Atrophy

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

Sam felt stiff and exhausted. It was the kind of tired one got when they sleep well past their alarm, or in this case seemingly hundreds of them. Over the sirens he could hear shouting and cursing, the pounding of feet on metal, and what even sounded like soft crying. There was a sticky warmth on his face; in fact, there was an uncomfortable heat all around him that was so unbearable it threatened to peel back his skin and char his bones. He tried to breath, and felt his lungs fill with ash as if he had been standing too close to a campfire. It didn't take a detective to figure out what was going on, or that he need to move. Sam pulled himself up into a crouch, ignoring the pain that had replaced the stiffness in his joints. His eyes were quickly forced shut by a dark cloud of acrid smoke, but not before he caught the blurry flash of red emergency lights that he prayed were designating the doorway.

Pulling his shirt that was dampened by the unknown liquid up to his nose in an attempt to create some kind of filter, Sam began to blindly crawl on his knees and elbows towards the exit. He felt his body shift through pools of more liquid—blood, judging by the faint scent of copper he was getting from his shirt. Hopefully it wasn't all his. What he assumed to be shards of glass broke underneath his body, a few fragments working their way through his suit to scratch against his flesh. He thought that a few nicks and some ruined threads was probably better than dying from asphyxiation and certainly better than being turned into a roast. His body crawled over something soft and he heard an injured groan; another person? Sorry. Sam kept crawling.

Risking a face full of smoke, Samuel flashed his eyes open for just a second. Closer to the exit, and the air felt less oppressive. Doubling his efforts, Sam weaseled his way through the rest of the fiery hallway. He clambored over more bodies; these ones didn't make any noises as his elbows and knees dug into them. What the fuck happened? The answer was one he would pry into later. Surviving was key now. He flickered his eyes open again. It looked to be a stairway ahead; the smoke would probably clear up there. Only a few more yards. He closed his burning eyes again. He already regularly needed glasses to read and drive, he didn't need to fuck his vision any further. Just a few more feet. He was breathing less smoke now; it really allowed for him to savor the stench of blood and guts around him. No time to take in all of the flowers, however. Another foot. A few more inches. The stairway, it's right there. Go on, almost, almost--

A strong hand grabbed his leg. Panicked, Sam kicked wildly backwards to shake it off. He felt his heel connect with what might as well have been a block of iron; a curse slipped out of his mouth. Dragging himself and whatever beast had taken hold of him forward, Sam reached out to the railing. His fingers licked the edge of the banister as the man behind him got his other meaty hand onto the waist of Sam's jumpsuit. The man's other fist retaliated against Sam's kicks, hammering the small of his back. Sam's hand finally found a grip and pulled himself onto the descending stairs. Gravity and the added weight of the other man did the rest. The two tumbled head over heels down the first set of stairs before coming into a crash landing on the midway point. Sam heard a deafeningly sound of skull cracking against metal as his opponent's head slammed against the wall. His grip loosened on Sam, and the older man slid off of the larger man.

Resting his head against the wall, Sam took his first moment of peace to try and figure out if he was okay. His hands felt over his body. A bruise here, dried blood there, a few cuts from the glasses peppered into his forearms and legs; nothing seemingly life-threatening. He could breath, see, and hear. He knew his name, his birthday, he could picture his kid (and his exwife), his crimes. He remembered turning himself in, and then they...oh fuck, was he in space? He couldn't recall if the Apox had artifical gravity, or if that was even a real thing. The air on the station had an uncomfortable artificial quality to it, like an overly sterilized hospital. Here the air seemed more natural. Did they somehow crash on Earth? That would explain the disaster scene above him, as unbelievable as it seemed. The man next to him groaned. Sam didn't want to be around when he came to; he needed to find an exit.

Pulling himself up to his feet, Sam's eyes fell for the first time on the black cuff around his wrist. The word “kidnapper” seemed all good and right, but the string of numbers appearing next to it were way off. No way had he spent over a hundred something years living life as a frozen tv dinner. That would mean that...Sam shook the thoughts out of his head. Freak out later, live now. Continuing down the staiway, Sam cut into the closest corridor as he heard feet pounding on the staircase—bringing him nearly face to face with a bleeding, stumbling man. The man looked as if agony was turning him feral. Taking a few steps back as his heart leapt up into his throat, Sam lifted up his wrist and pointed to his crime as if to say, "look, I'm harmless compared to the rest of these fucks". The hazard lights crossed over the injured man's face—Sam felt his mouth slacken slightly. He knew this man, or rather, he knew of this man. It was hard not to when his face was always plastered on the news.

“Fuck you're one tough son of a bitch,” said Sam. “Listen, I would hardly qualify as a doctor but I don't need a PhD to say that you're in rough shape. I-I can help you out of here, just agree not to do anything stupid. Okay?”

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

@KingfisherNow that would be responsible. Why would I do that?

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

I do believe it is just Atrophy to post.

If I am feeling up for it then I shall post again tonight.

@Rosalind

Yup! I should be getting up a post a little later today. Just gotta nurse a slight hangover.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

And there we go.

Since @shinigami94 made it to Serio City (feel free to make that the proper name of the city) I'll probably put up my post for Ennis after you folks get a few posts in.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Barcea, Southwestern Region

Joy

Joy did not have to wait long for the Sentinels here strange, scaled companion had warned her about to show up. She propped herself up everso slightly to get a better view of the three. She noted the drawn bow, but before she could completely size up a woman bolted towards Sir Mauls. Joy momentarily thought about warning the statuesque woman about approaching the deathcrawler, but then she caught sight of the third man. She felt herself swiftly shoot up to a sitting position, drawing the attention of the third man. The two momentarily locked eyes. The color fled from her dirtied and tanned face. She felt her chest tighten as a wave of guilt loomed over her. A lump tightening in her throat was the only thing that held her back from shouting in shock. Her mind was alit with confusion, panic, regret, and sorrow. There was no way. Had she finally cracked? No, it was clearly him.

...Olain.

Joy felt like crying as the man she had failed to save stared back her. You coward, she thought she heard him say. Traitor. She wanted to protest, to ask for his forgiveness, to try and explain that she had done everything she could. Liar. Cheater. Murderer. Gripping her fingers tightly into a fist, she lowered her head and gave it a slight shake. Olain was dead; this was nonsense. She took a deep breath. Looking back up, the illusion began to fade away as Cyril's form took shape. Ambrosia, does he look like his father now, she thought, studying Cyril. Her eyes lingered on his lower weapon. A memory of her days as Vesta training the boy to never lower his guard flashed through her mind. Apparently she had failed to make an impression on the boy. Perhaps that was for the best. She highly doubted that she was a topic of pleasant conversation in the Serio family. His questioned confirmed her suspicions: he either had no memory of her, or could no longer see the face of the former guard captain behind the grime and years.

“I-” She cleared her throat. Now was not the time to be emotional or dwell on the past. “I'm nobody of real circumstance.” She took the opportunity of Sir Mauls being distracted by the other woman to stand up, leaning against her scabbard to help her up. She cast a cautious glance over at the archer before returning her gaze back to Cyril. “Then again, the last time I tried to keep my privacy I was held at gunpoint by a boy and his bug,” said Joy, ruffling her hair with her fingers as she thought of a convincing yarn to spin. Her mind was too hazy to think of anything elaborate; simple and vague it was, then.

“My name's Joy. I don't know who that gentleman is, but he might have been that Drosil you mentioned. You can ask him to explain that. I'm just a traveler who's saw smoke and decided to try and do their good deed for the day. Like you Sentinels, I was too late. Then again, judging by the scene I doubt any of us could have done much of anything except add to the total body count.” Tucking her hand into her pocket, she surveyed the destruction. Drosil's addition to the wreckage really helped sell her point, as it had kicked up some of the more foul smells that had previously settled.

“I fear that this is more than a bandit attack. H'kelans, probably, although I don't have solid proof.” She noted the wet blood that was still on the Prince's blade. “But I think you may have already known that. There's a church in the middle of town that could have some more definite answers, but I couldn't get the door open. I came back here to get some supplies to get it open, by my horse had run off in the mean time. Probably smelled that thing,” she jutted a finger towards Sir Mauls, “and booked it.”

She decided to omit the part where Drosil had held her against her will do to him being rightfully suspicious of the woman. Judging by the other woman's familiarity with his creepy crawler friend, Joy felt it would be unwise to try to badmouth the strange man. The last thing she wanted was another standoff, especially one involving Cyril.

“So, what is your course of action now? Go run to your commander and tell him to get his sister to march troops on H'kela?” she asked, pretending not to know the man she was talking to was the Prince.

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

It's always nice to wake up and see a post. I've got some plans today, but hopefully I'll be able to write something up fairly soon.

Just as a simple question but what time zones to you guys live in

Edit: I'm EST

@Irisity

EST buddies!

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

Samuel Horn

Name: Samuel Horn
Criminal Nickname: Matchmaker
Preferred Name: Sam

Year Born: 2035
Age when Incarcerated: 56

Physical Attributes
-6'0”,
-Brown eyes
-Straight, bleached teeth
-Relaxed posture, talks with his hands
-Speaks with a slight stutter
-Physically fit

Crime Committed
-Kidnapping
-Accessory to Various Other Crimes

Personality

Samuel is attentive, open-minded, and understanding. He's the kind of person to actively seek conversation and finds other people fascinating. He can come off as genuinely caring and even fatherly on an occasion. At times he can be seen as fairly cynical, although typically he expresses those views with flippant lightheartedness. Generally, first impressions of Sam attitude and mannerisms makes the man seems pathetically nonthreatening and nebbish. He's aware of this perception, and uses it to his advantage. He also often pretends to be less intelligent than those around him. His criminal record shows that the man is capable of extreme cruelty, and in his testimony he expressed little regret for his crimes.


Brief History

After twenty-something years of proving himself as a private investigator, Samuel Horn was made redundant. He had become a private investigator to help people, God knows he would be an idiot if he had gone in it for what little pennies he could scrap together. But still, he had made a career out of finding missing people. All of this, and his reward for pursuing justice was to be retired by a worldwide security camera and microchips. He lacked any real work experience and had never finished high school. The increasingly tech-controlled world was rapidly leaving the aging gumshoe behind to drown in stacks of overdue bills and child support.

Having toed the line for years, Samuel found himself stepping over to the other side. He quickly established himself as a man capable of quickly getting results. He did what he was good at: finding people and getting them to the person who had hired him. Learning from the mistakes of those he had previously hounded, Sam was able to keep his tracks covered from the ever watchful eyes of their overseers. For nearly a decade Sam was personally responsible for the disappearance of over a hundred men, women, and children, and indirectly responsible for the following heinous acts his clients would commit. Sam was at first shocked by how little he was bothered by kidnapping so-called innocents, but he chalked it up to three things. First, nobody had given a damn about him when he was struggling despite the good he had done. Second, he was still technically helping people, even if they were perverts and killers. Third, he was becoming very rich.

Having eluded any kind of punishment for years, Samuel Horn became a myth, a bogeyman. He was dubbed Matchmaker by his peers for always being able to always bring the client and their victim together. The last thing a criminal wants, however, is fame. His reputation had spread too far. His moniker started appearing in blogs and tabloids. Word had begun to spread and he had attracted the attention of the UN. Worse yet, he attracted the attention of his past clients. They knew he had information on them; he knew they would do anything to have that information stay private. Knowing that the only other option was death, Matchmaker turned himself over to the authorities, testified guilty to his crimes, and provided a detailed list confirming all of his victims and contacts. In return he was taken to the Apox centre, where he would live out his life imprisonment away from any retaliation.

And then they turned him into a fucking popsicle.


Miscellaneous

-Years of amateur profiling leaves him able to easily read most people.
-Can pick most conventional lock and is an adept pickpocket.
-Has practiced various martial arts over the years.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Oooh, multi-talented. I'm not one to brag, but I'm, uh, pretty good at Rock Band and Guitar Hero. Yup. I can shred a plastic guitar like a damn mad man.

*cough* I'll be writing up a post within the next day or two, boss.

No Masters or Kings - ON HOLD

Hope you enjoyed that glass of wine, boss. Hopefully my character sheet doesn't make you drain the bottle:

Samuel Horn

Name: Samuel Horn
Criminal Nickname: Matchmaker
Preferred Name: Sam

Year Born: 2035
Age when Incarcerated: 56

Physical Attributes
-6'0”,
-Brown eyes
-Straight, bleached teeth
-Relaxed posture, talks with his hands
-Speaks with a slight stutter
-Physically fit

Crime Committed
-Kidnapping
-Accessory to Various Other Crimes

Personality

Samuel is attentive, open-minded, and understanding. He's the kind of person to actively seek conversation and finds other people fascinating. He can come off as genuinely caring and even fatherly on an occasion. At times he can be seen as fairly cynical, although typically he expresses those views with flippant lightheartedness. Generally, first impressions of Sam attitude and mannerisms makes the man seems pathetically nonthreatening and nebbish. He's aware of this perception, and uses it to his advantage. He also often pretends to be less intelligent than those around him. His criminal record shows that the man is capable of extreme cruelty, and in his testimony he expressed little regret for his crimes.


Brief History

After twenty-something years of proving himself as a private investigator, Samuel Horn was made redundant. He had become a private investigator to help people, God knows he would be an idiot if he had gone in it for what little pennies he could scrap together. But still, he had made a career out of finding missing people. All of this, and his reward for pursuing justice was to be retired by a worldwide security camera and microchips. He lacked any real work experience and had never finished high school. The increasingly tech-controlled world was rapidly leaving the aging gumshoe behind to drown in stacks of overdue bills and child support.

Having toed the line for years, Samuel found himself stepping over to the other side. He quickly established himself as a man capable of quickly getting results. He did what he was good at: finding people and getting them to the person who had hired him. Learning from the mistakes of those he had previously hounded, Sam was able to keep his tracks covered from the ever watchful eyes of their overseers. For nearly a decade Sam was personally responsible for the disappearance of over a hundred men, women, and children, and indirectly responsible for the following heinous acts his clients would commit. Sam was at first shocked by how little he was bothered by kidnapping so-called innocents, but he chalked it up to three things. First, nobody had given a damn about him when he was struggling despite the good he had done. Second, he was still technically helping people, even if they were perverts and killers. Third, he was becoming very rich.

Having eluded any kind of punishment for years, Samuel Horn became a myth, a bogeyman. He was dubbed Matchmaker by his peers for always being able to always bring the client and their victim together. The last thing a criminal wants, however, is fame. His reputation had spread too far. His moniker started appearing in blogs and tabloids. Word had begun to spread and he had attracted the attention of the UN. Worse yet, he attracted the attention of his past clients. They knew he had information on them; he knew they would do anything to have that information stay private. Knowing that the only other option was death, Matchmaker turned himself over to the authorities, testified guilty to his crimes, and provided a detailed list confirming all of his victims and contacts. In return he was taken to the Apox centre, where he would live out his life imprisonment away from any retaliation.

And then they turned him into a fucking popsicle.


Miscellaneous

-Years of amateur profiling leaves him able to easily read most people.
-Can pick most conventional lock and is an adept pickpocket.
-Has practiced various martial arts over the years.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Im juggling my time between work, playing in my band, gaming and writing with you guys! Busy busy busy

@drummer-dan

I was going to ask what instrument you played.

Then I realized I was an idiot.