Noxious

Illuminati: Becouse the world won't run itself. [Light Hearted, Conspiracy, Urban Magic, Dark Humour]

Y'all are hilarious.

Illuminati: Becouse the world won't run itself. [Light Hearted, Conspiracy, Urban Magic, Dark Humour]

Talulah, being the caring, generous and “anti-social if it wasn’t going to go socially viral” type had resigned herself to the backseat. Plus, Oz had decided to tag along and for some reason she doubted her traveling companions would really want to occupy a seat with the mangy little black wolf looking thing. And Oz, ever the awesome travel companion, had accidently eaten her offering she had left out in hopes for a safe trip so his breath carried an odor of virgin heart meat. It smelled a bit sweet to Talulah, though likely everyone else would pick up a wafting scent of decay. It was making her wish she’d brought a snack. Every time her stomach grumbled Oz turned his head from the lowered window and gave her that fuckin’ raised eyebrow like he was better than her. She had muttered a “Do you know how hard it is to find a virgin in the City dickhead?” and then later, “We’re all going to fuckin’ die because you ate that offering Mutt” and then finally a simple “Fuck you Oz. I know,” before she realised she didn’t know these people all that well and should probably stop talking to the mangy beast before they decided to throw him out of the car.

A mix-n-match braid style fell from the crown of her head and littered down across a lap that housed her Bottega Veneta tote as well as her attention. Her fingers blurred across the letters of the buttonless keys of her iphone- almost magical, if it wasn’t so exceedingly millennial of her. She wasn’t doing anything important: liking instagram photos of people she thought might like hers, responding to comments on her blog about how to become a blood witch, usually with something sarcastic and humiliating. A few went through with it. Like the girl who saved her period blood for months and then painted her naked body in it and ran around the Bayou until an alligator got her. Unfortunate really, such is the life for a follower though. And hey, maybe she really did become a blood witch and the illuminati just covered the whole thing up with an alligator they had on payroll. Never could tell, and Talulah was not concerned.

She raised the phone upwards and tilted her head just right, pouted her lips just soooo and then snapped seven shots before spending the next thirty minutes choosing one of the photos and then applying the appropriate filter and hashtags: #me #whatIwore #WhatDoYouWearToHell #fuckAlabama #misshome #witches #bitches #PhotoOfTheDay #NYC4lyfe #BloodwitchProblems #DoThesePeopleAllShopAtWalmart #WhatHappensWhenIHaveToPee #Trendy #DoItForTheEnvironment #HarambeWouldStillBeAliveIfThisPlaceDidntExist #NoFilter #SaveMe #Donate2SaveTalulah #ImWilting #ShouldHaveBombedThisPlaceWhenWeHadTheChance. And once it was posted she actually decided to take in the other people in the car. How long had that faux singer been talking? Who was she talking to? Wait, maybe she was a real singer. Talulah suddenly felt she should know the answer to this. I mean, she was in HR. She was still puzzling over all of this when they arrived and the group started heading inside.

After she got out of the car she dove back into her phone to check on how her photo was being received and so she entered the little Inn behind the others. Oz waited outside, or in the car, honestly, Talulah had kind of forgotten about him but he’d turn up. He always did. She was snapped out of it when she felt Sophia-- YES, her name was Sophia, she was in the PR department, but Talulah had no idea if the woman could sing-- staring at her, and then the woman asked about peanut pie. Talulah actually didn’t know it was called pecan pie and assumed peanut pie was some country bumpkin thing and so she shrugged and clipped out. “That probably has gluten and I bet these people eat from animal slave laborers and I’m trying to stick with raw anyways.”

Before their culinary discussion could descend into Talulah reciting why conscious consumerism and raw food diets were better for the animals and the environment Sophia was saved by Mr. Ryan who offered them both keys. Well manicured nails snapped up to grab the key from Mr. Ryan, flashing him an almost genuine smile. She knew who had their checkbook. But then she turned, taking in the Inn with a somewhat horrified expression. Finally her eyes landed on the -jesus, is that what walmart clothes look like? Or did she make those herself?- nervous girl who called this place home and tried to mimic Sophia’s fake little smile. She had never been very good at it and it came out as something of a belittling sneer. “Someone is going to bring us our bags, correct?”

The girl seemed to stutter a bit at the request and Talulah’s cat eye lined baby blues rolled before she pointed a finger at the girl to stop the stuttering. “Nevermind. Nevermind. I’d rather my Prada come out of this with as little taint as possible, thank you though.” She looked at the others with an expression that clearly said ‘can-you-fucking-believe-this-place?’

ςнαяαςтєяş × яøℓєρℓαчş

Talulah

_{T A L U L A H B L U M E}

^{H U M A N R E S O U R C E S ⇷⇸ # 2 7 1 - 6 8 6 - 4 2 1}

<sub>In a society obsessed with original aesthetic
we replicate symbols buried with ideas and dig
up clumps of the old gods and mix them with
E D M in a garbage can and chase them down
with home brewed whiskey and fair trade
lattes in our cramped apartments in renovated
ghettos built over d e a d civilizations that had
more originality than all of our blogs combined.
And surprisingly, it is this that creates our new
age witches. Power cramped into skinny jeans
wrapped in bullshit capitalism that pretends it
isn’t while it rallies against the man with spells
typed out on the n e w e s t macbook.

Then one day you wake up and you are the man.
-Talulah Blume "Blog of a Blood Witch"</sub>

^{"Either spend l e s s than $10 or m o r e than $75,
for in between is where the consumer soul goes to die"}

A g e & A p p e a r a n c e

On the verge of 28 and she doesn't like talking about it. She was raised on the pulse of fashion in NY and her wardrobe can attest to this, as well as her (usually empty) wallet. She prefers classic romantic styles and boho fashion. Skinny jeans, pencil skirts, flowing crop tops, button up blouses or ratty band shirts with obscure bands no one has heard of. She has a slim figure thanks to a mostly raw and organic diet and appears rather healthy, if not a little blood drained from time to time. She favors heels to add to her 5'6" height but owns plenty of sandals and custom keds. Her hair is bleached blonde with just enough dark roots to be fashionable and she often wears it down, sometimes with a braided pintrest style. Other times she puts it up in a well calculated "messy" bun. Her eyes are a pale blue and always wrapped in make-up. Seeing the future means she's never caught without it. She has a myriad of tattoos and piercings and the collection continues to grow.

^{"Man, we don't do a company wide blood drive...."
"Well then why the fuck did she ask fo- ooh, fuck"}

P e r s o n a l i t y

Smoker, drinker, elitist. She initially comes off as caring, sensitive and self conscious, but like many things under the Illuminati’s wing, appearances can be quite deceiving. She would have turned on her best friend for an invitation to an underground party before her current employment, and now, well now just hope you don’t stand in the way of something she wants. She doesn’t play fair, and she doesn’t have to, not with Hekate’s blessing. While she does care what people think, she has no problem attempting to invalidate their opinions if they upset her. Surprisingly, she is still very good at making friends and has plenty, though it is doubtful any one person knows all her true feelings and thoughts. She likes, and promotes, the idea that she is just a spoiled one dimensional hipster, but it is likely all of this is part of a wall she’s built up so as not to expose her true self. For someone who appears well put together she is an extremely disorganized person and still extremely messy with sacrifices.

^{"It was that little dicked asshole Elliot in R&D that started that rumor.
No one in my family was f u c k i n g some underworld nymph."}

B r i e f H i s t o r y

She was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY with her exceedingly dull mother and father. An only child, they spoiled the girl and so she has always felt that she was special. But really, she was just your average hipster in art school until she stumbled across this random book on one of her many thrift store visits. At first she thought it was a journal until she decided to get the totally unique symbol on the spine of the book tattooed on her own spine. Then the book started showing her all sorts of things. She began using her own blood to paint and found a way to use her prophetic works of art to pay back some of her student loans. When one of the paintings including some of the sacrificial symbols went for sale in an underground coffee shop the Illuminati started to give Talulah a bit of notice. After glancing over her blog it was decided to bring the girl in.

They attempted to confiscate the book, but no one could read it. They attempted to remove the tattoo, but it remained. What could they do? They offered the girl a job as an asset and made her take down anything to incriminating from her blog. [Her supervisor still regularly asks her to remove images, especially things like the well plated heart on the crossroads- Jesus Talulah, that shit will get you arrested.] They’ve offered her some help in honing her skills, as deemed useful to the higher ups. She dropped out of school and now pretty much just works for the company, smokes weed and lounges around fair trade coffee shops and bars that sell locally brewed beer.

After working for the company for six years she seems rather comfortable with her slip towards power, even if it is minimal in comparison to some of her coworkers. She adapted surprisingly well to back handed politics (likely adopting the same skills she used as a mean girl in high school), occasional blood sacrifices (though she still refuses to kill dogs or cats and prefers transients), and abusing her innocent and harmless looks to get what she wants (again, mean girl, high school).

^{"Puh-lease, I donated to Haiti before the disaster."}

S k i l l s e t

Blood Seer, Blood Witch, Bond with Hekate

^{"I don't *own* him, that's cruel, we just have an understanding."}

E q u i p m e n t & S p e l l s

⇸ PRINCE OSWALD OF TARTARUS

^{She didn't find Oz, he found her shortly after the tattoo incident and has been following her around ever since. They appear to have conversations, but maybe she’s just one of those weirdos that thinks dogs are people- it's hard to tell as he seems very much like a plain (and slightly mangy) mutt to anyone else who meets him.}

⇸ AÍMA ÓRKOS TOU HEKATÊ

^{The blood oaths of Hekate is a book of spells and ceremonies that cater to gaining favor with Hekate and other underworld beings of Greek origin. The pages tend to disappear when not properly fed and it can be rather fickle (as most magical objects tend to be).}

⇸ SEE THE PAST IN KALE

^{Can see the details of someone's past within ground up kale chips}

⇸ DRINK THE PRESENT

^{Can see through someone's eyes if she mixes their blood with home brewed liquor and gets a good buzz}

⇸ PAINT THE FUTURE

^{Painting with someone's blood allows a glimpse their future, the paintings rarely turn out very good}

⇸ DIGITIZE TRACKING

^{A bit of someone's blood in the USB port of her Iphone adds a tracker to her Imaps}

⇸ EATING ORGANIC EMOTION

^{Ingestion of body matter dipped in organic olive oil allows her access to their emotions}

Illuminati: Becouse the world won't run itself. [Light Hearted, Conspiracy, Urban Magic, Dark Humour]

YAY! I need to catch up on reading but any free time I have today will go into catching up on reading and working on a post. Expect one by tonight!

Collusion

_{i t i s n ' t t r u e t h a t s o c i o p a t h s n e v e r c h a n g e ; t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r m a s k s & t h e y c h a n g e t h e i r t a r g e t s .}

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^{A R S E N M E L K O N I A N}

^{t h i r t y - o n e y r s. ▲ o n e s e v e n t y - s e v e n l b s. ▲ s i x f o o t o n e}

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[ ᴇ ᴛ ʜ ɴ ɪ ᴄ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

Armenian

[ ɴ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

American

[ ʙ ɪ ʀ ᴛ ʜ ᴘ ʟ ᴀ ᴄ ᴇ ]

Hollywood, CA

[ ғ ᴏ ʀ ᴍ ᴇ ʀ ᴏ ᴄ ᴄ ᴜ ᴘ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ ]

Debt Collector; Human Trafficker

[ ᴀ ᴘ ᴘ ᴇ ᴀ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ ]

You'll have to forget what you thought a Los Angeles gangster would look like, because if baggy pants, pulled up socks and wallet chains is what you were expecting from Arsen, he was sure to disappoint. Sure, he bore a few of the signs, but nothing people weren't willing to look over when he smiled. At 6'1" he is a coil of lean muscle beneath fair skin weaved with vibrant ink. His body is one that confesses maintenance and pride without pushing himself into any category of "meat head" or "hipster" and he is as unashamed of his own flesh as he is of his actions. Hair a deep brown, darker still in the winter, is shaved at the sides and slicked back with honed skill. His facial features display metal ornamentation upon his upper left cheek and left nostril and littered about his earlobes, caring little for balance. Beneath thick lashes his eyes are a shinning sky blue that seem to offer promise of innocence and angelic intentions, and lower still, his cheeks sink inward beneath high bones and seem to draw attention to a pout male models could be jealous of. His features are reminiscent of something almost feminine, despite the squared (and always clean shaven) jaw. His expression, his carriage, his gait...they are all flickering allusions- transitions between masks that choose to be displayed and flow as naturally from the man as the aura of calm confidence.

His wardrobe, while eclectic, has never been deemed cheap. Real silver dangles from his neck across his bare chest, dipping across more swirling images; ink of past and present. The same silver glitters from his abused knuckles (debatable on who would claim the abuses) and wraps around his wrists. He has collections of cuff-links and ties in his closet beside leather jackets, loafers and biker boots. What you wont find is tennis shoes or t-shirts, not in years.

[ ᴘ ᴇ ʀ s ᴏ ɴ ᴀ ʟ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ]

His mind is a sordid place; shallow emotions (including reduced fear, a lack of empathy, and high stress tolerance), coldheartedness, egocentricity, superficial charm, manipulative, moral ambiguity, and a lack of remorse. He doesn’t see people as people; he sees opportunities, he sees targets and occasionally he finds accomplices, but he gauges acceptance and respect for others strictly upon their usefulness to him.

He is terrifyingly focused when he sets his mind upon a goal. He seeks to dominate and win at all costs. His social skills are also quite remarkable; a natural charmer, an expert storyteller who will play the victim, or the hero- whichever it takes. His face can be extremely expressive, but it’s trained, manipulated to a defined normalcy or character. He has never felt guilt or shame, least of all for his crimes. If he feels anything, it is powerful-- and now, now he feels vengeful because he has convinced himself of his own high morals and philosophy.

[ ʜ ᴏ ʙ ʙ ɪ ᴇ s & ɪ ɴ ᴛ ᴇ ʀ ᴇ s ᴛ s ]

▲ Gambler

Their is something about horse races in Hollywood that enthralls Arsen, gives him a sort of peace and thrill that very little else can muster. Even as a child he junkied trips to the track with dear old Dad. It didn't stop there though, Arsen will bet on just about anything, especially if the price is right.

▲ Promiscuous

Arsen can't remember the last time he didn't get a girl (or boy) he wanted, and he wants a lot of them. He's got the "fuck me" grin down to an art and lacks any abashment in its constant use. Granted, if that doesn't work he's got other means to get what he wants.

[ s ᴋ ɪ ʟ ʟ s & ᴛ ᴀ ʟ ᴇ ɴ ᴛ s ]

▲ Hood Rat Shit

All that basic hood rat shit you grow up doing with your friends. He could boost a car, though it depended on the model. He could shoot a gun, though his accuracy speaks of a "more bullets, less aiming" technique and obviously had no professional training. He could break into almost anything, but he couldn't disable an alarm, he just wouldn't care. Cardio and jumping fences in the concrete schoolyard were necessary skills for respect by the age of nine.

▲ Ruthless

"Gives no fucks" doesn't even begin to cover it. When they took down Arsen he was taking a metal baseball bat to a woman's leg for trying to escape his penthouse and he didn't stop swinging when the FBI agents busted in with guns, screaming about his imminent arrest. Armenian slurs and threats made the walls shudder, directed at them all, spilling from the well dressed and blood stained pretty boy as he continued to heave the bat. It took two FBI agents to wrestle him away though he never turned the weapon from the woman. When asked about her later he seemed to have completely forgotten and started going on about burning down the entirety of LA just to kill one rat. He would do it too, and he would smile as the smell of burnt lives tickled his nostrils.

▲ Straight Faced Liar

That's the thing about people, monsters, like Arsen...you never really can tell. If you could hear the litany of excuses people make for falling for his shit, well, we would be hear a while. He had masks for all occasions. He was, literally, the guy on the news whose neighbors rambled something about "He was always such a nice boy. Never caused any problems. Watched my cat once and didn't steal a thing." He just wasn't the type to fuck you over, ya know? Too clean cut, too well spoken, too polite, too well connected. And honestly, no one had any idea the madness he was capable of, thankfully, he probably didn't either. Not then...

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^{p e o p l e l i k e t o s a y m o n e y a i n ' t n o t h i n g ;}

_{b u t n e x t t o p o w e r , m o n e y i s e v e r y t h i n g .}

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[ ᴍ ᴏ ᴛ ɪ ᴠ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ & ᴄ ʀ ɪ ᴍ ᴇ ᴄ ᴏ ᴍ ᴍ ɪ ᴛ ᴇ ᴅ ]

You could say that the government handed over Arsen because they really didn't want to deal with him. The scramble to tear apart the human trafficking ring had been driving them crazy. They'd worked their way from one source to another, taking years to figure out who was at the top. In the end, after all the birds had sung it seemed that song was about Arsen.

But it wasn't just that the government didn't want to deal with it, the Consortium had been looking for someone just like him to make an example of. It was sickening, those that enslaved people for their magic and sold them like pieces of equipment to be wielded until they eventually burnt out. The case was solid. Hell, even a few of his victims came forward and sobbed their eyes out for the media so no one would feel at all bad when Arsen Melkonian was put in the earth. They'd feel bad for magic users, for the persecution they had to deal with. Persecution? THEY HAVE FUCKING POWERS. Nobody handed him powers as a child, he worked for his, and even without magical inclination he wasn't the one out there being a victim.

In the end, Arsen Melkonian wasn't enraged that he was put to death. He half expected to die every time he woke up. What really pissed him off was that the Consortium used what he'd done, twisted it to make cases for the rights and the terrible abuses that magical users constantly suffered. Fuck them, magic users were no better or worse than everyone else, they just cost a bit more was all. And fuck the Consortium twice because they were the assholes out there wrangling up magic users and forcing them to play on their side. You want to point fingers at black things? I see you kettle, and I raise you.

[ ʜ ɪ s ᴛ ᴏ ʀ ʏ ]

The Armenians already had a substantial foothold when Arsen was brought into the world. They ran much of the underground gambling in Hollywood and dabbled in a variety of other unsavory professions; fraud, drug dealers, gun runners, muscle for hire, prostitution, neighborhood protection and extortion, just to name a few. If there was money to be made, Armenian Power wanted some of it.

Arsen’s childhood was no different from anyone else in his neighborhood so he had no reason to think of it as bleak or spectacular. It was a fine gradient of gray. Sure, his Dad would smack him up if he got caught doing something stupid, but this only taught him not to get caught-- which was likely the lesson intended. He respected his father, specifically because of the power he wielded. This respect extended to his mother, for he saw who held the true power of their home. Subconsciously he has always feared his mother, the sway she held and the pinched smile that wrought destruction on his anxiety.

By the time Arsen was in elementary school he was already a part of something that resembled a gang. Sure, they only dabbled in stealing neighborhood kids bikes and candy from the shop on Santa Monica, but they became his foundation. They withheld names from teachers who tried to force them to tattle, also a foundation for the life they were being groomed for. He was already showing signs of ruthlessness; bullying children out of their lunch money and intimidating even his own friends to keep them in line. They were loyal out of fear, and Arsen learned to control this and nurture this. Sparingly he offered them compliments and often insults so they came to live for his acceptance.

When he reached high school any psychologist that he allowed in (there was none, his parents would never have sent their child to an outside source) would have labeled him a full blown sociopath. He was the type of guy who made bets about girl’s virginity and peer pressured people into situations often enough that they learned not to ask questions. They smoked cigarettes and drank in the graffitied alleys of their city. And it was their city. Anything they wanted they could have. Cars? They stole them. Women? They coerced them. Grades? They threatened violence that their straight laced teachers had no way of getting around. Not that Arsen couldn’t have received good grades if he applied himself. He was intelligent, he simply chose to bend it away from academia.

One year out of high school he was lifting cars for one of his friend’s fathers and the cops had begun to catch on. They set up a trap and caught one of Arsen’s closest friends (due to length of relationship, not emotional bonds). The guy ratted on Arsen and two of the other guys and while he managed to keep quiet about the elder involved, it wouldn’t save him. For 8 long months Arsen paced in a cell thinking of only one thing. He woke in the morning and thought of it, he made notes at night and on the day he was released he found his rat “friend” shacked up with some soon to be hooker. He was careful. He recruited the others who had done time for the fiend and they bolted large metal plates to the window late in the night. They didn’t even attempt to be quiet, there was no need. He liked the sound of the two of them scurrying around the house. They sounded like the rats they were. When they finally tried the front door they were met with the gaping maw of a shotgun and a smiling Arsen, head shaking with a tsking no and they retreated back inside. He epoxied the door shut and sang Tupac under his breath while he waited for it to dry. Then he lit the place up. He pictured them trying to burrow in their filthy nest. He fucking hated rats, almost as much as he hated victims.

It wasn’t long before he had a full time job for pops working as a “debt collector”. They didn’t simply knock on doors and request payment, no, by the time the orders reached Arsen matters had gone beyond a simple knock. These were people who would repay their debt, one way or another. Sure there was an occasional kneecap that got shattered, but while Arsen was a fan of violence, what he really enjoyed was making them work it off. Kidnapping daughters and wives turning them over to pimps who would pay their father’s debts. Taking their sons, or the debtor if physically able, and handing them a gun for a day. A headshot and payment in full. The higher the debt, the more cruel and immoral the job that was likely handed over. Arsen got a sick pleasure out of watching the righteous fall. Staring down at their bobbing heads while their tears mixed with his own saltiness.

It wasn’t long before some of those who took people in exchange for their debts started making more and more specific requests, and while there was always a sorry SoB who owed Armenian Power money, they weren’t always the caliber requested. He turned to night clubs, to coffee shops, hell, he even dabbled on tinder to locate these special cases. And he learned something else, when they didn’t have previous debts, they were pure profit. Someone replaced him gathering debts for his Father and he began his own venture paying Armenian Power a share of his profits. He acquired help from his loyal elementary school gang, all grown up yet still the simpering simpletons who would cringe and avert their eyes when Arsen was displeased. Business was booming. Soon he had a luxurious condo in Hollywood and a place in New York, Brazil, Russia and Germany. Everywhere he looked all he saw was markets waiting to be tapped, legs that equaled profit, strong wills that begged to be broken.

All up until his arrest. What a media shit show that became.

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[ ʀ ᴇ ʟ ᴀ ᴛ ɪ ᴏ ɴ s ʜ ɪ ᴘ s ]

▲ Family

N a r e k M e l k o n i a n

Dear old Dad, the tree from which the evil apples tumbled. He runs the gambling trade for West Side AP XIII. Pretty good relationship with the Russians, hell, he even sleeps with a few pretty regularly. Arsen originally worked for his father collecting debts, but soon he charmed his way into other positions of power not beneath his father.

A n k i n e M e l k o n i a n

While his mother was a quiet and reserved woman, she was not someone to be trifled with. She had no problem ratting on anyone and everyone, including her sons, to her husband. He would rectify any situation, move heaven and earth for that woman. It was a wonder she didn't have magical abilities of her own keeping the three men in her life in check.

D a v i t M e l k o n i a n

The youngest of the Melkonian clan. Somehow this one turned out to be much less of a piece of shit that what his surroundings should have dictated. Not that he went off to college and got a legal job, that would have brought shame to the family. He stuck to Father's side, running much of the illegal gambling as the old man grew older. He did manage to find himself a decent Armenian girl and settled down. The relationship between Arsen and his brother is tense, but he is likely the only one who really understands and accepts how much of a monster his brother is.

▲ West Side AP XIII

The only lover Arsen hasn't kicked out at sunrise was the streets and Armenian Power was the defining key in that relationship. Born in then sworn in; blood and sweat with no room for tears. He's good at what he does and they gave him a chain leash with a lot of slack. Maybe it was because of his Dad? Maybe they fell for his bullshit? Maybe they saw through it and figured better to lie with a monster than have him waiting beneath your bed? Likely it is all of the above in varying degrees.

[ ᴍ ᴀ ɢ ɪ ᴄ ]

▲ Light Eater

A simple snap of those tattooed fingers and darkness takes hold within a confined space. Windows and doorways will saturate themselves with a rotten smelling blackness. Man made light will flicker and fade, be found malfunctioning or completely broken. The rays of light that had previously existed are consumed within himself; devoured and used to fuel his own night vision and boosts healing for as long as he stays within the dark. If more light is added to the room from an outside source he would have to re-consume.

▲ Silver Tongue

Like a cliche mobster Arsen need only lean in and whisper in your ear and the spell takes hold, it races through your own mind, flipping the required switches and what he said is deemed true, is deemed an order. It rings upon your consciousness as if it stemmed from your own mind and changes you. Of course, you will likely begin to wonder why you would have such a compulsion, but that will come after the fact. The further away Arsen is from the target the more magic it requires. The greater change in natural habit or perception, the more magic required.

[ ᴏ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ʀ ]

▲ Drug Use

Other than cigarettes and alcohol Arsen despises drug abuse. He's seen it too much, he's gained too much from the flaws it imparts and finds it to be the crutch of the lowest forms of humanity. It's a weakness, and while he loves to exploit them, he still despises them. This extends to the oddity that he has never so much as touched an aspirin.

▲ Superstitious

Born and raised, but isn't open about it.

Collusion

Looking good, looking good. Glad to be apart of it. :)

Foreign Legion [First Contact/Uplift/Military Sci-Fi]

Soon kids. My other RPs are slow going but work is kicking my ass. <3

Test

I read you Hex. I read you.

edit: and subscribed, I am so in for this. :P

Foreign Legion [First Contact/Uplift/Military Sci-Fi]

Fucking Running Through Jungles & Shit

Collins call for movement was met with a hefty sigh that would have fogged an ordinary mask. If there was one thing she hated more than silence, it was running through a goddamn jungle with monster beasts nipping at their heels. All they needed was someone to dim the lights and it would be like they slipped into some cliche horror flick. “Yeah Danny, why dontcha hold up the rear? Virgins always survive horror flicks.” She barely gave him a smile as she started back the way they had come.

She skirted through the blistering jungle alongside her squad, movements spacing them outward and then bringing them back as they dodged the alien fauna that bloomed massively around them. Thankfully it provided cover though it seemed to do nothing for the heat. The large SCAR Mk. 20 rubbed its bulky burden into her sweat soaked pink camo and made her consider removing some of the clothing. The thought barely lingered as she recalled Park’s face. While she had no intentions towards their Singaporean cohort, that didn’t mean she wanted a shot to annihilate her spine, or worse, one of her colorfully tattooed shoulders. Her body work had taken more hours than she would willingly admit and hey, the girl had not left all her vanity when she picked up a firearm.

When Danny’s whisper brushed across her ear she felt momentarily foolish. She’d almost forgotten she even had PDMs. But then again, she’d been drugged, hauled across the galaxy, dumped in some werewolf psychos version of Through the Looking Glass, she’d have to forgive herself this once. She pulled from her stash and arched them off to the far right, trying to be mindful of Danny and K-Tons own so that got the most bang for their buck.

During one of their pauses for water a few curt but almost muted Brazilian words escaped through the comms. It would be easy to bet they were not words of encouragement because somehow cursing had the same intonation in almost every language. And then they were back to moving. Butch had no problem with cardio. She could likely run with the bulls better than any of those facist Spaniards, but this, this was something different. It wasn’t adrenaline, it wasn’t fear, it wasn’t misery, it wasn’t heat exhaustion, but rather some motley bastard of all of the above.

When she finally reached their decided point of contact she leaned heavily against a tree and pulled the SCAR Mk. 20 from her back. She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and let out a silent prayer that her face, back and tattoos would find closure unharmed and then she shifted towards the incoming Slavesh and tallied the rest of her squad. She whispered into the comm. and the words betrayed a smile on her lips, "And Danny the bait survives, guess he is a virgin."

Illuminati: Becouse the world won't run itself. [Light Hearted, Conspiracy, Urban Magic, Dark Humour]

Kinda cool. We have a little bit of every dpt. Very well rounded gang of trouble makers.

@Sophrus

Seriously, a little bit of everything!

Oscar in Finance
Jerimiah in Damage Control
Talulah in Human Resource
Sophia in Personal Relations
and I think Fredrick would be good in Research and Denial, but I don't want to push anyone, so, what are you thinking @JamesMuddy?