Morningstar
Get the computer without standing on the runes? Piece of cake. Wasn't like they were set out to be un-traversable, Legion probably never imagined anyone would ever find this place, never mind needing heavier anti-intruder precautions. Anyone with decent balance and coordination could get in and out easy enough, and if there was one thing Lucy had it was balance and coordination. She wouldn't have lasted long in this life without it, especially powerless.
She pushed open the door and circumnavigated the wards like a dancer, graceful and smooth with the sort of easy movements one would expect from a cat. It didn't take long for her to make it to the lap top.
"Binary, you wanting the whole laptop or just the drive?
Mr Joe Black
"Maybe I like scaring little kids," Grumbled Joe at Prudence's comment. Fact was kids were about the only people he didn't like scaring, but her observation had been too close to the truth for his liking. Mages, always knew more than they should. He pulled another Marlboro from his jacket and lit up, despite knowing how much it annoyed Destiny and his acolytes. They wanted their sanctuary to be a smoke free zone. That was damn tough, because Joe wanted their sanctuary to be a Joe free zone, but he didn't get his way, so he didn't see why they should get theirs.
Thomas latest work was interesting though, even if Joe never felt particularly 'lucky' whenever any of the Magus's work could involve him in anyway. Almost meant he would have to do stuff, a horrible waste of his time and effort. Still, to be able to look like anyone would have it's advantages. The mere thought of the scams he could pull of with this. He breathed smoke all over Destiny's desk as he inspected the glamour.
"Look like I did when I was alive?" He chortled, an empty rattle of a sound "Fuck no, I was almost as ugly alive as I am now. I wanna look like that Ryan Gosling fella, something that will really get the girls wet." He looked across the room and gave Madame Rosario an ugly wink at that, knowing the nosey bag would be listening in. She never had trusted him.
An Outsider
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A Glorious Failure
STATUS: Ever had that moment were you've just lost a battle of wills with your dog and think to yourself, "maybe I should be the one sleeping on the floor"? I have. It's oddly liberating. 8 yrs ago
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Ever had that moment were you've just lost a battle of wills with your dog and think to yourself, "maybe I should be the one sleeping on the floor"? I have. It's oddly liberating.
3
likes
9 yrs ago
My Lit Lecturer used Matt Fraction's Hawkeye run to display the effect of narratology in class today. It's the first thing he's spoken about all term that I've actually read.
9 yrs ago
How good is the Punisher in Netflix's Daredevil series? "Just some guys who are about to walk into a diner for the last time." That line is so manly it could make a toddler sprout a beard.
9 yrs ago
The Justice League trailer is giving me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I desperately want to get hyped. On the other, Snyder and co have burnt me too many times in the past. I'm a conflicted mess.
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likes
9 yrs ago
What? The Lethal Weapon tv show isn't utter garbage at all, instead being an enjoyable watch. What the fuck is the world coming to?
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Bio
For all you know I'm handsome as hell. Let's keep it that way.
Most Recent Posts
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
The night before Krios enters Denerim
Caleb Losthill's estate was located upon a respectful location halfway up the hill to Fort Drakon, not a bad showing for a man who had been born in village in the Bannorn so small no one had bothered to name it. It was also, in a word, nigh impossible to break into. The streets around it were well lit, lanterns adorning the streets so that anyone trying to sneak towards the curtain walls that surrounded the estates grounds would be quickly spotted by the guardsmen employed by Losthill.
If, by some feat of near mythical skill, a rogue did manage to cross the manned walls unseen, they would then find themselves in gardens. While well tended and filled with the kind of exotic flowers and blossoms you would expect in an estate like this, the gardens were also wide upon, no trees or hedges to give the least bit of cover. If one was then to inspect the house itself they would note the many arrow-slits adorning the upper floors, or the heavy shutters on the few windows, then realise the entire grounds were one giant killing ground. Any would be intruder would have to traverse the grounds, then somehow gain entry into the house itself, no easy feet because of the aforementioned shuttered windows, and the stout thick doors barring the main entrance.
Things only get more intimidating in the house itself. Traps both magical and physical are place through the well designed hallways, while guard dogs and teams of men patrol in well organised and constantly rotated teams. In the heart of the building sits the grand hall, as large and ostentatious as the name implies. The room boasts a main entrance, portaled by thick double doors that would take men with siege axes hours to break through, with two long balcony’s on each side, boasting doors of equal calibre. A raised dais is home to Caleb's 'throne', while long tables and bench’s are pushed up against the walls, but look able to seat well over fifty people if needed. Tonight there is only nine people in attendance. Caleb Losthill himself, the malifecarum known as Whisperwood and seven guards, four of them archers, two patrolling each balcony. All the men show signs of nervousness, but it is Caleb who paces uncontrollably, despite his extensive and impressive security precautions. He knows who hunts him, and he is right to feel fear.
"Will you please calm down Caleb." Urges Whisperwood, an unassuming middle-aged man of slight build. "Your pacing helps us not." He isn't how you would typically picture a mage, clean shaven with well tended greying hair, but he held an air of command and his staff almost hummed with energy. He was a recent hire of Losthills, a refugee from Orlais. Caleb hadn't asked what it was that Whisperwood was running from, knowing only that a powerful mage in your service was not something to be dismissed out of hand.
Caleb spun on the mage, his face red.
"Well what will help us!" he snarled "We haven't heard from Ivan, there's been no sign at all at the other two bridges, the Bastard isn't in his rooms at the Midnight Hound nor at any of the other taverns or whorehouses he frequents. You know the stories Whisperwood, he's a ghost, a shadow, unseen and unheard until his bolt pierces your body and his contract is fulfilled. Why would the fact he has suddenly disappeared the night he sets out to kill me calm me in any way!" Whisperwood returned Caleb's furious glare with a look of mild disapproval.
"He isn't a ghost though, he is a mere man. And if he somehow gets this far, which I sorely doubt, then I and your guards will kill him. A man with a crossbow, no matter how skilled, stands not a chance against one who can command the elements. It is this simple." Whisperwood's logic went some way to reassuring Caleb, who ceased his pacing and breathed out a sigh.
"I suppose your right Whisperwood. After all, no one could get pass. . . " Caleb petered out to a halt, his eyes widening and his face paling. Whisperwood followed his employer's gaze up to the baloneys that framed the hall. It took the mage a heartbeat to realise what was wrong, or to be more precise to realise what was missing. The archers were gone, all four of them. Preposterous of course, none of them would leave unannounced, not if they wanted paid, and certainly not all at once. Their disappearance could only mean one thing. The mage gripped his staff tighter, holding it out in front of him like a shield, while Caleb began to panic wildly, throwing his arms around him like a madman while he ordered his three remaining guards to his side and fetch more men simultaneously.
“Get your shields up you dogs, and you get over here. . . No, wait, go get more men! Dammit, sound the alarms!” Caleb's days of being a fearless mercenary leader were far behind him, more used to the banquet hall than the battlefield now. He had forgotten the most valuable thing a leader needed in a fight was a cool head, his erratic orders confusing his men who were left milling about uselessly in the middle ground between Losthill and the main doors. They were as useless as ducklings that had lost their mother. It was then that Faen acted, dropping from the shadows amongst the rafters, striking the three guards like a hawk amongst rabbits. He landed on one man’s back, using his downward momentum to slam his short sword, Last-Laugh, through the man's spine and out the front of his neck as they were borne to the ground. Caleb began to scream incoherently, frozen to the spot with fear and the two other guards, so shocked at this turn of events, jumped the height of themselves. Faen shouldered them aside, one tumbling to the ground and the other staggering away, off-balanced. Up came Faen's crossbow, his baby, a mechanical wonder of dulled steel and darkest ebony, his movement smooth and graceful until the weapon was levelled directly at Caleb, who in his stupor didn't even try to duck or dive out of the way. The assassin pulled the twin triggers, two bolts leaping from the bow to fly towards the former mercenary captain. . .
That would have been the end of it if not for Whisperwood. The malifecar stepped into the path of the bolts, his face tense as he raised his hand in an almost contemptuous wave, fluttering snowflakes trailing from his finger, twisting and turning on each other in ever tighter patterns until they formed a thin sheen of ice. The sheen became a sheet, the sheet became a pane, then the pane thickened until it became a wall of frozen water. This all happened in the briefest sliver of a second, Faen's bolts smashing from the new wall with a desultory clack. The assassin stared at the wall dumfounded, but couldn't spare it much time as the two remaining guards had recovered their wits now and were charging Faen with swords drawn.
Whisperwood, seeing the assassin was distracted, slammed his staff upon the ground, and when he did his fall of ice shattered into a million tiny pieces before dissolving in the air. Caleb yelped at the sight, imaging his last protection had disappeared, but he should have known better. The mage slammed his staff upon the ground once more, but this time a pale light began to dance around it's bejewelled head. He then levelled the weapon and it's flickering lights at Faen, who was grappling with the last remaining guard, his comrade having had his throat slit by Last-Laugh. Faen's eyes flickered towards the mage, and realised the danger he was in. Desperation coloured his next action as he hawked and spat a phlegmy glob into the guards eyes. It had the desired effect, the man reacting with surprise and lessening his grip, giving Faen the opportunity to kick him in the groin then push him in between himself and Whisperwood. His underhand tactics were just in time, as just as the guard stumbled between the assassin and the mage white arcs of lightning arced forwards from the magic-users staff, the elemental energy searing into the unfortunate man. His screams were bestial, the sweet yet sickening smell of roasting flesh already wafting from his burning corpse.
As the last guard fell Faen flicked a throwing knife at Whisperwood, but the mage casually blasted it out of the air with a fireball. Sensing the tide had turned, and with no new avenues presenting themselves, the assassin seemed to do the only thing still open to him. He turned tail and ran.
"Kill him!" Screeched Caleb, shaking his fists wildly like a child throwing a tantrum. Whisperwood was only to keen to obey, levelling his staff and shooting a second fireball at the fleeing assassin. Perhaps he spotted the attack in his peripheral vision, or perhaps he heard the attack, but for whatever reason Faen leapt at the last second, throwing himself forwards. It didn't seem that he was quick enough though, the fireball exploding as he disappeared in a bright blaze of energy with a ghastly scream.
Losthill and his mage looked on hungrily as the light dimmed, searching for the ashes of the former assassin. Nothing appeared, and both men glanced at each other wearily.
"He can't have survived that," Stated Whisperwood, but there was an edge to his usually calm voice.
"Well show me a body. . . Wait what is that!" Caleb pointed at a black scrap of cloth half hidden under the bench seats pushed into the wall. Although hard to discern at first, it was clearly the last tattered remains of Faen's black cloak. "Check over there!" ordered the former mercenary lord.
The mage stepped forward wearily, his staff aimed at the cloth. One foot after another, he made his careful way to the bench. As he got closer he realised there was certainly no body here, but there didn't seem to be any other remains. Perhaps Faen had managed to escape after all, Whisperwood mused. A shame, as it meant there would have to be a reckoning some other day, but at least he had proved himself to Caleb. The wizard bent over to retrieve the cloth, pulling it out from under the table with a slight tug. He pushed himself to his feet, tired after the exertions of the battle. He turned back to his boss, momentarily surprised to see Caleb lying down. This was nothing though, when compared to the shock he felt at seeing Faen standing there, Mothes-Kiss sittinging naked and bloody in his left hand while Baby was leveled at Whisperwoods chest. The mage didn't even have the time to cry out before the two bolts plunged forward from the crossbow and sank into his chest, punching him from his feet. The Orlesian's staff fell from his hand and went clattering across the floor, several feet out of reach. Even if he could get it, he doubted he had the strength to summon a spell now. The wounds Faen had inflicted were fatal, Whisperwood knew enough about physiology to know that. The assassin had killed him, and it was galling in the extreme.
He lay in a pool of his own quickly cooling blood and watched the assassin as he knelt by Caleb's side. The two exchanged words before the assassin took Mothers-Kiss and wrenched it across Losthill's throat with all the grim efficency of a farmer slaugtering a sheep. Faen then turned his head, his dark eyes fixing Whisperwood with a penetrating gaze. They stayed thus for what seemed like an age, but the mage began to feel woozy, and faded out of conciousness. When he came to Faen was kneeling next to him, pulling the remains of his dark cloak from Whisperwood's hand. The Orlesian hadn't even been aware he was still holding it.
"Will. . . You kill. . . Me?" Wheezed the mage. Faen gave him a slow look, his thoughts unreadable.
"And what would that be worth?" the assassin finally asked. The mage was surprised at this response, but pressed on regardless.
"My. . . Gratitude. . . I'm in. . . Great pain. . . I will. . . Not survive. . . This wound." Faen once more gave him a slow look, but this time there was something in his eyes. Some small glimmer of emotion, and Whisperwood couldn't help but feel he had a chance.
"Or. . . I know of. . . A spirit healer. . . Close by. . . He could. . . Save me."
More silence. After what seemed like an age Faen hefted Last-Laugh.
"I'm afraid I don't save lives. I merely take them." There was a grim twist to the assassins mouth, and regret was so heavy and thick in his tone that Whisperwood didn't argue any more. The mage barely felt it as the sword slid between his ribs and into his heart. He was dead before his head hit the floor.
Caleb Losthill's estate was located upon a respectful location halfway up the hill to Fort Drakon, not a bad showing for a man who had been born in village in the Bannorn so small no one had bothered to name it. It was also, in a word, nigh impossible to break into. The streets around it were well lit, lanterns adorning the streets so that anyone trying to sneak towards the curtain walls that surrounded the estates grounds would be quickly spotted by the guardsmen employed by Losthill.
If, by some feat of near mythical skill, a rogue did manage to cross the manned walls unseen, they would then find themselves in gardens. While well tended and filled with the kind of exotic flowers and blossoms you would expect in an estate like this, the gardens were also wide upon, no trees or hedges to give the least bit of cover. If one was then to inspect the house itself they would note the many arrow-slits adorning the upper floors, or the heavy shutters on the few windows, then realise the entire grounds were one giant killing ground. Any would be intruder would have to traverse the grounds, then somehow gain entry into the house itself, no easy feet because of the aforementioned shuttered windows, and the stout thick doors barring the main entrance.
Things only get more intimidating in the house itself. Traps both magical and physical are place through the well designed hallways, while guard dogs and teams of men patrol in well organised and constantly rotated teams. In the heart of the building sits the grand hall, as large and ostentatious as the name implies. The room boasts a main entrance, portaled by thick double doors that would take men with siege axes hours to break through, with two long balcony’s on each side, boasting doors of equal calibre. A raised dais is home to Caleb's 'throne', while long tables and bench’s are pushed up against the walls, but look able to seat well over fifty people if needed. Tonight there is only nine people in attendance. Caleb Losthill himself, the malifecarum known as Whisperwood and seven guards, four of them archers, two patrolling each balcony. All the men show signs of nervousness, but it is Caleb who paces uncontrollably, despite his extensive and impressive security precautions. He knows who hunts him, and he is right to feel fear.
"Will you please calm down Caleb." Urges Whisperwood, an unassuming middle-aged man of slight build. "Your pacing helps us not." He isn't how you would typically picture a mage, clean shaven with well tended greying hair, but he held an air of command and his staff almost hummed with energy. He was a recent hire of Losthills, a refugee from Orlais. Caleb hadn't asked what it was that Whisperwood was running from, knowing only that a powerful mage in your service was not something to be dismissed out of hand.
Caleb spun on the mage, his face red.
"Well what will help us!" he snarled "We haven't heard from Ivan, there's been no sign at all at the other two bridges, the Bastard isn't in his rooms at the Midnight Hound nor at any of the other taverns or whorehouses he frequents. You know the stories Whisperwood, he's a ghost, a shadow, unseen and unheard until his bolt pierces your body and his contract is fulfilled. Why would the fact he has suddenly disappeared the night he sets out to kill me calm me in any way!" Whisperwood returned Caleb's furious glare with a look of mild disapproval.
"He isn't a ghost though, he is a mere man. And if he somehow gets this far, which I sorely doubt, then I and your guards will kill him. A man with a crossbow, no matter how skilled, stands not a chance against one who can command the elements. It is this simple." Whisperwood's logic went some way to reassuring Caleb, who ceased his pacing and breathed out a sigh.
"I suppose your right Whisperwood. After all, no one could get pass. . . " Caleb petered out to a halt, his eyes widening and his face paling. Whisperwood followed his employer's gaze up to the baloneys that framed the hall. It took the mage a heartbeat to realise what was wrong, or to be more precise to realise what was missing. The archers were gone, all four of them. Preposterous of course, none of them would leave unannounced, not if they wanted paid, and certainly not all at once. Their disappearance could only mean one thing. The mage gripped his staff tighter, holding it out in front of him like a shield, while Caleb began to panic wildly, throwing his arms around him like a madman while he ordered his three remaining guards to his side and fetch more men simultaneously.
“Get your shields up you dogs, and you get over here. . . No, wait, go get more men! Dammit, sound the alarms!” Caleb's days of being a fearless mercenary leader were far behind him, more used to the banquet hall than the battlefield now. He had forgotten the most valuable thing a leader needed in a fight was a cool head, his erratic orders confusing his men who were left milling about uselessly in the middle ground between Losthill and the main doors. They were as useless as ducklings that had lost their mother. It was then that Faen acted, dropping from the shadows amongst the rafters, striking the three guards like a hawk amongst rabbits. He landed on one man’s back, using his downward momentum to slam his short sword, Last-Laugh, through the man's spine and out the front of his neck as they were borne to the ground. Caleb began to scream incoherently, frozen to the spot with fear and the two other guards, so shocked at this turn of events, jumped the height of themselves. Faen shouldered them aside, one tumbling to the ground and the other staggering away, off-balanced. Up came Faen's crossbow, his baby, a mechanical wonder of dulled steel and darkest ebony, his movement smooth and graceful until the weapon was levelled directly at Caleb, who in his stupor didn't even try to duck or dive out of the way. The assassin pulled the twin triggers, two bolts leaping from the bow to fly towards the former mercenary captain. . .
That would have been the end of it if not for Whisperwood. The malifecar stepped into the path of the bolts, his face tense as he raised his hand in an almost contemptuous wave, fluttering snowflakes trailing from his finger, twisting and turning on each other in ever tighter patterns until they formed a thin sheen of ice. The sheen became a sheet, the sheet became a pane, then the pane thickened until it became a wall of frozen water. This all happened in the briefest sliver of a second, Faen's bolts smashing from the new wall with a desultory clack. The assassin stared at the wall dumfounded, but couldn't spare it much time as the two remaining guards had recovered their wits now and were charging Faen with swords drawn.
Whisperwood, seeing the assassin was distracted, slammed his staff upon the ground, and when he did his fall of ice shattered into a million tiny pieces before dissolving in the air. Caleb yelped at the sight, imaging his last protection had disappeared, but he should have known better. The mage slammed his staff upon the ground once more, but this time a pale light began to dance around it's bejewelled head. He then levelled the weapon and it's flickering lights at Faen, who was grappling with the last remaining guard, his comrade having had his throat slit by Last-Laugh. Faen's eyes flickered towards the mage, and realised the danger he was in. Desperation coloured his next action as he hawked and spat a phlegmy glob into the guards eyes. It had the desired effect, the man reacting with surprise and lessening his grip, giving Faen the opportunity to kick him in the groin then push him in between himself and Whisperwood. His underhand tactics were just in time, as just as the guard stumbled between the assassin and the mage white arcs of lightning arced forwards from the magic-users staff, the elemental energy searing into the unfortunate man. His screams were bestial, the sweet yet sickening smell of roasting flesh already wafting from his burning corpse.
As the last guard fell Faen flicked a throwing knife at Whisperwood, but the mage casually blasted it out of the air with a fireball. Sensing the tide had turned, and with no new avenues presenting themselves, the assassin seemed to do the only thing still open to him. He turned tail and ran.
"Kill him!" Screeched Caleb, shaking his fists wildly like a child throwing a tantrum. Whisperwood was only to keen to obey, levelling his staff and shooting a second fireball at the fleeing assassin. Perhaps he spotted the attack in his peripheral vision, or perhaps he heard the attack, but for whatever reason Faen leapt at the last second, throwing himself forwards. It didn't seem that he was quick enough though, the fireball exploding as he disappeared in a bright blaze of energy with a ghastly scream.
Losthill and his mage looked on hungrily as the light dimmed, searching for the ashes of the former assassin. Nothing appeared, and both men glanced at each other wearily.
"He can't have survived that," Stated Whisperwood, but there was an edge to his usually calm voice.
"Well show me a body. . . Wait what is that!" Caleb pointed at a black scrap of cloth half hidden under the bench seats pushed into the wall. Although hard to discern at first, it was clearly the last tattered remains of Faen's black cloak. "Check over there!" ordered the former mercenary lord.
The mage stepped forward wearily, his staff aimed at the cloth. One foot after another, he made his careful way to the bench. As he got closer he realised there was certainly no body here, but there didn't seem to be any other remains. Perhaps Faen had managed to escape after all, Whisperwood mused. A shame, as it meant there would have to be a reckoning some other day, but at least he had proved himself to Caleb. The wizard bent over to retrieve the cloth, pulling it out from under the table with a slight tug. He pushed himself to his feet, tired after the exertions of the battle. He turned back to his boss, momentarily surprised to see Caleb lying down. This was nothing though, when compared to the shock he felt at seeing Faen standing there, Mothes-Kiss sittinging naked and bloody in his left hand while Baby was leveled at Whisperwoods chest. The mage didn't even have the time to cry out before the two bolts plunged forward from the crossbow and sank into his chest, punching him from his feet. The Orlesian's staff fell from his hand and went clattering across the floor, several feet out of reach. Even if he could get it, he doubted he had the strength to summon a spell now. The wounds Faen had inflicted were fatal, Whisperwood knew enough about physiology to know that. The assassin had killed him, and it was galling in the extreme.
He lay in a pool of his own quickly cooling blood and watched the assassin as he knelt by Caleb's side. The two exchanged words before the assassin took Mothers-Kiss and wrenched it across Losthill's throat with all the grim efficency of a farmer slaugtering a sheep. Faen then turned his head, his dark eyes fixing Whisperwood with a penetrating gaze. They stayed thus for what seemed like an age, but the mage began to feel woozy, and faded out of conciousness. When he came to Faen was kneeling next to him, pulling the remains of his dark cloak from Whisperwood's hand. The Orlesian hadn't even been aware he was still holding it.
"Will. . . You kill. . . Me?" Wheezed the mage. Faen gave him a slow look, his thoughts unreadable.
"And what would that be worth?" the assassin finally asked. The mage was surprised at this response, but pressed on regardless.
"My. . . Gratitude. . . I'm in. . . Great pain. . . I will. . . Not survive. . . This wound." Faen once more gave him a slow look, but this time there was something in his eyes. Some small glimmer of emotion, and Whisperwood couldn't help but feel he had a chance.
"Or. . . I know of. . . A spirit healer. . . Close by. . . He could. . . Save me."
More silence. After what seemed like an age Faen hefted Last-Laugh.
"I'm afraid I don't save lives. I merely take them." There was a grim twist to the assassins mouth, and regret was so heavy and thick in his tone that Whisperwood didn't argue any more. The mage barely felt it as the sword slid between his ribs and into his heart. He was dead before his head hit the floor.
I'll probably get my next post up tomorrow.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Morningstar
This whole scene was sending shivers down Morningstar's spine, her sense of vague unease now coalascending into something almost tangible with menace. She couldn't be exactly sure what was happening here, but it certainly wasn't good, not by any stretch of the word. She, and the League by extension, needed more information to make anything resembling an informed decision. Before heading in gung-ho though, she had to know more about something.
"Binary, I've come across five rooms, each with what appears an unconscious superhuman hooked up to an IV. I want to investigate further, but the rooms are covered in mystic rooms, but I'm not sure as to their meaning. I'm sending you the runes, please advise." She whispered before sending still shots of the rooms to the cybernetic hero. While she knew Binary wasn't exactly up to speed on mysticism either, she was better suited to access that kind of information. While waiting for the Binary to get back to her Morningstar performed a further sweep of the hallway.
Mr Joe Black
Joe shrugged as Shifter and Breakneck passed him, unwilling to get to worked up as his ploy fell flat. Some you win, some you lose, he should know that being dead and all. Still, didn't stop him muttering that some fairly unkind things about the two women as they left, but he ambled away genially enough, eager not to miss the start of the Simpsons. How he loved those couch gags.
"Joe I require your presence in the Sorcery Circle. I need your help with some experiments."
The voice was irritatingly familiar, and the request was accompanied by a infuriating buzzing that was the bane of Joes continued existence. Not quite the same shaking impulse that Destiny himself warranted when he made a demand of Joe, but close, and more than enough to ruin the rest of his day, and make the Simpsons all but unwatchable. The zombie swivelled stiffly, pulling his raybans off to give his best dead eyed glare to Prudence.
"You need my help with an experiment!?! You better hope I never learn how to start disobeying you mages, or I am gonna tear your face off so quick the blood is gonna still be blue when it pools around your feet." This was a pretty standard response from Joe, no doubt Prudence would brush it off like Destiny usually did, as if it was good natured horseplay.
This whole scene was sending shivers down Morningstar's spine, her sense of vague unease now coalascending into something almost tangible with menace. She couldn't be exactly sure what was happening here, but it certainly wasn't good, not by any stretch of the word. She, and the League by extension, needed more information to make anything resembling an informed decision. Before heading in gung-ho though, she had to know more about something.
"Binary, I've come across five rooms, each with what appears an unconscious superhuman hooked up to an IV. I want to investigate further, but the rooms are covered in mystic rooms, but I'm not sure as to their meaning. I'm sending you the runes, please advise." She whispered before sending still shots of the rooms to the cybernetic hero. While she knew Binary wasn't exactly up to speed on mysticism either, she was better suited to access that kind of information. While waiting for the Binary to get back to her Morningstar performed a further sweep of the hallway.
Mr Joe Black
Joe shrugged as Shifter and Breakneck passed him, unwilling to get to worked up as his ploy fell flat. Some you win, some you lose, he should know that being dead and all. Still, didn't stop him muttering that some fairly unkind things about the two women as they left, but he ambled away genially enough, eager not to miss the start of the Simpsons. How he loved those couch gags.
"Joe I require your presence in the Sorcery Circle. I need your help with some experiments."
The voice was irritatingly familiar, and the request was accompanied by a infuriating buzzing that was the bane of Joes continued existence. Not quite the same shaking impulse that Destiny himself warranted when he made a demand of Joe, but close, and more than enough to ruin the rest of his day, and make the Simpsons all but unwatchable. The zombie swivelled stiffly, pulling his raybans off to give his best dead eyed glare to Prudence.
"You need my help with an experiment!?! You better hope I never learn how to start disobeying you mages, or I am gonna tear your face off so quick the blood is gonna still be blue when it pools around your feet." This was a pretty standard response from Joe, no doubt Prudence would brush it off like Destiny usually did, as if it was good natured horseplay.
In
The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Wikipedia is hardly a reliable source, and even if it was I could just as easily tell you to look at this Wikipedia list where, at the very tippy-top of the comic book anti-hero section sits Batman. You don't have to kill to be an anti-hero. An anti-hero can still be considered a hero by his peers. Regardless, there are many in the DC verse who consider Batman a menace, be they hero, civilian or villain. The fact some people consider him a hero is not only subjective, it is also runs tangent to the point you are trying to make. It doesn't matter if someone considers you a hero, that doesn't have any effect on what you are. What about an inherently evil character who is considered good, does people's opinion of his make him good?
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Yog Sothoth said
I have to disagree, Batman is not an anti hero and is most certainly not like Superman in terms of heroics. an anti hero is someone who doesn't follow the laws and acts as judge jury and executioner.
No Yog, that proves my point. That is the comic book definition of an anti hero. An actual anti-hero is a hero who lacks certain qualities usually associated with a clear-cut hero. The only quality needed to be designated a anti-hero is imperfection in the pursuit of their goals. Yes, someone who doesn't follow the laws and acts as judge, jury and executioner CAN be a anti-hero, but that is far from the only criteria, or an anti-hero can follow laws and let the law decide a law-breakers fate.
Sorry for the late reply, but I've been away this weekend and only just read this.
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
There is a dampening field in play so all you're powers will be weaker, and the energy costs would be higher, but you'd still have access to them.
Myself and Biddz are in the wardens office trying to destroy the object that is dampening the supernaturals power. Poly, Yog, Asuras, Archamage and SwampFox are fighting the worst of the worst villains in the maximum detention, while the new kids have wrapped things up over at Maroni's.
Myself and Biddz are in the wardens office trying to destroy the object that is dampening the supernaturals power. Poly, Yog, Asuras, Archamage and SwampFox are fighting the worst of the worst villains in the maximum detention, while the new kids have wrapped things up over at Maroni's.
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The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Krein said
I don't seem to have much to do anymore. I might drop out if that's the case, but I'll wait a little longer.
Why don't you boogie on down to the Max security wing, sure they could use you there.
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
I think too often people get 'anti-hero' mixed up with 'edgy badass'. An anti-hero doesn't have to be someone with a lot of guns, willingness to kill and a bad attitude. An anti-hero is someone who doesn't fit the traditional hero mold. Volt's an anti-hero, as he is a reluctant hero, lacks typical heroic characteristics, and doubts his ability to get the job done. Don't have to wear black t-shirts with skulls emblazoned on them to be and anti-hero.
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The League - First Blood (Persistent World Superhero Sci Fi and Fantasy, Always Open)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Polyphemus said
I wouldn't really call him an anti-hero, just a hero who happens to be a gaping asshole.
I would think you could probably drop hero from that description too, make it a far more accurate description. He's more of a tool (as in an object designed to fit a specific purpose or use) employed by Thomas Syed or any other magic user and utilised by the League.
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