Atrophy

Beyond the Storms

@Mercenary Lord

spoilers

I LIED

_{I'm sorry time got away from me. Fortunately, I have tomorrow off and will be posting then.}

Beyond the Storms

I will try and get a post out by Saturday, Sunday if I'm a real jerk.

It's to hold off the upcoming bat shit crazy, I swear.

The Gladiators of Arlen

Ashley Wyatt Harper

Harper balanced a plate on his hand as he inspected the food, pretending that he wasn’t absolutely ravenous and ready to just throw away his already miniscule amount of manners and devour the whole platter. He grabbed a strawberry between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the sky and squinting at it like a jeweler looking over a diamond before setting it down on his plate, his hand already reaching for another one to begin the whole song-and-dance over again. Harper had to give it up to Iggy. Even if this entire thing turned out to be a complete bust and a waste of time, the noble had gone out of his way on this banquet. Of course, it paled greatly in comparison to the feasts held during the Festival of the Blue Sun, but then again, everything did. He popped a bit of bread in his mouth and practically shuddered. When was the last time he had bread that wasn’t stale? He took back what he thought earlier: this was greater than any Blue Sun Brunch he had ever been too.

As he chewed on a slice of meat and practically melted where he stood, Harper took a second to replay his meeting with Ignis in his mind. It had gone better than he had anticipated—he was gearing up for being thrown out in the dirt, especially after that old man had piped up—and he silently promised to himself that he would keep his nose clean. He was grateful of this chance, truly, but he didn’t know how to express it to the noble without coming off as even slippier than he feared he already had. He’d just have to prove it in the arena, and as long as Iggy kept supplying him with meals like this Harper would do whatever he can to make sure that they won on the terms Iggy had put down.

"Well between the two of us, I see quite a few large weapons and a girl has to wonder if that's the only one they've got."

A split-second reaction was all that kept the mountain of food Harper had been balancing on his plate from becoming a blessing for the ants as he choked on a mouthful of food, caught off-guard by the comment that wasn’t completely kept away from the rest of the table. Clearing his throat with a little bit of wine, Harper set his plate down on the table and pretend that he was distracted by something off in the distance, cocking his head ever so slightly to better eavesdrop on the conversation between the two women that was certain to be both fascinating and informative. Their tones grew hushed as they whispered back and forth, and instead of words all Harper could hear was mumble mumble Ignis mumble mumble Tyren mumble mumble Harper THUNK CRASH FUCK!

Harper whipped his head around so fast that he heard his neck pop, his eyes shooting daggers at Pops as the Tyreni laid out the practice dummy. C’mon, Harp, you shouldn’t even be listening in on those ladies, he thought as he leaned against the table and watched the dummy splinter against the ground, his expression softening. The Tyreni was clearly older than the rest of them by a good chunk of change, and the way he was swinging that big blade earlier around like it was twig told Harper that he wasn’t just some failed stonemason trying to earn some quick gold. Harper drummed his fingers on his chin. The man’s style was rough, yet well-crafted. Calculated, yet wild.

The crowds would love him.

Harper, right now, loved him, because the man decided not to try and destroy any more of the noble’s practice dummies, which meant he could now completely focus once again on listening in on a conversation that was not his. Aaaaaaand they were talking about deserts. Unless he was missing out on some new innuendo, the interesting part had gone past. Sighing, Harper hung his head, sadly grabbing another chunk of fruit and popping it in his mouth. As if by miracle, his mood was almost instantaneously brightened as he felt the sweet juices run down his throat. How had he gone so long being away from the gladiator life? Damn those wasted days.

Ignis was walking over. Harper took a quick second to wipe the food from his mouth and straightened up, trying to appear to be the exemplar gladiator if only minus the muscles and the magic.

"Might I have your attentions, please?"

”We are yours, my lord. There’s no need to ask for our attention, you already have it,” said Harper, already leaning back against the table and settling in, his fingers creeping once more towards the food on his plate.

The Gladiators of Arlen

@Kymera@EisenhornI'm just gonna nervously sit over here by myself for now.

<Snipped quote by Kymera>

Ah, but here I thought this one was full?
and was very sad to see the "full" banner

@Obscene Symphony

You...might wanna check in with @CollectorOfMyst about that. There was a cut-off, but one of our players did have a computer death so we are technically down a person. Maybe with some grovelling you might be able to change the boss's heart.

The Gladiators of Arlen

Okay! I got some free time before I spend the weekend bouncing between work, hangovers, and catching up on Twin Peaks, so I should probably get writing. If any of the fellas would want to be talked at I mean stuck in a conversation with Harper, just give me a shout and we can get our own super secret pirate pad where we can talk about manly shit, like trucks or whatever.

<Snipped quote by Eisenhorn>

Hm. Experiments shall need to be conducted. You know. For science.

@Kymera

Proof that science can, indeed, go too far.

The Gladiators of Arlen

The next collab is just going to be all of the dudes trying to pretend that they aren't intently listening in on the first half of the conversation between Alia and Kailea.

@CollectorOfMyst Two hammers. A warhammer, and his lovehammer.

@Eisenhorn

As far as I am concerned, it is officially canon that Ansgar's new nickname is the Lovehammer.

The Hidden People

C.C., who never had a hangover because he literally was unable to drink, was unable to comprehend the priorities of the dazed and likely still drunk partiers. He had predicted that, upon hearing news of the Count’s death, all of the supernaturals would instantly declare a blood vendetta upon that jerk Nemsemet and zip off to the museum with fangs and claws drawn and loaded down with whatever was the garlic-equivalent for mummies. Instead, somebody had chirped up about how they could murder a plate of crispy, golden hash browns smothered in cheese with a side of that good, country-style gravy, and the next thing C.C. knew he was alone in the kitchen as the hungover horde shuffled off like zombies towards Sally’s Diner. He just barely made it in time to hitch a ride as a shadowy squiggle on the underside of Rusty’s hog, clinging on for his dear life as he back closer than comfortable to the road.

Of course, the diner was just lousy with humans. C.C. didn’t know why, but there was something about the diner atmosphere, and Sally’s Diner in particular, that brought out sad, lonely adult men who sat at their table, drank their coffee, ate their eggs, and then stared at the waitresses until it was time to order lunch. Maybe the food was just that good; C.C. couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was forced to hide himself in the back, knowing full well if he made an appearance he would cause quite the panic amongst the normal populace. To save himself from boredom, the bogeyman took the time to count the corpses of cockroaches lying beneath the grills and the prep tables, and when he ran out of dead ones to count, he moved on to the living ones.

He had hit one hundred and thirteen when a cacophony of clattering utensils, heavy thuds, and muted shouts arose his suspicion. Shifting out from the shadows, C.C. crept up and poked his head through the kitchen’s window to look out at the lobby. Apparently a large group of diners had just suffered from a rather extreme case of food poisoning, which wasn’t much of a surprise after watching the cook’s fairly liberal interpretation of the sign hanging next to the sink about handwashing. What was a surprise was seeing Kid Pharaoh walk in through the front door, the little bells on a chain jingling to announce his arrival like an ensemble of trumpeters. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this jerk was working for Nemsemet; C.C. was already fading back into the shadows when the herald began to speak. Someone else would deal—

Hold up! He just said what? Nuh-uh, the Court was not hereby absolved; they had enough of this sort of nonsense during the sixties and seventies when the druids tried claiming that it was unnatural for anything to have rule over anything else. Now, C.C. was not just going to standby and let this little goatman spread slander; the bogeyman sprung forth from the kitchen window, temporarily shifting into a cyclone of shadows before reforming himself a few feet away from the satyr. He recognized this satyr as Billy Spiros, a slippery fellow who had always been on the wrong side of the Courts but was never a big enough deal for them to bother taking him in. C.C. wasn’t capable of frowning, but he would if he could.

“Now just one second, Mister,” said C.C., practically bellowing. “I’ll have you know that according to Article Three of the Apprentice Betrayal Act of 1873 the Court is incapable of being absolved unless by official order from the majority of higher Court officials and a motion for absolution cannot be made whilst one of the Courts is still in the mandated decade-long grieving process for a death of a Count. Obviously, then, it is impossible for the Courts to be absolved. The thought that Nemsemet would even think he’d be able to pull a fast one on us like that is, honestly, pathetic,” said C.C.with a laugh.

“One more thing.” C.C. took a step towards the satyr, the shadows around him rippling. “On top of murder, Nemsemet is guilty of violation of the Concealment Edict and of tax evasion, and should turn himself into the nearest Courthouse lest he wants to also be charged with prevention of justice and failure to appear. And I warn you that if he does not show up he will have C.C. Schwarzman to answer to, and I am a very persistent bogeyman.” C.C. paused as the fire fell from his voice. “Also, we’ll be sure to assign a lawyer to his case, and he will be tried fairly before a jury of his peers. Now make like a tree, and please politely leave before I am forced to raise my voice again.”

The Origin: A Devil Returned (Arc Two)

@The Darklight ProjectAw yeah the Bookhouse Boys are at it again!

The Hidden People

Honestly I'm more of a Taco Bell and Gatorade guy when it comes to curing hangovers, but that's besides the point.

_{The back-half of the week is always very busy for me. I'll get a post work-shopped by Tuesday.}

The Gladiators of Arlen

Ashley Wyatt Harper & Endar Drayen

"You're looking mighty parched, my lord," shouted Harper as he stomped through the sand, uninvited, over to Ignis with the second glass of wine raised high as an offering. He stopped a few feet in front of the lord's chair, his eyes darting side to side in anticipation of some antsy guard coming to pull him aside as he extended the glass forward. "For you, my friend. For your hospitality."

Endar turned to the newcomer, having not expected someone to approach him right at that very moment. He was unoccupied, though, so he supposed he could understand the miscommunication. It wasn't the man's fault, after all.

"I... thank you." Endar wasn't thirsty at all, actually, but for the sake of good showing, he took the goblet anyway. Placing it on the arm of his chair, he met the eyes of the one who had brought it. "Now, could I ask you your name?"

Harper's smile widen as the other man took the drink. There was always something nice about getting a noble to step down, if only momentarily, to his level. "My name is Ashley Wyatt Harper," he said, giving a slight bow of the head. "And you're the young Lord Ignis Doman, unless I happened to wander into the wrong soiree. So, you're trying to make a go at it in the arenas, correct?"

Endar was somewhat surprised, and not unpleasantly - here was the first person he'd not needed to introduce himself to. Granted, it was likely everyone else had some idea of who he was, they had just not known who they were looking for. He opened his mouth to respond, but he found himself distracted by his adviser rising from his own seat.

"Now stop right there." Ezekiel snapped. "I know your name, Harper. Disgraced gladiator. Gambler. Fixer. Game thrower. If you think that you're getting one step closer to his lordship then-"

That was enough. "Then you'd be right." Endar interjected. "You can consider yourself accepted, Sir Harper, though I would ask that you detail what you can do, since Ezekiel clearly views you through coloured glass."

"Gladly," said Harper, shooting a look over at Ezekiel as he took one step closer. "Let me answer your question with a question of my own: have you ever fought in an arena before?" He turned and waved his glass at the collection of neophytes lingering around the beverage table. "Have any of those people fought in an arena before? Does anyone here know the first step in preparing for a competition, setting up match ups, winning the favor of the crowd, and all the other various ins and outs of gladiatorial life?" He paused for just long enough to not give Ignis a chance to answer. "Because the look on your face tells me that the answer's no."

"Listen, your man's partly right. I am a gambler. I may have greased some palms to make some people who shouldn't have win. I don't know what this game throwing nonsense he's talking about is, but I can assure you that it's just that: nonsense. But, most importantly, I was a gladiator before. I know all the stuff that you know you don't know, and I know some of the stuff that you don't even know exists. You need somebody like me on the team, otherwise that crowd's going to eat you alive and, trust me, they're what you're fighting, not that pack of meatheads seven feet ahead of you," said Harper. He paused for another second, and then added, "Plus I'm a fairly decent shot and nobody else around here has a bow."

Endar blinked. This one was as full of surprises as the last. He was right, though - he had no idea what went on in the arena other than the matches. And there was, admittedly, no gladiators among them aside Ezekiel... and at the moment, the idea of turning to him for assisstance was less and less appealing every other moment. The only reason he'd kept Ezekiel on was because he was his uncle's friend.

He mulled what Harper had said over in his mind for a few moments, before nodding. "I see. Though I would rather you didn't insult your teammates when they are six feet behind you. And... a warning, if I might add. Since both you and Ezekiel say you have a rather shady past... I'm asking you to cease any motions that are in action, and refrain to do so in the future. If I find that you're operating other means without my knowledge or permission, I can't say that you'd stay on our team. A twice-disgraced gladiator isn't likely to get a third chance, is he?"

"And he greatly appreciates this second chance," said Harper, pointing at Ignis with his free hand. "Trust me, you won't regret this at all. When we're in my hometown, Letum, sweeping up victory after victory at the Dauoa Festival, it'll be this moment that you look back on smiling. I guarantee it."

The youth stilled... Letum? As in, Letum, capital city of Noctis? And this man called it home. "I... I cannot say we will visit the city, nor even the country, Harper... but I... do not doubt that I will come to value your advice in the days and weeks to come."

"I'm looking forward to it, my lord. Thank you for the wine," said Harper, raising his glass one last time before turning to go join the others at the table. He had skipped breakfast that day, and he intended to make the most out of his new benefactor as he could.