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Narkissa Langdon


Narkissa unconsciously kept her eyebrow raised as the man kept going on in what seemed to be an overly enthusiastic demeanor. Friendly, but a bit excessively so for a stranger, no? She quickly latched on to what he was saying nonetheless. Other one? Mortal…?
Oh no. Was this another god? She wasn’t sure if she liked propositions from deities.
“Well, I’m listening,” she finally said, carefully. “I doubt any one thing can provide such a fairy tale ending, though,” she decided to point out.

Black-haired girl? Lazhira? Misaki? Nobunaga? If one of them turned it down, it could be a trap—

The man unrolled his scroll, and Narkissa was able to get a glimpse of it. It looked very much like a gun. In fact, with the long tube and trigger mechanism, there was really no mistaking it as anything other than an object that at least acted like a gun. That definitely got her attention, but not enough for her to immediately dive for the scroll or even accept it. After all, designing a rudimentary firearm was easy enough. All you needed was a metal tube with an end closed off, and wouldn’t explode under the pressure of gunpowder.

But therein was the hard part—making the gunpowder, and a tube sufficiently strong enough that it wouldn’t explode. The gunpowder wasn’t too unreasonable—all you needed was the right ratio of sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter, and you had to know how to properly corn it. Narkissa knew the ratios the larger European powers used during the age of sail—there was actually a surprising amount of variation. The metallurgy to make a barrel that wouldn’t result in a large grenade, however… Making an actual gun –full sized cannon—was very easy. It could be done with bronze-age technology; the same techniques to cast bronze statues worked for creating bronze cannon. Making a handheld weapon… was almost impossible without the proper metallurgical knowledge, and the world she had seen thus far hadn’t demonstrated the ability to forge strong enough iron.

Then the question was, would a god know?

At the very least, a gun didn't usually bring a happy ending.

“I can’t say it’s not tempting,” she admitted. “I think some introductions would be in order, first. I’m Narkissa. You are…? If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” She glanced back at the scroll. “What is the Moonless? And what girl were you talking about? That project of yours might be something that I’d be able to help you with, but you have a very ambitious design there, friend. If you can tell me what materials you need and what specific sort of help, then I’ll be able to know if I can help you,” she offered, cautiously.
Aureia, of gold, commerce, wealth,
and the far less important, trivial aspects of travel and luck

Aureia had yet to talk to the priestess, but not out of immediate disinterest. It was just that there were other equally interesting things to do or talk to at the moment, and that was figuring out the mystery behind the loss of their powers, and greeting the newly returned Moridax.

“Ah… that’s unfortunate,” she commiserated. After all, everybody here was affected in one way or the other. “But… it does beg the question, is it still there after all these years?”

She was caught by surprise by the corpse-woman suddenly jumping over and engaging her in an impromptu dance. Giggling a bit, it was definitely still a strange experience to have been awakened and suddenly lead around in a dance by the Lord of the Underworld in the guise of a walking corpse. Strange, but amusing.

“Well, Lady Moridax,” she started, a tone of amusement still in her voice, before turning steelier, “We do have a ‘Holy Emperor’ and all his minions to cut down to size, so you better stock up on lots of paper. Ah, it really does seem like the world needs to be fixed now, huh?”
Nazca Whitehall
Clockwork Autumn

“Hmm.” A dispassionate murmur arose from a certain silver-haired girl as crimson-colored eyes flitted over a friendly, familial telegram from her adoptive father. It was written in the plaintext language of her homeland, and despite its innocuous appearance, had a multiple-layer cipher hidden within. Without a further use for the paper, she fed the scrap to the small clockwork hawk resting on her shoulder. With a majestic cry, it spread its convincingly feathered wings and swooped out through the cabin’s open window to shadow the Queen Titania, the telegram long gone.

Sitting back at her writing desk, the girl silently penned her response.


A peregrine circled in the skies above Bermuda, its keen eye lazily searching for its prey. It was a strange sighting, as the species was not native to this region, but to the natives and students of the island, there were always far stranger things afoot to take notice of a single example of an invasive species.

Below, Nazca Whitehall took in the environment of the island around her. Its architecture was truly impressive, its stonework and terracotta masonry constructed on a grand scale, and indeed, a beauty to rival even the majesty of the buildings of London. Beneath the beautiful façade and shifting cultural aesthetics, laid a masterwork of city planning, its organized, tight construction belying its origins and quick rise as a city of the post-war era. Nazca could appreciate it all, but preferred the more organic way that London and the cities of her childhood had developed and incorporated the formulae and learning of the recent years. More importantly, however, was the access to the resources and opportunities that such a modern city could bring, despite its artificial nature.

For such a planned society, she had expected some unusual and rigid rules, and indeed, that was seen in the decision to separate students from adults. Nazca had no opinion on the majestic nature of the dormitories; having lived in the palaces of the Tlaxcala, from the spartan encampments of a defeated army on retreat, the slums in hiding, and then back to grandeur again in the manors of England, as long as there was bed and a roof, it was sufficient. Good food, on the other hand…

Most unusual, however, was the dormitory curfew. For how much freedom and leeway the academy offered the students, a curfew felt out of character, and the explanations and justification offered to back it was stranger still. Thankfully, she was in a unique position to investigate it, even if there was a distinct risk of property damage to herself if the rumors of deep fog were true. That, however, would be something to worry about at a later time. With help, she’d already identified her person of interest.

There was a ball to attend, food to eat, and a job to perform.


The private opera boxes were a nice touch. It allowed Nazca to eat to her heart’s content –with an eclectic variety of dishes from the world’s cultures and cuisines—in peace, so that she could savor each and every flavor without interruption, all while getting the chance to observe the organized chaos down below. Just as her selection of foods were eclectic, so were the varied students mingling on the floor below her. It was an entire generation’s worth of the world’s most gifted and talented, and there were enough faces that she could put names to in the crowd that it almost seemed to be a gala of celebrities. A gala of very dangerous celebrities, if looked at from a different angle.

One of the male students, darker-skinned like herself, caught her eye.

Nazca decided her own allowance for private enjoyment was over. It was time to head back down below to properly greet the students she would likely be working with –or against—for the next few years. Along the way, she picked up a nice sweet little beverage –some sort of fruity concoction made of pineapple blend and some other tropical fruit that she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was a good dessert.

By the time she was back on the floor, her target was in conversation with two other students. One was the tsarist Russian prodigy, and the other was… a polymath from Iceland? Nazca didn’t particularly care much about Iceland, especially not when the cursed scion from the Mughal Empire warranted attention. So, she approached them.

There was a blank look on her face. Of all languages, they were speaking in Chinese. Of all the main languages in the world, it was the only one she barely knew. Then, her eyes fell upon the Turkish Delights in the Mughal man’s hand, and she decided to forcefully enter herself in the conversation. Subtlety be damned, she was going in.

“Excuse me,” she interjected directly, in perfectly accented Latin, before bluntly pointing at the Turkish Delights. “I was looking to try some of those, but the kitchen ran out. May I have one?”


@SgtEasy @SilverPaw @Psyker Landshark

In -FV- 1 day ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
“Well,” Iphie shrugged back, “These sorts of games would be all server-side anyway. I’d be zapping the servers through your phone, not your account. Besides, I’m confident enough in my work that some silly game companies won’t detect me… your loss,” she replied, quickly thanking the waitress before occupying her mouth with her arriving food. “I mean. Corporations hack for personal gain all the time, Tian. Courtlandt Group probably gets about a hundred discrete –and not discreet—intrusion attempts from corporate or state actors every day, you know?” As far as food went, it wasn’t bad at all. Even if she could get the best meals home-cooked by a personal chef whenever she wanted, there was always a place for crappy diner or fast food. A meal didn’t have to be high-end to taste good, after all, and they really did seem to have the formula for their spicy honey butter sauce down well. Finger licking good, even.

Even so, Iphigenia had an image to keep, and ate politely and reservedly as usual. But even with her slower pace, she had long finished her food before Mason’s granddaughter had arrived, and she was working on a second drink. “So, where is the young lady…?”

The purple-haired girl finally had her answer when the teenaged brat finally barged into the diner to mouth off at them with a rant. Iphie raised her eyebrows. Well then.

“While the diner actually wasn’t my first choice, they really do have a good point. Besides, it’d be more than suicidal, and it would be rather unsporting of them to attack a civilian diner,” she finally replied, with a bit of an amused expression on her face. Really, an uppity brat was actually leagues and bounds more entertaining than a starstruck fan. “For the record, I can borrow the robot chefs to act as said security detail if I really wanted. Have you seen the knives they wield back there? They’re quite sharp.”
If you don't mind, I'm gonna wait for you to post first this time around, @Pyromania99
@ERode Ah, right. Added in a line to reflect that.
Actually, if we're from the same country, does that mean we're working together?

Maybe, maybe not. Who knows~?
Narkissa Langdon


Thankfully, she was able to find the tools she wanted. The frame itself also came along easily enough, only hampered by her lack of nails—it took her a little more time, but she was able to fasten a sort of mortise and tenon-like system to fit the fashioned planks all together, drawing from her knowledge of historical woodworking –it was a method common enough in houses and older wooden vessels from before the age of sail, after all—to create something workable. All she needed to do now was to meet back up with Misaki and discuss how they’d like to proceed with the rest of the project. She wondered if the Japanese woman had an success with finding a suitable pulp for the paper.

She was in the process of sanding the nearly completed instrument that she realized she as being approached, this time by a stranger. Seeing that it was probably a villager, and not one Lazhira had seemed to have mentioned or introduced her to, Narkissa was immediately on guard, despite the frail and frankly ridiculous outfit that he seemed to be wearing.

Setting down the frame against the side of Lazhira’s house, she raised an eyebrow before addressing him. “Yes? Can I help you?” He seemed harmless, but nonetheless, she positioned herself in a way to bolt or defend herself if she really needed to.

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