7 yrs ago
Can't describe how quickly I go from excited to sad when a mecha premise turns out to be realism wankery.

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"Maybe not required," The knight said smoothly, watching the unholy creature begin to burn and dwindle. "But perhaps you might have handled this a little more cleanly."

With the danger's passing something of Nicomede's ease went with it. Familiarity was a blade with two edges. He knew this setting and its rules, and that knowledge came with awareness that his place in it was changed. Uncertain. He knew the rules, how the game was played, but not from this angle. Covering for it wasn't difficult. He'd had years to practice. The same cuffs he rolled up to work came back down with a few quick motions, buttoned properly around his wrists and the wrinkles twitched smooth.

"A broom, si?" Nico motioned to the burning creature, and the mess their impromptu exorcism had left behind. The quiet question was addressed to the Crown Knights, or perhaps to the court mage, but it seemed open-ended anyway. "I think the scene is distressing enough without leaving the ash to settle where the princesses can see it."

@VitaVitaAR @Raineh Daze @Psyker Landshark @The Otter




For so valuable a commodity time's purchase could be so variable. Priceless minutes to save Tili's life cost only water and energy, a bargain by any measure. Then the moment shifted, a flare of violet flame the only symptom of the changing fortune, and minutes couldn't have been gained by love or money. Only seconds, infinitely fleeting and just as vital. The confrontation shifted from the arcane to the physical quicker than blinking and Nicomede, his hands empty for the ritual, had neither blade nor armor at the ready. His fellows were better prepared in that respect, poised to pierce its unholy— and now corporeal— being.

However poor the odds looked on paper Nicomede would have comfortably taken them any time. He was no paladin, no cleric, no clergyman, but Dame Tyaethe was close enough. Spread before him was a wealth of blessed water. His empty right hand, palm up and fingers curled complacently, swirled gently at the wrist as though inspecting a wine's color. The water before him, still glowing softly with the energy infused, spiraled into the air in time with each swift rotation.

"Laccio," The knight hissed, flicking his wrist. Holy water shot forward with the motion, aimed to splash across the lunging beast. "Contrarsi!"

Wherever it had landed the water froze inwards, sending needle sharp spines of frigid holy ice into exposed and afflicted muscle.

@VitaVitaAR @The Otter @Raineh Daze @Psyker Landshark
Fionn MacKerracher


@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@VitaVitaAR



After a quick glance through the crack he'd opened at the choking Nem, Fionn drew back from the door, turning towards the bed.

"This is one for you, ma'am," he said quickly to Tyaethe. "Someone's magically choking our Nem. If you can break it, I've got the door for you."






"I think I can help."

The blonde man slipped past Fionn with the lone, quiet sentence. He moved quickly, but not hurriedly; hurrying made for mistakes, mistakes that could be afforded least when time was short. He rolled up the sleeves of his formal attire in quick, efficient movements and surveyed the scene. The problem was obvious, the source unseen and untouchable. No physical force to oppose, and thus no physical remedy to be found. A human could survive without air for a couple of minutes. A Nem wouldn't last as long, not with their smaller size. An attack by arcane means required a defense in kind.

"Accerchiare d'acqua."

A small canteen from his pocket, upended on the ground,, did not fall in the random grasp of gravity; it arched, wrapping a perfect circle of water on the ground around the Nem with an unbroken sheen of surface tension. Purely holistic magic had never been his strongest suit. But in this moment Nicomede was the one at hand, the one with a chance to square himself against the malignant force that sought to end the same life it had sought to ruin. He would not allow that to happen. However strange this place had felt, however much thought it took to try and reconcile the people he had been in this place of nobility, this was crystal clear. He would not permit this.

Magic obeyed rules, and if you understood them you could understand the nature of a work. Within versus without, like behaved as like, and so on. With this circle, with his will, he created adversity; he set himself against the work by cutting it off from its target. A threshold, a barrier, that malevolence would have to project its will across. If it would not stop it would slow. He would force the evil to force its way past his will, and in so doing he would force it to reveal itself.

"Protection of Moon, protection by water. Protection of innocence that will not falter." The circle began to glow, softly, as if infused with moonlight. "Within thy demesne evil holds no sway. So as I plead, as I pray. Guardia lunare."

His eyes pierced the space before him, a second flask of water clasped in his hand. If the source was revealed he would strike, and strike without hesitation. Until that moment, until the crisis passed, he would set his will against evil.

@VitaVitaAR
Tweaked and ready for review!

@Krayzikk: We're definitely still accepting! We'd be happy to have you.


Excited to hear it! I'll dig up my old CS and read some more, see what tweaking I need to do for this go around. Glad to (soon) be aboard.
Was talking with @HereComesTheSnow recently and he mentioned he'd been playing in this relaunch. I really enjoyed the character concept I had going on the last time around before depression hit hard and killed my posting vibe.

Is there a chance you might be accepting CS applications? Or, failing that, if I could get my name jotted down for the next time you are?






owwwww.

Catching Crystal, in the end, was the last thing Rivka needed to concern herself with. Which in her opinion was fortunate; Crystal was safe, and so was Rivka. That didn't mean she was comfortable. Landing, while carrying a second person, was so far from an exact science that she couldn't even glimpse the far side of that gulf. Fortunately it took no amount of brainpower— and more than a little talent— to simply generate a force in the opposite direction. Even so landing on rubble, with Crystal landing on her, wasn't exactly a feather bed.

And the weather still sucked.

Their success was too potent for her to stay grumpy for very long, however, especially once she was in out of the rain. A hot shower and pajamas furthered the improvement, but time didn't help with her back. Actually she felt worse as the adrenaline faded and her body had time to register the impacts she had so rudely imposed upon it. But did her nervous system meet halfway her attempts to make it feel better? Noooooo. And aspirin was proving frustratingly elusive. It probably wouldn't help, anyway. The lilac-haired girl was sprawled on her bed, eyes half closed, and trying to negotiate with her aches and pains. Maybe, if she asked very nicely, she could get a massage from the tsa—

dah dah dah dah dum

Her phone vibrated with the five beat sequence of a fondly remembered movie. It wasn't quite fair to call the answering noise Rivka made a grumble, but only just shy.

dah dah dah dah dum

The second time she did grumble, stretching her arm out to grab the offending device and check her messages.

>no rumors here. only painkiller deprivation.
>i should have tried to send a missile back.






"RIVKA, I CAN'T CATCH HER IN TIME!"

Shielded from the glare by her opalescent lenses Rivka's eyes snapped up and immediately narrowed. Crystal had begun to fall. Selma spotted her, processed, yelled, and Rivka herself heard, processed, and spotted her in turn. Mere moments, barest instants, but in this case those were crucial fractions of the time needed. She was the last person who should handle this. Gravity, earth, ice, and water were all better choices to save her than fire. That didn't matter. If the devushka said she couldn't save her she couldn't save her. Chie and Aoife were occupied, and that left her.

The word 'impossible' never entered her mind. The Ars Magi jammed her rifle through a sling on her Parma immediately, planted her feet, and cast the incoming drones out of her mind. Though live-fire this was still an exercise; medical staff were nearby, she was garbed in her Parma, and she was resistant to the heat the missiles would generate. Coupled with her supernatural might she would survive— if painfully— anything that came her way. But neither gravity or chance played any favorites, and impacting uneven terrain at terminal velocity was dangerous, even for an Ars Magi. Maybe even lethal. A member of her team was in danger. Her roommate, her friend, was in danger.

Letting her down wasn't an option.

The lilac-hued girl pushed off from the ground as hard as she could. The water below her feet evaporated, the concrete dried, scorched, and cracked near to shattering in the span of a few seconds of blistering heat. To thermal imaging she looked like a brand new sun, the glare of her fire as bright as before but sustained. Contained, sustained explosive force launcher her into an intercept course like a blazing comet shaded in orange and gold upon every opalescent accent. Practice, practice, practice had been the name of the game since the first time she tried this stunt; the ache in her ankles had demanded it. She could generate the lift, slow her descent, but control was proving elusive; fire was fickle, it performed as it was bid and no more. Without any sort of fine vectoring proper flight was beyond her. For now. But fire would obey, it would do exactly what she damn well needed it to do. It didn't have to be graceful. It just had to be enough.

The two Ars Magi collided, and collided hard, but Rivka wrapped one arm tightly around her roommate to keep her from slipping away. That, admittedly, was as far as her plan had gone. Their momentum, the opposite of each other, canceled each other out— nearly. Rivka had ascended a decent bit faster than gravity had accelerated Crystal. That was the science. The reality was simpler. They both slowed, and jointly reached the apex of Rivka's new trajectory before they again began to fall.

She felt rather lightheaded, actually. Dizzy. Channeling so much fire so fast, perhaps, but there wasn't any room for that. There wasn't any room for weakness. Seconds of respite, and she needed every one to muster her focus again to visualize the fire needed to slow their descent. All she had to do was slow them down.

Rivka never said a word.






In her youth a wooden practice sword, unfortunately precise in its approach, fractured the Marchesa's forearm. Arabella didn't much remember precisely which bone, or how it had felt to have it set; general anesthetic ensured the memory never lodged in her mind, if she had really noticed the sensation at all. But she did remember how the splint had felt. The way it had restricted the movement of her arm, the consistent pressure it had applied. It was a lot like how the braces her gunner clasped about her person felt. The series on her left arm were secured last, and she pushed gently against them; only until she felt resistance. She didn't push past it. That would have made the machine around her move, and inside Thunderchild's belly that would be... An issue. But the resistance proved that the intricate series of buckles and loops about her person were doing their job. A strap about her middle secured her in place and provided her anchor; down both legs and her left arm were a series of braces that locked her limbs into position relative to the cords and anchors attached near each of her major joints. Not very comfortable, and even on standby inside the hangar her enclosure was steadily getting hotter. A thick layer of ballistic glass gave her a view into the hangar beyond, the other machines being prepared, and she wondered if they were feeling the same things.

Maybe not to the same extent. While the machines were all unique, all arguably prototypes, she had questions about the very interface she controlled. Arabella had championed it herself. She believed it was perfect for her Damocles, and she knew she could control it. The trouble, and why she knew her Kingdom was planning to do away with it in future colossi, was how much work it was. Simply operating it was taxing, let alone the weeks of practice to learn to control it as fluidly as it was capable of. And she had never actually performed the drop they were about to undertake. The concept worked, of course, but that little niggling doubt remained. It was all technology that was so new. Had it all been tested properly? Would it work properly for her unique colossi, every one of them must wonder? So on, and so on, and so on.

"Tutto pronto, Marchesa?"

"Si," The Marchesa answered simply, forcing confidence into the simple answer. It would work or it wouldn't. If it got her to the ground successfully she would handle the rest. "Al tuo post ora."

Her gunner nodded and gave the modified version of the bow she was due. To require such formalities all the time was impractical, to say the least of its ridiculousness. So the compromise had been struck to allow them their formality without interfering with their duties. The young man hurried to one of the two hatches behind her and she heard the door slam and ratchet shut. Whatever problems she might face, she knew, were mild compared to theirs. The descent for them would be fairly cold. And those reinforced doors were meant for her safety, not theirs. A risk, and all too likely sacrifice, that they accepted without reservation. She trusted them to do their jobs, and they her to be worthy of their efforts. Trust that had taken time and training to build.

And now it was time to put it to work.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, herself following the last few checks that she needed to perform. Her right arm was relatively unencumbered to enable her to access the emergency release she now felt for before returning her hand to hilt-shaped grip that served in place of a right wrist brace. At the one minute warning she softly began to pray.

Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in próelio...

At ten seconds she opened her eyes.

And at one the Damocles dropped.

Despite the way the system pulled at her limbs she kept the machine's own limbs straight, avoiding the possibility of interfering with another, larger falling colossus. Moments after the drop began the gaseous envelopes inflated, the sudden resistance driving the brace into her midsection. But relief washed over her at the mere fact that they worked. The rest, as she had thought, was up to her. Damocles struck earth like a mighty comet and as its legs bent so too did hers; giving ground, rather than keeping rigid, absorbed much of the impact though the force was still enough to make her feet ache. The cratered ground became visible as it smoothly rose in sync with her, the mighty avatar of her will stretching piston and valve to do as she bid. Her left arm rose, bringing with it Damocles' machine gun aimed at the fog ahead preemptively.

Lasciali venire. A flick of her right wrist triggered the pneumatically deployed sword to swing out and lock into place, ready and lethal. La mia lama ha sete.
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