From the moment that Kuremi had mentioned budgeting concerns, Maggie was knee-deep in funding. Despite being an outsider to the culture at hand, the redhead had a good feel for where the students rested their interests. It certainly wasn’t with the Occult Club; it rarely tended to be that such a club wasn’t almost at constant odd with funding to begin with, and, while that could earn sympathy from a bleeding heart, Maggie’s did not -- that, and Japanese mythologies really clashed with her Irish mythologies, so, she’d a small cultural bias. It was simply logical that she would allocate less funding to the Occult Club; personal feelings aside.
In that, she was left with the Baseball Club and the Judo Club. As it stood, Judo didn’t stand on par with Baseball; the pastime was simply grander than the sport. If she divert funding from the Baseball Club, she stood to lose profit from game -- especially, away game. Judo was played for titles, for honor, and showmanship. At least, that’s how she saw it. It was better to profit, as that brought attention and funding into the academy. As such, she would slide what was needed to repair the Judo Club equipment, and nothing more.
As she processed, allocated, and reallocated funding here and there, Maggie was tapping her fingers against the side of a rather large abacus. It was an old device of ancient wood, first stone, and old magic -- unbeknownst to anyone outside her family, or without a fair degree of magical perception. To the layman, it was an archaic device that calculated numbers with practiced efficiency, and just an odd choice for doing math in the digital age. To her, it was a calming means of thinking, flexing her magic in public, and, of course, doing hard math.
However, her concentration was shattered, once Noboru addressed her. Looking up, she tried to pull, even a fragment, of conversation, and was falling to. Fortunately, before she had to answer him, or anyone, her hip was vibrated. Save by the silent bell, she picked up her cellphone, and answer in a near-impenetrably thick, Irish brogue, speaking at a fever pitch about... something. It was clearly distressing her, but she didn’t show it. Sighing, she hung up after several firm repeatings of the same phrase, and flopped into her seat.
Plaintively, she, clearly, swore something in a her native language, and looked up. “Wait... Did someone ask me something,” she asks, having genuinely forgotten what she was asked.
Pain storms forth, like a cacophonous peal of thunder in the grandiose desert heat; a herald of radical change. Every millimeter of bone could be felt, as it fractured into pieces. Every centimeters of vessel of blood could be felt, as they split open. Every inch of muscle could be felt, as they ripped away and apart. Every moment a repeating loop of agony; a silently screaming herald of Death.
Marshall didn't need to heed the call, however -- he simply followed her soothing voice, murmuring like a brook into his ears, and drawing on his soul. From behind shattered eyes, he beheld her ethereal perfection, and she caressed his cheeks -- crossing the River of Souls. From her lips, passed unspeakable promises, and unspoken affection; as if, delighted to see him, once again. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, before he raised a phantom finger, and pressed it to hers; gently shushing her.
Bemused, she smirked at him, and her face changed from perfection to an unnaturally pale with deep bags beneath her majestically green eyes. Her form change from ethereal to solid; shaping into a small humanoid, a Harvin woman with all the features that Death had took. Marshall opened his eyes, as his knife clattered to the floor. “Another date, you and I,” he says, bading his fleeting lover goodbye, before looking up. “Are you insane...? Do you think, I would tarnish such a beautiful woman for sport?”
Marshall eyed the speaking Harvin, sick; twisted; hungering for her. Selmia didn't exist before him, but Death's Nymph; a daughter of his ephemeral lover. He took her in, as she spoke in the same soothing insanity; same aura of finality; same desire to embrace the unending. “I couldn't bring myself to slaughter such beauty,” he laments, “but, I must... Astrals, salve my soul... I must... partake in my greatest sin.” Marshall picked up his knife, and looked down it, at Selmia. “Skies above, I hate your kind...” he says, frowning, “Harvin.”
Marshall tested the swing of his knife, the weight upon his wrist, “So happy. So jovial. So underfoot,” he flipped the blade, “But, you... you are so much bigger than your kinfolk. Not happy, unless you are making something suffer; writhe and squirm. Not jovial, under someone is screaming under your knife; bit by bit exposed to your mind.” Marshall beamed, a Glasgow Smile. “You... I love.”
”Don’t lie to me.” the harvin said, gently running her hand along his chest as she passed by underneath his left arm. All at once, Marshall would feel his eyes turn towards the ceiling, his back coming into view as his severed head plopped into Selmia’s hand. Looking into his eyes, the Harvin’s glee was gone, only expressing pure, anguished jealousy as she scowled at him. ”You’re looking past me.” was all she said as she tossed his head back up, having it land squarely on his bloodied neck.
Flicking her knife out in full, it was plain to see Marshall’s blood already coated the white shiny metal, her tongue flashing across it for a brief second before she spat her bloodied saliva on the ground. ”I forgive you though. After all, you’re the only one that won’t break. The only thing in this world that I want,” she would say before stooping low and lunging at Marshall, her form beautiful as her knife cut through air, on a path with Marshall’s lungs.
Marshall didn’t move a smidge, letting the neck impact with his lung; letting the blood surge within, without, as his neck fused the halves together. “Endlessly, so special,” he says, looping an his right arm around her, under the small of her back, and digging his fingers into her spine. “I can taste it. I want to taste it more. I need to...” he grinned at her, putting pressure into his hold, and bending her. “I don’t even know your name. All this time, and I never bothered to learn it -- remember it, if I did,” he admitted, “My sweet sociopath.”
Deftly, he jammed his left thumb under her chin, striking a nerve beneath, within the hallow, and forcing her to face him eye-to-eye. “You are wrong. I’m not looking past you,” he says, “I’m seeing you, for you, and what you are...” All of a sudden, he relinquished her from the back-breaking hug, hoisting her in the air for a moment, and squarely kicking her in the chest; sending her on a tumble away. “A Death Nymph... Someone for me to love,” he smiled, warmly... in the worst way.
Falling and tumbling from the kick, Selmia lied limp on the ground for a moment, before her hand twitched, and her body rise, one foot at a time. Staggered over, she looked at Marshall, eyes flashing and her pupil turning into a vertical slit before she charged forward, this time far faster than she had been before. Wordlessly she sliced at the tendons in Marshall’s ankles, sliding beneath him before swiftly turning and cutting at the base of his spine. Something had changed about her movements...the way her joints bent and sprung wasn’t like anything a normal being was capable of.
”I don’t really need someone to love...just a plaything, really.” she said, painfully following Marshall’s spin with her knife, intending to fully dissect him then and there.
“Then, let’s play...” Marshall says, letting himself slip straight into the knife, and bury itself into him. Her attack on his tendons were healing before they could even become issue. “Let’s play, ‘Can You Get Your Knife Back with Broken Fingers,’ yeah,” he asks, before turning and slamming his palm into his right foot, and releasing a shotgun-like burst of blood against the flesh and bone. “Oh,” he chuckled, pleasantly, “I’m sorry, I mean, ‘A Broken Foot.’ I did. Honest.”
Letting out a sharp gasp of pain, Selmia was on the ground once more, but Marshall would see no damage done to the foot at all...instead, he’d see a single large snake, completely riddled with holes lying at his back, dead on the floor as its body writhed in death throes. Rising once again, Selmia snorted, before letting out a loud, uproariously laughter. ”This fight will never end! Neither of us can die! This is the best!” she said, delighting in the chaos brought by two seemingly immortal beings fighting to the death. Marshall would see her knife slither back to Selmia, carried in the mouth of a small violet snake with a yellow ringed pattern. He would also soon start feeling its poison course through his veins. Even if he was immortal, if that circulated to his heart, it would greatly impact his ability to fight.
Marshall looked at Selmia, for a moment. “It’s over,” he says, turning around, and walking away. “I am more than willing to be the plaything of my lovers,” he says, kicking his foot forward, and an object up like a hacky sack, “but, a cheater...” Marshall scoffed, disgusted. “To use poison. There’s no such thing as honor in combat, but, such an underhanded move by such an intelligent...” he paused, and looked back at her, “Harvin...” he snarled the word, “That’s ground for our divorce.”
All of a sudden, Marshall turned, and raised his hand; his body seemed to rapidly dehydrate, as a massive ball of crimson gathered above the sparking gauntlet. It was the size of a watermelon, considering what created it, and reeked of the liquid. “Here, my signature in blood!” he roared, before firing the bullet in a hail of shots that punched through everything they hit. He didn’t expect a single one to stop her, but, he wasn’t banking on that.
No. It was his knife which he’d slung at amid them to impact her throat he was counting in, when she shed her skin. It wasn’t a grand plan, but, he gave him enough time to install his heart, purged the poison, and put a lot of spare “ammo” on the battlefield. Small victories, he supposed.
Stunned by his statement of saying its over, before she trembled, clutching her sides as Marshall began launching his hail of bullets. Rather than defending herself, the small Harvin simply took it, all the while something writhed beneath her skin. Walking forward slowly amidst the hail, Marshall would see that rather than just simply walking headlong into fire, she was subtly weaving past his bullets, the worst damage being done were a series of grazes. The knife however found purchase just below her chin, before her eyes opened wide. Struggling to stand, she sank to her knees, blood pouring from her mouth and wound before she smiled at Marshall.
”A...Po...Phis…” she murmured before Marshall could see her skin squirm, the knife falling from her wound as a small flash of scales was visible beneath her wounded flesh. Selmia’s body thrashed violently for a moment, the wound closing. Before Marshall could see more however, a familiar Primal Presence neared him, a tentacle of Charybdis lashing out at him from the side of the wall, having reached around the entire way by order of the Woman in Gray to protect Selmia.
Marshall grinned, “How curious,” he says, before darting forward at the tentacle, and arming himself. He didn’t have a lot of blood inside, so he dragged the Touch of Virtue along the ground, stockpiling blood, before releasing it in a rapid series of closely packed shot. Years of practice had taught him how to manipulate the release types, from concussive blasts to near-beam shots. “Hup!” he grunted, scooping Selmia up with his left arm, and tossing her forward -- away -- while snapping up his knife with his boot. “What’s so important that a Primal Beast would be seeking you,” he asks, catching her, and tossing her again. “I wonder, who benefacts you,” he caught her, again, and tossed her, again; turning around, and shooting at Charybdis once again, before catching Selmia and flunging her behind himself.
“And, yes, I could carry you,” he says, catching her, and throwing her, “No. I won’t.”
Selmia was unconscious, but judging from the literal hundreds of snakes biting Marshall as he tossed her, it was safe to say that taking her ANYWHERE wasn’t a safe idea, especially since each wound to the tentacle spawned a few of the beasts the others were encountering.
Marshall would see airships parked a bit further down, personal ones fit for only a few people to ride within. However, standing in the middle of it all was the woman he’d vaguely remember hovering around Selmia while she had dissected him. Standing, she stared right at him, as if looking through him completely. Marshall’s arm covered by the Touch of Virtue would quiver, her eyes fixed upon him. ”Return Selmia. Do so and I’ll let you escape, no questions asked.” she said, not saying anything else.
“Sure,” Marshall says. “]In return, I want what’s mine back. And, her knife.” He slowed to a stop before her, holding Selmia in a sleeper hold beneath her neck. “I’ll exchange that equivalently. Mine for hers. No reason, beyond I want what’s seen me so intimately,” he smirked. “Simple enough?”
”Very well then.” the woman said, snapping her fingers as the snakes ceased biting Marshall. She simply stood there motionless for a moment, before Marshall could see one of the beasts slither towards him, the jarred Heart of Lust carried in its tendrils carefully, as it placed it before him, and backed away. Removing Marshall’s knife, she forced Marshall’s hand to move without his accord, which accepted Selmia’s dagger in return. ”Will that be all?” she asked, looking at Marshall with nothing short of burning hatred.
“Just one more thing,” Marshall says, taking the jar and sheathing the dagger, “Keep her chaste for me.” Smartly, both in expression and action, he stepped back with a gauntlet full of poisoned blood. “She stole much from me...” he says, “So, I’ll steal much in return. Someday. We’ll trade knives, once again. That’s a promise.”
“Until then...” Marshall’s entire persona shifted into something of absolute and wonton greed, “Protect it.”
The Woman in Gray listened to him speak, cradling Selmia in her arms as the snakes timidly clung to Selmia, rather than biting her. ”You presume far too much. If I ever see you again, I will make sure you plummet to the bottom of the skies. Immortality might make you immune to death, but an eternity falling is befitting for one as disgusting as you are.” she said, turning away from him and waving her hand dismissively. ”These airships are all fueled. Feel free to take one, if you desire, Child of Man. Wherever you run, make sure it is away from her.”
Marshall didn’t say anything, but, he relaxed, and headed to the near airship. He’d no traditional helmsman training, so he wasn’t flying anywhere; besides, he fully trusted that he’d be shot cleanly out the sky. As such, he opted to get from much needed to get some sleep, and, if the ship happened to be take out of port while he was stowed away, and he happened to be taken to a neutral port, and he happened to get off, while, all that happenstance would be pretty nice.
As he found a nice corner of a cargo hold to settle in, he looked at Selmia’s dagger. “Just as sweet...” he says, “Hey, Lady... sing me a song to sleep, eh?” He didn’t wait for the Lady of Virtue to even reply, as he settled into his first, actual sleep in a while. In the back of his mind, he had a moment’s thought, ‘Maybe, I should have asked her to get rid of the Primal. Then again, if I did, nobody would brother to leave, would they? Ah, well. I got greedy.’
Burst got kicked via the inactivity rule. Suizuochan and Kal-El stand on the edge of being kicked. Luigi, Sunbather, Vertigo, and Garland has all dropped. So, out of a cast of 15, we've lost 5, stand to lose 2... that's nearly HALF the cast, since Ammo and Shwiggity are trapped behind a massive wall of inactivity.
It was -- with a stifled yawn -- that Fudomine Academy's newest Librarian Aide, Margaret Gertrude Karp (better known as Maggie) set to shelving the last book on her cart: ‘Lying Hearts and Dragon's Fire,’ the title read. Holding it, she read the summary, “First-sight romance and hasty lies, burning up two hearts, awakens a vengeful dragon in the soul of a desperate princess, and sends a foolish priest on a fearful race for survival.” Maggie rolled her eyes, and shelved the book; she didn't have time for such farces of fancy.
Maggie didn't believe in love -- especially at first sight. It was simply beyond her, since the things she'd loved the most were ripped cleanly, yet sloppily, away from her at a young age; this level of allowing herself to simply trust was an immense hurdle to pass, in and of itself. Sighing, she pushed the book out of her thoughts, and wheeled the cart to the backroom; she needed to finish up her duties, and press on.
Looking to the Librarian, she offered a nervously polite bow, as she proclaimed, “I've finished all my tasks, Hotsuin-sensei,” she says. “If you don't need me, I'll be heading off.” Looking over, the rather extravagant looking woman just gave her a dismissive smile, as she was face stuffed with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Maggie didn't question it, but she hurried took her bag.
Surely, Kuremi-senpai was getting impatient with her absent Treasurer -- but, it wasn't her fault that she was also the Librarian Aide, and she had a prior commitment in that. Still, she hurried...
...smashing into him.
Maggie's entire world flipped, as she took in, unknown to her, a fellow colleague upon the Student Council. For a moment, her breath held, hostage in her throat, as she stared at him; eyes wide, mouth gaping, heart pounding. Habitual panic started to gnaw at her, as he radiated danger unknown -- not threat, not death, but affection. In a single instant, the concept of “soulmates” clicked with her.
Marshall sighed. His patience was wearing thin; not from the scientists that were dead and drained of blood, nor the suddenness of the tentacle that lashed at his very presence -- not even from the creature that thought itself greater than a rat before a lion. No, these were all pesky thoughts; buzzing around his head like flies around a corpse -- minor frustrations with simple solutions, and nothing more. Death was an unavoidable thing; if he hadn't killed the scientists, they would have died anyways. If he didn't step into lashing range, the blind flailing of the tentacle was little more than a stage hazard.
And, as for the little creature...
Inhaling, Marshall set himself firmly on his right leg, pivoting himself on his hip, and tensing his right arm; swelling the blood in The Touch of Virtue for an explosive burst. Firmly set, he exhaled, “...six... seven... eight...” before swinging himself forward, and driving his fist into the creature's maw. Perhaps, innumerable rows of teeth, jagged and shredding, ground against singular sleeve of indomitable armor; a creature used to consumption before conception found its savage greed awarded with drying blood, as it drooled upon an impregnable defense.
“...ten,” Marshall finished, opening his fist, releasing the blood stored like a cannon blast with the compression of a shotgun burst. Impossibly unguarded, the creature found itself bereft of a greater portion of its skull, and, with its most fleeing thoughts, it could understand one thing: its greed was never to be greater than that of its target. Marshall's fingers sank into the beast, and started to pull out its blood with reckless abandon; he needed all he could get to blast down the tentacle.
“A Savage can only challenge a Savant,” Marshall says, casting the husk aside. After a moment, he frowned, “Damn it all. I'm getting old,” he rubbed his temples, “Spouting off one-liners after a fight. I swear, if I call someone, “Bub,” I'll shoot myself.” Looking up, he observed the tentacle again, and took better notice of the wounds that it bore. “Slash marks. Unique. Uniform. These aren't made by manufactured weapons, but claws. The Erune,” he concludes, “I guess, kitty got claws, after all. I'll just follow her lead, then.”
Marshall watched the range of the tentacle, and then stepped back a few odd steps, before he jumped forward, and ripped his fingers into the deepest wound; blood sprayed from the brutal rend, and he drank it up.
Greedily.
Hungrily.
Unendingly.
Marshall grinned, sickly, powerfully, as The Touch of Virtue burned at his skin, as if, attempting to nudge him off the metaphorical edge; trying to be the blessedly light object it was, despite its darkened visage. “Not going to work,” he says, as the glove was gushing blood in excess; it would only hold so much before reaching capacity. “I need more pieces. I need more hearts. I need my heart,” remembered the thief, before he released the shriveled tentacle. Surely, a Primal Beast had plenty of blood; still, he'd taken a lion's share, judging from the pool that flowed behind him. “I need to focus on my heart...”
Sighing, he focused on his heartbeat, and found it so far away, so far down. “I guess, I am going down, then,” he says, walking to the hole in the wall. “Expressly.”
Not a moment of hesitation crossed him, as he stepped off the edge, and plummeted for the ground.
Height/Weight: 5’0”/Average (I ain‘t gonna know girl weight in any country)
Personality: Maggie is a wallflower; passive and quiet with a fearful undertones. A pacifist, Maggie is prone to the “flight” option of her “fight or flight” response, and tries to escape conflict, as opposed to participate in it. However, she cannot bring herself to leave people that she considers friends or are in genuine trouble.
Character Alignment: Chaotic Good. Due her fears and pacifistic nature, Maggie is more than willing to protect herself above others, but, can bring herself to stay in the realm of danger, if it is to protect her friends or someone truly in need of help.
Class Affinity: Berserker
Occupation: First-year Senior High Student, Member of the Student Council as Treasurer, and Part-time Librarian Aid on weekends.
Known Magic: Rune-script. Hearkening back to her Dutch-Irish ancestry, Maggie filled her less-than-happy years of solitude up by learning all she could of Runes and Rune-script; slowly attempting to recover some knowledge of Druidic Magic.
Background:
Margaret Gertrude Karp, better known to most as Maggie, is a typical teenage girl with hair that falls to her waist, as crimson as a flame, against skin as pasty as an eggshell, and hiding eyes as green as grass -- from the outside. First, and only, born of a immigrant Dutch-Irish couple, and raised in a fairly sheltered manner, Maggie developed few personal skills, and a weak understanding of the reality of the world; which was brutally changed, due to a botched breaking and entering that left her motherless, fearfully clinging to a crippled father, and afraid of existing.
After years of therapy, homeschooling, and coaxing, Maggie enrolled in Fudomine Academy as a test of her abilities to trust... in society, people, and most importantly, herself. For three years, she was able to grow, and while her fears never truly diminished – simply becoming a strong lean to pacifism and running away from danger – Maggie was able to adapt, in her own ways, to a public life, and make connections. As such, in her first year of senior high, she aims true for the position of Student Council Treasurer, as well as applying for a simple position of Librarian Aide.
However, for all that is good, a shadow of bad looms with threat.
Ambition: Ambition is too grand of concept for Maggie. All she needs is to pass through each day, and survive her interactions at school and her rare outings. Right now, all she desires most is to exist.
Servant(s)
Parameters STR: B+ (Mastered: A+) / [Loving Loathing: EX] AGI: C (Mastered: B) / [Loving Loathing: A+] END: B (Mastered: B+) / [Loving Loathing: A+] MAN: C (Mastered: B) / [Loving Loathing: B+] LUK: D (Mastered: C) / [Loving Loathing: E-] Berserker Noble Phantasm: A (Mastered: EX) / [Condition: If ‘Loving Loathing’ is active, this is “Sealed”] Trigger Noble Phantasm: Loving~! Loathing~!! A Maiden's Heart Isn’t Meant To Be Broken~!!! (Mastered: ?) [Condition: This cannot be halted, unless Install is broken] Caster Noble Phantasm: A (Mastered: EX) [Condition: if ‘Loving Loathing’ is not active., this is “Sealed”]
Berserker Noble Phantasm: Flame-coloured Kiss -- Boosted by Kiyohime’s overwhelming passion, Maggie’s own burning passion can spark a flame that becomes a deadly blaze in the heart -- quite literally -- of anyone that would care to dream to harm her Anchin.
This is a Single-target Noble Phantasm.
Trigger Noble Phantasm: Loving~! Loathing~!! A Maiden's Heart Isn’t Meant To Be Broken~!!! -- Less of a Noble Phantasm, and more of a state of being brought on by extreme devotion turned to abject misery from simple rejection. If Maggie’s “one true love” speaks any words of rejection to her, her mind is emptied of almost all human thoughts; all but except one: reversing that rejection.
To do this, Maggie falls to the depths of despair, and becomes a beast uncaged, yet bound to a new slavery -- not one of loving, but loathing, and viewing everything as her true love’s enemies until accepted, for their is no other reason her true love would reject her.
This is an Self-target Noble Phantasm.
Caster Noble Phantasm: Ring, Ring, Ring The Bell -- Focus, sharp as a knife, hot as a flame, fills the primal might of the runestones that Maggie tends to carry with her, and she scatters forth a mass of them in two handfuls. Above her, the skies erupt with the mighty ring of temple bells and the aggravated roars of dragons, as the runestones summon the bronze-cast bell to enshroud her targets, and the dragons that ring them with knocking flames.
This is a Anti-Army Noble Phantasm.
Include: Maggie grows a pair of small, twined horns to each side of her temple, above her ears, and gains Kiyohime’s flame-fanning tessen.
Install: Maggie gains full access to Kiyohime’s strengths and her weaknesses; the ability to sling flames, breathe them, to move, and fight with an inhuman passion... all for him.
Skills:
All Skills have a Secondary Rank, subjected to radical growth by the Skill: “Loving Loathing”.
Loving Loathing; “Love. Love. Love. Loath! Love.” ~ A subgenre of Mad Enhancement, for Kiyohime, her madness only affects her seriously when rejected by her “one true love”. As such, she's surprisingly calm, in spite of the Skill; if only a bit obsessive. (Minimum) Rank D (Maximum; Unmastered) C+ (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Rank EX
Curses of A Broken Heart; "Anchin, don’t you love me...?" ~ Triggers with 'Loving Loathing', representative of Kiyohime's heart which has been broken, and the spirit of the dragon that's arisen. So long as these two Skills are active, Kiyohime is considered a Caster, instead of Berserker; allowing her to fight with Talisman-style Magic vis-à-vis Maggie’s Runestones. (Minimum) Rank ? (Maximum; Mastered) Rank ?? (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Rank ???
Aptitude for Slaughter (Tools); “This fan’s winds carry all my love for you, Anchin.” ~ Maggie becomes skilled in tessenjutsu, able to ward off sword blows with expert turns of Kiyohime's ceremonial fan. (Minimum) Rank B (Maximum; Mastered) Rank A (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Sealed
Innocent Monster; “If love is meant to be monstrous, then let’s be true monsters, Anchin!” ~ Maggie is viewed as if a dragon while Installed; garnering the respect and fear a dragon is afforded. (Minimum) Rank C+ (Maximum; Mastered) Rank B+ (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Rank EX
Mana Burst (Flame); “My love burns for you brighter than the sun, itself, Anchin!” ~ Maggie can create flames of a much stronger degree with Kiyohime's fan than her own Runestones. (Minimum) Rank C (Maximum; Mastered) Rank B+ (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Sealed
Fairies Maddening; "No force alive will stand between me and Anchin, neither mortal nor divine!" ~ Maggie plants her feet, grits her teeth, and growls at her opposition with the ethereal might of a dragon awoken from slumber; forcing all to submit or suffer the breaking of their mind and will. (Minimum) Rank B (Maximum; Mastered) Rank A+ (Maximum; Loving Loathing) Sealed
Install Appearance: Maggie’s horns extend to their full length, her crimson hair is exchanged for green, and her form is draped in the regality of Kiyohime’s wonderful green and white dress, golden obi, snow-white stockings, as well as her sandals, and a few subtle dragonic features, with golden eyes and elongated canines.
Servant Biography:
Kiyohime, an innocent woman fallen victim of the curses of unbridled emotion and desire. The beautiful daughter of a village headsman, found herself in the company of a traveling priest named Anchin; the man fostered by her wealthy family for a time. For a spell, Anchin returned Kiyohime's affections, and they were happy... until Anchin returned to his senses, and overcame her spellbinding beauty. Leaving Kiyohime, Anchin set off without reasons for breaking her heart with the changing of his own.
In an instant, her boundless loving turned to equally boundless loathing, and she pursued Anchin endlessly, mercilessly; anger shaping her, as she chased. At the shore of a river, Kiyohime was daunted for a moment, as Anchin fled across upon a rowed boat, before she snapped completely. Into the chopping river, she waded, and she'd her humanity like a snake it's skin.
Kiyohime had become a dragon.
Anchin found himself doggedly chased, and cornered at a near temple. A man of God, he was given sanctuary by his fellow clergymen beneath the cover of a large bell. However, there was no fooling the senses of a dragon, and Kiyohime sniffed him out. In anger, she wound across the body of the bell, and banged it greatly, before sundering the metal cast with a great fire.
A fire so great that it turned the bell to molten metal and incinerated Anchin; leaving Kiyohime to believe he'd escaped her again, and left her to pursue his phantoms until her death.
Servant Personality:
Kiyohime is a lying lie-hating hypocrite born of raw emotion, spurned affection, and a young woman’s unknowing. Any man that has the unfortunate luck to be saddled with her as a Master becomes her “Anchin” forever, and his word is her gospel. However, his word can be easily misconstrued, and a single dismissive statement can become a rejection of her love.
And, that brings out the lie-hating dragon within.
Virgil snorted, as the de facto leader of the group before him spoke. “And, what,” he asks, as he sheathed his tanto into his right forearm sheath, “we're just supposed to fall in line; be good, little soldiers?” Virgil's eyes hardened, as hatred swelled around him; corrupting his effeminately beauty with explicit masculinity. “How dare you.” A statement, not a question. “How dare you even think.” A rhetorical repeat, not a question, either. “Do you honestly believe you can command an Empress,” Virgil asks, “as lowly among the gallows as you are?” Virgil clasped his hands, and gave them firm shake; unclasping them to reveal a quintet of three-inch tall bottles and a large egg-sized silver ball. “Potassium nitrate. Soluble carbohydrates. Sodium bicarbonate. Sulfur. Charcoal. Aluminum foil,” Virgil looked at Makoto, “Tell me, Caster-keeper, what could be made of these?”
“A smoke bomb.” Makoto said plainly, looking at Virgil with a wry look in his eye. “So...why NOT help them out anyways? You really have anything better to do with super powers?” he asked, his fingers netted behind his head, palms pressed against the back of his head. It wasn’t any of his concern whether the assassin-card-holder joined up with them, but he figured he might as well see whether he’d be more likely to become an enemy or an ally later down the line. After all...he had to assume Ratatoskr wouldn’t be happy about a card holder being allowed to run free.
Virgil smirked, as the bottles and the foil fell into a swirl of Mana in his palms, and in a burst of light became a handful of alchemized pellets in a jar of glass. “Do I? Do you? Does anyone? As smart of your Servant must be, it’s burdened by your utter lack of empirical oversight,” he says, bouncing the jar. “Do you think anyone would simply bow to the request of a stranger? Are we dogs? Do we roll when order, present our bellies to foreign sword, and close our eyes in ignorance?” Virgil hefted the jar into the air, “I am no dog. I am a wolf. An Alpha.”
Makoto just put his hands in his pockets and walked away. ...This guy was a douche. No doubt about it. Still, maybe he’d have to work with him sometime. He seemed more independant rather than hostile...and running alone ran you head first into problems. He hadn’t expected him to be an alchemist...and boy, did Zosimos have trash to talk about his technique and word choice, but Makoto just strolled away, tapping the Zappy Gloves Ratatoskr agent on the shoulder. ”Don’t bother. Let’s just get going, ‘kay?” he said, seeming not all that bummed out about Virgil not wanting to join. In fact...thinking about it, he just might try and work with him after this Ratatoskr business blows over. Not like he had a formal contract drawn up or anything. Just some people asking him to help save the world...because, reasons, he supposed.
Virgil squatted, as the jar crashed into the ground; a massive cloud of smoke billowing into the air. He inhaled, and drew whatever power he’d left to spare. “Install, Assassin,” he said. “A shadow swoops low... Shifts silently among the reeds... A crane strikes unseen...” he envisioned the battlefield, stretching to the horizon itself, and slung his spear into the air. Overcast, the sky became, before the ethereal weapons rained down, and the smoke spread thin.
Neither Assassin nor Berserker remaining.
Makoto watched the spear fly away, but lost track of it amidst all the others that followed. Walking back to the gym, he figured it was about time to go anyways. Strolling off, he seemed like he couldn’t care less about the two that had just up and left. He didn't make enemies with them, at least. So, future options existed in case Ratatoskr didn’t work out. Putting his eager smile on once again, Makoto went back into the gym through the hole Flamma made slamming him into the wall, and waved at Maria. “The Assassin and Berserker holders left, Ms. Hotsuin!” he said. Now...to negotiate pay. And maybe even a workshop space.
Maggie and Virgil were absorbed in their catfight, as Makoto fashioned his Xerxes Plushie. Internally, each was struggling to maintain their overall control of their anger; being reduced to such crude combat, lacking elegance and flair, infuriated Virgil to the core, while being unable to simply end this melee in one strike and destroy her opponents was driving Maggie up the wall. However, as soon as the Xerxes Plushie gave his justifiably confident laugh, their anger snapped in a completely different direction.
His direction.
As intended, Maggie surged off her knees, and onto her feet; her hair glowing with a blinding intensity, as she gripped her jawbone club. Roaring, she kicked off the ground, and lunged at the Xerxes Plushie. However, as NOT intended, Virgil released a sharp snarl, and disappeared into the shadow. “My lonely shadow; Fans out like branches on trees; Through which I reach all...” his voice carried on the wind, before nine figured ripped out of the ethereal.
The Xerxes Plushie was wrecked all to hell, as its head was ripped off by a brutal swing, and its body was impaled by nine spears.
It took a minute, a full minute, to realized the Plushie was just that, a damn plushie that wasn’t a real being that was violently dead and/or brutally dying. Standing, Maggie tightened her hold on her club, and turned on her heel... however, time had finally taken its toll, and her hair stopped glowing, like a fire dying out. Forward, she pitched, as her form started to glow, before her Install Spiritrons came unwound, and reformed into her Class Card. “I’m not... falling...” she groaned, struggling to stand, before settling, “...sleepy...”
“I win...” Virgil grinned, as his form flattened out, Install coming undone, “Nn... me again...” Virgil grit his teeth, physical exhaustion rapidly catching up with the near absolute exhaustion of his mana. “Never been pressed that hard,” he inhaled, exhaled, and then got to his feet. “Include, Assassin...” Virgil huffed, lifting his Class Card, and crushing it; he’d enough mana remaining to wrap his arms in Hanzo’s arm-wear, forge her tanto, and handful of tools. “Now, what is going on here?”
“And, put that away, before I castrate you,” he says, looking at the Ratatoskr Soldier with the shock-gloves.
Iwannabeyours
Crusader Lord
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