Byte

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

Did up a posty-post. Hope I didn't take too many liberties for Ellie. :)

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

Dr. Ellie Price

---

“Ellie is fine.” Her chin dipped subtly, smile faint with warmth as she corrected her name. Prefixes were formal and better done without, though not for lack of professionalism. “Nice to meet you, Avalon.” Ellie’s eyes crinkled, Erin’s voice curt as the director seemed adamant to cut the pleasantries short.

… Perhaps shorter than intended?

Ellie could only guess vaguely at that with several pulled straws. She complied regardless, the cheap chair sat in with perfect posture. Back straight, chin held high, legs folded over one another and her hands rested on a knee that twitched with anxiety at the expectations.

She held no illusions to the fact that this was wholly lacking professional decor, with the exception that Erin was determined to fake it anyway. And surprisingly good at it. Ellie smiled at that, at least.

No red carpet, no applause, no dancing to the whims of a gold star and a pat on the back like a puppy chasing affection and recognition. Good, that meant the work was getting the attention it deserved from people who weren’t just fishing promotions.

Or compliments.

The poor excuse for a briefing room dimmed, then lit up with the projector light casting the space in something intense and focused. It made Ellie straighten just a hair tighter, her brown bun shifting as she fumbled with the edges of her glasses.

The Homeland Party, she confessed to hating politics in all forms. Apolitically-minded, probably.

But these folks? Just the mere glimpse of thoae faces made Ellie’s skin crawl, the smile from Erin’s earlier play at professionalism faltered to a sad frown.

“Extremists, I believe.” The doctor piped up, her attention flicked to Avalon; gauging her colleagues reaction, perhaps. “PA party offshoot. Must’ve read it in the papers once.” Ellie nodded, unsure what else to divulge. “Heard they have a cult following calling themselves the Homeland Brothers.” She sighed, her fingers flexed to splay on her knee.

“I remember a particular case crossing my hands involving their name,” Her voice steadied, the Welsh lilt tightening. “Officer wanted my input on particular bruise patterns.” One of the rare times she was asked to consult a non-murder case. “Violent beating, though not rage induced. Almost like calculated punishment.”

Ellie paused, lips thinning.

“I’m afraid that’s all I know.” She dipped her chin again, shoulders sagged. Her piece was spoken.

Digimon: Recompilation

---

Siobhan O’Riley

Location: Gateway
Skills/items used: None

---

Not a video game, then. Unless everyone here had collectively decided to not know what the fuck was going on. Siobhan decided she’d err on the side of caution, anyway.

Note-to-self: Probably not fake.

Siobhan was fairly entertained that someone else was ripping the faux-prophecy a new one. That it had to be an angry ball of wings, teeth and sailor-slang wasn’t worth wringing hands over. Luckily her hands stopped short of golfclapping.

The grin, though? That one remained.

The Irish lass wasn’t particular about it either way, cynicism demands she points and laughs. Skepticism asked her to bite back the urge to add a seasoning to the angry bat’s rant. Instead her attention angled to the weird device clipped on her belt.

A Digivice, apparently. “Shite name.” Siobhan hummed, accent softened, fingers flexing; her techie mind finding several different ways to streamline the design.

“What’s that?” The display was a writhing of iconography, static and several unknown error messages overlapping on top one another in an OS-style hang that elicited a theatrical, deflated sigh.

The device pinged. Siobhan noticed it timed suspiciously accurately with the twitches of that weird-ass lizard thing on the ground.

- A physical manifestation of your bond.

Another ping, more desperate this time. The creature convulsed. She looked at the device again.

“Feck.”

A single expletive in resignation, and Siobhan didn’t need more than three strides to approach the poor thing. Siobhan had clocked something about broken cycles and death. She wasn’t really listening, but instinct told her it was something to be avoided; and that the purple lizard was on the brink of it.

“Oi, feathershite!” Siobhan gestured vaguely at Dominimon. “What about this lad, then? I think he’s me partner.” She ducked, analyzing the wounds that looked more like digital package loss than bleeding. “Can ye hand me the manual fer ‘m?”

Her device buzzed, now. The error clearly stating something was failing to initiate properly. “Hey there, love. Easy.” Siobhan’s hand hovered awkwardly above the creature, unsure how to proceed.

Or if she could even do anything.

“Right, can ye defrag yer data or somethin’? Boot in safe mode?” Her smile was wry, humour was easier. But somehow she fucking cared if this thing survived.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Brunhildr

ąɬ ą ɠƖąŋƈɛ:

┏━━━━━━━━━┓

◊ ŋąɱɛ ◊

Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir
Epithet: Brunhildr, the Valkyrie

◊ Aɠҽ ◊

34

◊ ❝ The Crown names me Brunhildr. My kin still call me Ylfa. The she-wolf mage. ❞ ◊

◊ Cσɳƚιɳҽɳƚ σϝ Oɾιɠιɳ ◊

The Antarctik, Yrskald

◊ Pɾαƈƚιƈҽԃ Mαɠιƈ: Lιɠԋƚ ◊

Ylfa’s magic centers around the manifestations of frost runes around her body enhancing her physical prowess. At a moment’s notice she can activate specific marks to push past the limitations of the human body. Strength, endurance and even speed enhanced to superhuman level.

It’s not without consequence, as these enhancements do not account for fatique and strain. Tendons tear, bones potentially break and nerves snap if Ylfa pushes hard enough. It’s not invincibility, it’s breaking human limitations without accounting for the natural restraint that prevents bodily damage.

Ylfa’s runes are not cumulative powers. Each one forces a single bodily system beyond its limits. Even brief use risks injury; prolonged use guarantees it.

Beyond that she’s dabbled in general frost magic, using it to trip or surprise opponents in combat. A frozen spike here, a touch of cold there, the sudden lurge of a pillar jutting from the ground just enough to push someone off balance.

◊ Rҽʅαƚισɳʂԋιρ ɯιƚԋ Rσყαʅƚყ ◊

Loyal in deed, conflicted in conscience

She respects the monarch personally and believes in the necessity of order in a land where famine and raiders can erase villages overnight. But she sees clearly what the Crown does to unregistered mages, and she knows she survives only because she serves. Their protection is a leash wrapped in velvet. She does not pretend otherwise.

┗━━━━━━━━━┛

ą ɖɛɛ℘ɛཞ ɖı۷ɛ

┏━━━━━━━━━┓

◊ ƈɧıƖɖɧơơɖ ◊

Ylfa Hrafnsdóttir was born into a raven-banner house sworn to the Antarctic throne generations ago. Her father was a war-captain and omen-reader both, a quiet man who taught her how to read wind on snow and intent in a rival’s eyes. Their clan lived along frozen fjords. Where longships were hauled onto ice and wolves were both threat and teacher.

Her magic surfaced early, during a winter raid. She struck a raider with a wood axe and the wound froze solid before blood could fall. The Crown’s riders arrived within a week. She was taken politely, firmly, permanently. Her mother kissed her brow and told her to be strong enough to survive kings.

The day she was branded Brunhildr, her birth name was not spoken aloud again in the hall.

◊ ℘ɛཞʂơŋąƖıɬყ ◊

Ylfa is controlled before she is kind. Years of discipline have sanded down impulsiveness into something sharp and deliberate. She speaks little, watches much, and remembers everything. Around strangers she is iron. Courteous, distant, immovable.

Around soldiers she is practical, even protective, because she knows exactly what war takes from them. Beneath that restraint lives a restless doubt. She believes in duty, but she cannot ignore the children hunted for the same gift she bears openly. She carries a quiet guilt like an old scar. She tells herself that if someone must hold the axe for the Crown, it is better that it be someone who still questions.

In rare private moments she laughs dryly, enjoys strong drink, and listens to skalds recite old sagas of warriors who chose their own fate. Those stories linger.

◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ʄཞıɛŋɖʂɧı℘: 2 ◊

◊ ơ℘ɛŋ ɬơ ཞơɱąŋƈɛ: 1 ◊

Friendship is possible but slow. She trusts those who survive battle beside her or who speak plainly without fear. Court intrigue bores her; loyalty proven in cold and blood matters more.

Romance is nearly impossible while she wears the Brunhildr mantle. She believes attachments are liabilities the Crown would exploit or destroy. She allows herself affection only in thoughts she never speaks.

◊ Aρρҽαɾαɳƈҽ ◊

┗━━━━━━━━━┛

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Trish & Finn McKinley

_{A collab with @HylianRose}

---

“Fuck!”

Habit. Trish didn’t mean to, but everything irritating had dialed up tenfold; another singed button to discard from her sad collection. Ironically the Bad Religion logo button, too. She snorted at that if nothing else, flicking the warped plastic off her desk where it clattered to the floor like it had offended her personally.

Which it probably had.

Fifth one this week. Same witchy problem she knew enough about for it to matter, and too little for a solution.

… She hated that especially.

Her fingers still tingled, heat along her skin like faint static that refused to discharge. Like a foot going numb. She flexed them once, twice. Scowled like Mr. Richards once did when she planted that stink bomb in his garden at age ten. The air around her desk felt warmer than the rest of the room.

That irony wasn’t lost on Trish either. Volatile witch. Sure. Very funny.

“Don’t,” she told her hands under her breath, balling them into fists, the containment metaphorical. “We’re not doing this again.”

”Doing what?” came a voice from behind Trish. Her brother, Finn, appeared behind her. He’d just finished with his shower and was dressed and seemingly ready to go. ”Are we supposed to be heading out soon?” He asked in his usual flat tone. Being late irritated him but he’d never let it show.

Trish’s features softened at her twin brother’s voice, though from their wildly different looks you’d never guess they were that. Twins. “Melting buttons,” She spat. “Ramones’ one yesterday, Anti-flag the day before.”

The punk gal laughed, eyes rolled back with indignant acceptance of the facts. “Fucking fire, right?” She shrugged, then her attention shot toward her own packed duffel, guitar and the little travel cage where Fig had finally nestled. The little ferret’s snout twitched, as though she unconsciously felt her owner’s gaze.

Finn walked over to sit nearby Trish, his expression muted as he watched her. ”My shit’s out in the hallway, ready to go whenever you are.”

“Yeah, ready.” There it was. That minute human flash, a twitch on her lips that she always denied as smiling. “Better go before I burn the house down.” she said like it was a scheduling conflict. Trish pushed her lanky frame off the leather chair. It wasn’t graceful, but lazy and tired, reluctant.

”I wouldn’t exactly be mad if you did.” Finn replied, shrugging his shoulders at her. He let out a soft sigh and got back up from his seat. He pushed himself up, stretching as if he’d been sitting there for hours.

Without another word, Finn walked over to grab Trish’s bag and then walked out to grab his own out in the hallway. He lived a simple life and didn’t like holding onto things if he didn’t need them. ”You can handle the guitar and Fig, yeah?” He called back.

Trish grinned like a cat when Finn made that instinctive b-line for his sister’s bags. “Bold, that.” Her tone was dangerous yet playful. “For all you know that thing’s loaded with spray cans and molotovs.” Or plushies and spare clothes, rather. Which would get a far worse reaction if he ever mentioned them. She trusted her brother with it regardless.

The hard guitar case was a familiar weight on her back. Worn straps bit into her bare shoulders. Fig stirred briefly when her travel cage swayed, beady eyes catching those puffy misty rose curls and yipped quietly.

“Let’s go girl.”

That, too, felt like a weight on her shoulders. Finally out of a shithole, and onto another.

… At least this one pretended quieter.

---

Trains were noisy, people in them a nuisance. The only thing keeping Trish from kicking at the whiney kid’s chair and calling his phone-addicted mother a vulgar noun was Finn’s presence.

Plus the lingering threat that something might spark, and not the comforting kind. So instead of a shriek, it was an inward sigh. And rather than a biting remark? Trish counted to ten, tapped one combat boot in rhythm, and clawed at her torn leggings.

“Tell me the next stop is ours,” she leaned toward her brother, the poster child of outward zen. “Or I’m committing an Orient Express murder.” A subtle flame licked around a lifted finger, not visible enough to matter. Contained for now.

Finn hated this as much as his sister. He too wanted nothing more than to punt that whiny-ass kid off the train so he could finally get some much needed rest before they arrived. He kept his expression even-keeled however, giving the mother glances which she didn’t notice. Hard to notice anything happening beyond the realm of her cell phone it seemed.

”Yeah, it is.” Finn replied cooly after glancing up at the ticker that read off the next stops. He gave Trish a raised brow and the faintest of smirks. ”Because that would end well.”

When the train stopped, Finn pushed himself from his seat and reached back for both his bag and Trish’s again. Once they were both secured, he started his way towards the exit. The kid, as obnoxious as ever, tried to kick his foot out to trip other passengers. Finn resisted the urge to stomp down on his foot and break his ankle. Instead, he hopped over, silent as always.

Trish did much the same, though couldn’t resist nudging the kid’s arm enough to slosh his shitty off-brand coke. Droplets spilling. A petty satisfaction as she and Finn alighted the train, Trish with a stretch that popped her joints.

She felt Fig’s enclosure sway as the ferret stirred and shifted, her little nose peeking out the breathing holes to sniff at the new environment. Trish nudged her snout playfully, the corner of her lips allowing a smile before she crushed it.

“Someone’s eager.” Trish looked at Finn as they left the station, thoughts swerving when their destination closed. The Corinthia coven. “You think Fig gets her own bunk?” Something to lighten the mood, or… tension, she figured.

”No, but I’m sure if I got some wood, we could build one.” He offered with another small shrug. He didn’t want to admit how nervous he was as they got closer.

The mansion came into view now.

Finn swallowed his feelings down as he always did and tugged the straps of their bags further onto his shoulder. ”No time like the present. I will, as is customary, let you do most of the talking.” Finn’s tone left no real room for argument, which he was sure his sister was used to by now.

Trish’s nose scrunched at that. “Grand.” sarcasm dripped evenly. Always her honour, wasn’t it? The twins approached the old abode thick with history they knew very little about. “Smells like grandad’s nursing home corridor.” Trish offered, then nodded at the other arrivals like she pretended to give a shit.

“McKinley, two spare rooms.” She joked while lifting Fig’s rustling cage. The ferret squeaked in greeting, beady eyes glinting in the dim light. “One pet.” She shrugged, adjusting the strap of her guitar case.

Shadow's Vigil (SporkoBug x Byte)

Ophelia’s body shot up at the familiar bong of the monastery bell, breathing a series of short gasps like she’d run the hunter gauntlet several times over.

“Bloody Hell.”

The room was a collection of smears and vague shapes, but her nerves felt the fingers buried in that silk gown trembling to the rhythm of her anxious heart. The dream she had wasn’t of typical rune diagrams or hazy, half-remembered tales old man Archibald muttered while sorting the library.

Last night’s figments felt different. Deliberate. Like she was actually there, and not seeing the woven intricacies of her brain making something up while she rested.

Her black bob cut was wrecked, slick with sweat and jutting in odd places like in that one electrostatic demonstration she once volunteered for.

She felt the creature's anger and frustration, the heat still lingered as if it was her own; she convinced herself that was why she was shaking, at least.

The woman shook her head, finally swinging her legs from under the warm confines of the woolen blanket. If the dream felt vivid, it was probably because she’d exhausted herself reading the library’s cracked volume on Essence redistribution in non-sentient entities.

Her room was dark, save for the dim lamplight crawling through the open space under her door. Hands found and set the slim glasses on her nose, a single finger tracing the scar under her eye while she lit the half-dipped candle with a free hand.

Then the morning ritual started. Getting dressed. The gown was replaced with her uniform. Not the hunter garb, the plated boots and gauntlets and padded coat. No, she wore her initiate outfit instead. A skirt and blouse, faded brown, leather boots and gloves - easier than the plate when there was nothing to hunt.

After that she left her safe haven and entered the underground hallways, legs swinging along the familiar route to the mess hall of the Vigil headquarters.

Ophelia was already reading a tome about runic configurations as she dug into stale bread and some scrambled eggs. Fellow members were greeted absently, but amicably as they passed the strange woman.

She read the same paragraph three times without noticing, the haze of that dream still lingered behind her eyes.

Heroes, Defend the City!

@Eviledd1984 Hey, sad to hear it. I hope everything is okay at least. Thanks for letting us know, and good luck out there.

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Why must thou tempt me.

Is there any hard limit on what kind of royal mage (magic type/focus) belongs to what continent? Also, do they have to be the stuffy robed kind? I'm kind of toying with a warrior-type mage idea, probably based out of ȶɦɛ ǟռȶǟʀȶɨӄ, for a viking-esque royal family.

Heroes, Defend the City!

Annika watched the dragon dissolve with a splash; Liquidised form painting the aftermath of an anti-climactic encounter. She decided not to comment, a dip of her chin to acknowledge a job well done. Perhaps.

Her visor dimmed as the threat markers on her HUD dropped to null. Hostile entity: dereferenced. Environmental risk: low. Civilian presence: non-critical. The soundscape shifted, voices bleeding back in now that the urgency had evaporated. Explanations. Laughter, maybe. Someone asking questions she didn’t need answers to.

Instead she crouched, setting the datapad carefully against her knee. Ike and Omar descend at a silent recall. They hovered for a beat, then folded into themselves at the press of a button.

“Good job.” She whispered, using her sleeve to wipe at a paint streak on Omar's housing. She would clean that properly later.

She exhaled, slow and measured, and stowed Omar alongside the first. The backpack settled heavier against her spine. Familiar weight, familiar order.

Around her, the scene unraveled into aftermath: the promise of cleanup crews, idle chatter, someone accepting food they hadn’t asked for. Annika registered it all distantly, like background radiation. None of it required intervention.

A demonstration, then.

She straightened, adjusting the straps of her pack until they sat just right. Her visor lifted, exposing her eyes to the open air again. The migraine warning she’d been suppressing ticked up one notch, then stabilized.

She took one last look at the empty space where the dragon had been.

“…Inefficient,” she said quietly.

Heroes, Defend the City!

Hey all, going to work on a post for Annika today after work. Sorry, had a busy weekend with a concert and all, so I had a lazy Sunday. x)

@miharu I'll send you a PM!