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@Xaltwind

This doesn't warrant a full-blown discussion. I'm just asking to tone it back, if only a little. It's not about realism to me. I, simply, wanna enjoy the experience in and out of character.

Beyond that, crack jokes to your heart's content.
Shizuyama peeps are so smrt, aren't they?
"Hey, we're being invaded by another human kingdom and their army of 100,000, but there's a group of five monsters! LET'S GET'EM!!"
*Gets wiped out and further weaken and lower their own chances of driving the invadrs off*

It is, genuinely, starting to read like you've actually got something against the Shizuyamans for... existing... at this point. I could understand pointing out their cultural ignorance and prejudice as silly, once or twice, but it's grating to see them being mocked for the sake of a "Ha-ha, funny backwater losers and their antiquated lifestyle" joke every time they do something .

They are pressed on all fronts, atm, and just want to exist in their bubble. Even if that bubble isn't welcoming to literal monsters, that's not exactly a drum worth beating every chance you get in the OOC.

If you have actual criticism of their philosophy and way of life, bare those grievances in the IC. Just feel like that's a better place than as a running joke/mockery in the OOC.
Funny, getting pinged for the temple fight despite being removed from it entirely, lol
@AzureKnight
As she held the glasses, Tiziana would feel her tentacles growing weaker by the second, as she sussed out the immense Magic Suppression Ritual put on them. Before she could mull on what a Witch was doing with such an limiting magical item, without speaking a word in affirmation or dismissal, said Witch would snatch her treasures with the same speed she'd toppled Tiziana's Doppelganger.

"Don't your lies smells like sunshine and rainbows," John says, as she strolled around Tiziana, putting Alina in a box. "You'll have to forgive me for not showering for... however long as I was in transit. It would seem, my cargo container wasn't fitted for such amenities," she says, "Not that I could have enjoyed them much in a coma, anyways."

Tiziana would feel air flow against her left side nape, as John was, suddenly, standing before her, and sniffing her from her nape to her crown. Progenies of potions, Witches had the noses that knows all, and she wouldn't forget the natural scent that she bore. "Lascuta," John says, suddenly, behind Tiziana, finger walking down her right arm, before taking her hand - committing the lewd act of holding hands in public.

In truth, she was memorizing Tiziana's spiritual flame, her Ki, "Such a temperate flame; well-kindled, yet kept cooled and flowing. This a very palatable Ki."

"I'll remember you for helping," John whispered into her ears, before she was gone - strolling down an alleyway. In the split-second that she'd moved, John was dressed to the nines, or, My usual affair, as she would put it, and striding off; Vision bouncing off the back of her head.

However, Tiziana's body was still vibing with the warmth of the once naked woman; even through her dress, and her natural defenses of moisture, the strange Witch had burned through with her warmth - leaving the phantasmal impression of her naked body lingering on Tiziana's, the warmth of her face upon her head, and the indecent hand-holding burning her palm, as the sensation crawl up it.

From crown to toe, she was enveloped in an impossible, fleeting warmth from the departing woman.

Now, Tiziana had a fresh dilemma: continue on her path to seek the gladiatorial arena, or give chase to someone she might never cross paths with again in a city as large as this. If she needed an excuse for the latter, she'd easily spy the rather regal-looking box that was in the crate John had "hatched" from so explosively.

Even from a distance, she could tell it was worth more money than a simple parcel box.

Returning it would be a helpful thing, no?
Frustratingly swept up in the maelstrom of movement and magic, Scarlett would adjust to the situation, once she was in the laboratory - there was nothing else you could call such a place.

No words were spoken by the Feral Alchemist, as Lapis started her interrogation of the strange. Her primary objective had shifted wholesale - no longer was Scarlett concerned about discovering what was driving the Makara. Lapis's earlier shout had clued her in that their were being driven by a psychosomatic influence - likely whatever had made their meat oddly delicious.

It was most likely to be found in this environment; however, the chemicals were strewn about, haphazardly, and labels were faded or handwritten. As such, she was going to trust in her nose, as the keeper of this establishment trusted their memory. Taking to task, Scarlett would sniff at the air - clearly searching for something, as she sniffed the chemical and mixtures.

After a few duds, her nose was crinkled, rather cutely, considering her less-than-cute... well... general facial expressions... once she settled on a drum filled with, likely, chemical waste.

Carefully, she sniffed it; her nose taking it apart to the base materials based on her fresh memory of the Makara's blood. Due to blocking out the chaos of their trip here, her memory of her last meal was undamaged by unnecessary distractions, and she smirked as she confirmed the source.

Her first objective secured, Scarlett would spirit about the room, gathering chemicals, one-by-one, with her left hand, as her right was yet reformed by her healing factor. It was slowed a bit by the chemical waste in her system, as her body broke it down, and turned it into biological waste with a future emergency exit plan. As she finished gathering, Scarlett would put the collection of chemicals on the table, and shake her hoodie down; reaching back, she unclasped a barrette from her hair, and used it to clasp her middle bang up against her head.

This exposed a hidden, third eye that opened wide and scanned around the room, before settling on the chemicals, and absorbing the information on them via an alchemical ritual empowered by The Void; the Eye of the Maiden, and her knowledge infinite.

After a minute, Scarlett would walk over to the drum, and her blood vessels would slam into the lid, allowing her to yank it off with absurd, unrestrained strength. Now, she had a chemical breakdown of the waste material, and just needed a complete sample of it. The Makara had degraded the sample by their own immune systems making desperate attempts to eliminate the unforeseen neurotoxin, and her own body was already over the hill in its progress.

Unfortunately, that meant that she needed to take her sample from the source - not the chemicals mixed properly, but the improper mixture that was likely wasting into the water. Therefore, gazing into the shimmering abyss, Scarlett hummed...

...before she dunked her head in the drum.
@AzureKnight
It was the shock of the water that caught her off-guard; it was cold, unkind, and purposeful - sprayed with intention, and no concern for her comfort. That was the trigger to her aggravation, though it didn't set her off. No, that was reserved for the realization of what the water had done. It was no spring shower nor a summer storm, but a torrential downpour that had blasted her clean.

And, in doing so, blasted her glasses and the cigarette they were supporting into the crates. Now, she was pissed. Behind her head, her Vision blazed, as she smoldered, and warped the air around her to glow like the sun. Her eyes morphed into two different states; her left eye divided the pupil into three, and formed matching tomoe upon a sun-coloured sclera, while her right eye became a perfect mirror of the world before her.

"I would ask you why it is you were sitting naked in a crate on some random caravan. Given the circumstance, am I right to assume that it wasn't by choice. I'm aware of how some feel about 'our' kind. I suppose I don't mind helping you out if need be."

Suddenly, she was upon Tiziana; putting the songstress on her back, and her right foot on her throat.

"I'm glad you offered," she says, as her body heat raised; threatening to burn Tiziana's delicate skin where she stood. "You're going to help me find what you just lost with that stunt of yours."

Tiziana could see, as she'd front row seats, all that John had to offer as a woman, and a threat she posed with her eyes that weren't letting her go from their sight; as well as the encroaching damage to her hands, as they seemed to be slowly burning. It would clearly take a long time, but there was evidence of her body rejecting the bulk of the heat through her palms... which likely meant, it would come out of her soles, as well, being equally vulnerable.

..and, into her precious throat, which was just as vulnerable.

Why is everyone after Hinami's posterior??


Alice is literally sitting on her ass, watching. She ain't actively after anything but finishing.
In the calming cradle of a moonlit night, smooth jazz played on a bedside table from a small, AM/FM radio. In a sheer negligee of violet satin, Johanna H. Wattzon flipped through the pages of a photobook; a dozen pictures of different women - victims of her magnetic charm and generous drink, and unknowing models in her scrapbook of perversion. Across the bedside table were a developing set of pictures; twelve in total, six and six of each of the women that lie, strewn across the floor in her bedsheets and comforters.

Models #18 and #19. A pair of Uveran twin sisters that she'd picked up at the bar; a pair of tourists that didn't know where they'd end up. Nothing in comparison to Model #17, a Grand Duchess of some such place that she didn't get the name of while she was committing royal infidelity. A smirk crossed her lips, and her polymorphed loins reacted fondly to the memory, as she stroked the pictures of the unconscious woman.

However, before she would take a walk down memory lane, the bell to her house and business rang in the dead of night. A displeased look placed her nostalgia, as she got up, and trekked to answer it. As she did, she took a look at her latest conquests, and her mood lightened.

...only to fall back with a hard thud, as she opened the door. Behind it, a tattooed Jotun in pretty standard Enforcer attire stood, his arms crossed, and face set in a scowl. Flanking him, left and right, were four Humans, two men and two women in a different flair; mercenaries from another nation, baring a familiar coat of arms.

"It's too late for this, Bazz," John says, as she was pushed past by the mercenaries rudely. "Sure, c'mon in," drawls the forced hostess, sarcastically, "Pour yourself a drink, if you like."

"It's just business, John. You know that," Bazz says, entering the room.

"Business you could turn down," John says. "Let it go. There's a pair of Uveran twins on my bedroom floor," she says, walking to her receptionist's desk, lighting a cigarette as she traveled, "If you don't mind sloppy seconds, I'm sure you can entertain yourself for a night with twin savages. Even the women can get in on it," John raised a silver flask, and smirked, "Polyjuice Potion. Eight hours of all the unmitigated fun of having a d--"

{BANG!!!}

"Cut the shit, John! Every time you do this, you do something stupider and stupider! You aren't a child!" Bazz says, the door behind him slammed shut. "You burned her face. They can't hide the scars. Eventually, you reap what you sow, John. Take off your glasses..."

"So, we're seriously doing this, then," John asks, blowing smoke with her words. Bazz's expression didn't change. "A'ight, then. Let's dance."

John's right hand suddenly glowed like the sun, and flame consumed the cigarette, as she flicked it - the marble-sized fireball shooting through the air, and into the eye of one of the women. At the same time, her left hand straightened, and the silver flask impacted the throat of one of the men. A chorus of screams and choking drowned out the smooth jazz that played on the office speakers, and took the mercenaries that remained off guard. In a split-second, John was behind the other man, and threw a sharp hook in-between his shoulder blades; the tines of her knuckle dusters digging into his body, and igniting his clothing with a burst of flame upon his back.

"W-What the hell..." stammered the last woman.

"Good question..." John says, before suddenly sweeping out her knee, and driving an uppercut beneath her breasts to reach her solar plexus. "Corpses don't need answers, though..."

"You bitch!"

John tilted her eyes to the side, and saw the man she'd hit in the throat with the flask rushing her with a dagger. His approach was ended with a thunderous boom; his arm blown off by the sawn-off, double-barrel shotgun that was extended from, seemingly, nowhere.

"Where did you --"

Another explosion ripped open his chest. John cracked the shotgun, as she ducked a sword swing, and ejected the shells from the gun behind her with an unnatural force. Each shell would slam into the woman with one eye; one burning her face and the other cracking her jaw. The shotgun would snap into place, and her screams of pain would be traded for begging pleas of mercy, as her leg was blown off, before John caught her with the hot barrel and pumped her stomach upon the walls.

A gunshot rang out behind her, and John shifted to the left - a bullet sailing by her, and into her wall. Looking back, the staggered woman was doubled over, and aiming a pistol at her. Rapidly, she opened fire, and emptied her clip - John evading them all with impossibly fast movements, as she reloaded, and tossed up her shotgun. Snatching the woman's firing arm, she twisted the limb up and back; dislocating the shoulder, and cracking the elbow on her own, as she pulled it down behind her - catching her shotgun, and pressing it to her hips.

{BOOM!!!}

John let the bisected woman drop, as she switched gun hands, and spun her weapon to blast off the leg of the man that was recovering from the taser punch. Standing, she cracked her neck, and stepped on his cheek with her bare foot. Lighting a cigarette, she smiled down at him, before heat was expelled from the bottom of her foot and into his skull; muscle seizing on bone, flesh burning under skin, and blood boiling in his vein, as his brain was cooked.

"Still want to carry on this charade, Bazz? Did you think bringing fodder would offer any advantage," John asked, her back turned to him, as she looked back solely - her confidence unmitigated.

"I have plenty of advantages. They were just here for the contract," Bazz says, "I won't ask again, John. Take your glasses off."

"You're serious," John sighed, "Look around you, Bazz. I didn't break a sweat. Don't commit to this bullshit."

"This isn't something I get to turn down, even for you," Bazz says, before his arms were wreathed in flames.

"I guess s--" John's words were cut short, as the electrocuted man beneath her suddenly warmed up, and erupted in a gout of flame and viscera, as he blew up like a landmine.

Thrown into the air, John tried to recover as she cracked against her own ceiling, but Bazz had heaved another body at her, and it detonated, sending her into the floor, and another body. Each of the mercenaries had been booby trapped, and Bazz was able to use their corpses as firebombs with his Pyro Vision. Physically strained from her previous fight, more so than she'd let on, John couldn't speed out of them back-to-back explosions, and with the fourth bouncing her into the ceiling for a third time, she could only watch... as if... disconnected... as her office burned around her, as her house burned around her... her life going up in literal smoke.

All because she was a little too rough with some noble prick's unfaithful wife.

What an unjust world.

The last thing John comprehended was the crack of her glasses from the blazing punch to her forehead, and Bazz saying, “I told you, take them off...

After that, naught but the sweet, silent embrace of The Sandman, Father of Sleep...

A WEEK LATER...
Comas were tricky bastards, especially if you spent them in a cargo box with no food or water, being transported halfway across the world with not a soul aware of you.

Industrial freight was too common, and John's crate was marked [DO NOT OPEN UNTIL FINAL DESTINATION] with high-ranking seals. They couldn't kill her outright, but they could arrange for her to die at a point beyond their borders. However, a Witch was made of sterner stuff than some paltry Human, and a particularly heavy deposit would stir the beaten and battered woman from her overstayed slumber.

Light cracked in between panes that allowed air to flow in, as well, and kept her oxygen, while damaged, high enough. Said light hurt with a passion, as weak eyes opened to her prison.

"I'm in a box."

That was the first thing her addled brain comprehended. Self-explanatory enough, as bits of her memory filtered in.

"I'm in a puddle."

That was the second thing her brain gathered, once lucid enough. Likely, a puddle grown of her own bodily waste and sweat from her comatose state.

"There's another box in here."

That was the third thing John realized, and that motivated her to test the limits of her prison. The box was big enough for her to sit in, hunched over, and open the smaller box that she's been curled around.

Inside, familiar things were assembled: her knuckle dusters, her shotgun with half a battery, half-empty box of shells, a fresh battery, a change of clothes, her bra/holster, a wad of cash, and her broken glasses.

Underneath her glasses was a letter taped to them. Opening the letter, she would draw out a piece of parchment and a cylindrical plate threaded with beaded double ended loop - her Vision. It crackled, and came to life in her lap; shining a revitalizing light in the cargo box.

Using her new light, she would read the letter...

<Yo, John.

Look, business is business. You know this. I know this. It's Averton. Nobody gives a shit what you do with your damn, magic dick, least of all me. But, you fouled some seriously royal waters, girl. I'm not proud of how shit went down, but I'm not stupid enough to say no.

Not all Jotuns are meatheads.

Still, I owe you a solid, so I packed a parting gift and rearranged your travel schedule. You'll have a nice layover in some pirate town - Al-Marabar, I think, is the name. I just know, capital-bound cargo is notorious for getting "lost" there, so if you wake up...

No, not if... when you wake up, you'll be far off and safer. Just keep your head in the sand. Let the heat die, and for the love of all that is cash money, keep your dick in that freaky potion of yours.

...or, at least, put it in a good woman for once.

But, know this: 10,000,000 is your fine, John. Those bodies weren't cheap. A lot of hush money went into this cover up. Even with your unnatural life span, you can't hope to pay it off. Your office is ash. The money is all that was in your safe. The only thing I could save, aside from those Uveran girls.

Whatever. That's unimportant. Listen, John. We're even. Hell, you owe me, really, but I won't collect. Settle down. Start a family. Don't make news. Don't come home. In fact, forget home. Stay safe.

And, have a nice life.

Seriously.

- Bazz
>

John smirked, as she set the letter down. Shifting her position, she tipped the envelope to return the letter - sitting at the bottom, a long cigarette with writing on it.

"Last one, big sis...."

Sniffling, she thumbed her Vision, and reached behind herself... taking her hair into a low pony, and cinching it against her head using her Vision as a glorified tie. Looking down, she held the cigarette, and tucked it behind her right ear. "Bazz, you sentimental, kind-hearted, little shit..." she wiped her tears, and slipped on her knuckles dusters, before pumping her shotgun with a wicked grin, "Protected by my little brother..."

Supernova sparked, as lightning surged from her battery, and John pulled the trigger - blasting open her prison, and opening the door for a new beginning, as she stepped out...

...reborn from the ashes (metaphorically, and literally from the burning crate) like a Phoenix.

"Alright, Bazz! Just wait for your big sister's comeback!" John beamed.
It was by the grace of being absolutely the cutest thing alive that Liliana's shoulders were not freed of carrying the burden that was her empty head, as Alice was carted off towards a destination she'd no desire to embark towards. Silently fuming, she would bide her time, and just wait...

Upon arrival, she detached herself from the steer-turned-steed, and separated herself from Liliana. As she did, part of her attention was drawn to the old woman that drew an axe upon their arrival, and smirked in amusement. Alice liked her women with a fire in their belly and an axe in hand, however, before she could appreciate the old crone's offensive form, a Jurougumo rallied to their defense, and diffused the situation.

Shame.

Alice sighed, as she hefted Carroll to her shoulder, and set to taking her leave. However, before she could commit, she would hear the sound of a commotion and the guttural cries of a woman - it was too young to be the old crone, and too human to be the Jurougumo, so it had to have been the Jiangshi.

And, it was.

It seemed, in the heat of the moment, she had snapped; under pressure; autonomic reflex; whatever the cause, she was attacking with reckless abandon in a way that only an Undead could. It was purely poetry in motion, as she ripped apart her foes in smooth succession - beautiful, like her namesake. Alice itched to do battle with such a beast, still of the mindset of the training, and --

"Atsuha, I'll restrain Hinami, web us if necessary! Orc, crush the rest! The others, do what you want!"

-- like that, the itch was soothed. Her desire to fight had evaporated like steam, as the Goblin resigned himself to the duel at hand.

Alice turned, and approached a distant tombstone - popping up on the square column, and wiggling her plush, bare bottom, as she got comfortable. Properly seated on her throne, Alice removed her hat, and withdrew one of the cups from the training zone; generating a bubble of water to fill it, and setting it on the flat of Carroll's blade to heat, as she sprinkled mushrooms in.

She seemed content to watch the battle from afar.

<Not interested in the fight,> Carroll asks, appearing behind Alice; draping over her shoulders like a satin blanket made Human; her left hand claws stroking gently across Alice's cheek to chin.

"I have no desire to fight so dishonorably. I will allow the Goblin his due or his death," Alice says, settled into the personality of Jane. "It doesn't especially matter to me. Besides, Gringor is here, as well. In matters of combat, it would disgust me to genuinely take on his aid."

<You seemed so well in hand during the training,> Carroll teased, bladed fingers walking toward Alice's chest; walking the curve of her right breast to the peaked summit. <To where did that camaraderie go?>

"To the fresh hell it was summoned from. Such a useless affair, that," Alice says, stirring her tea with her finger. "From the impulsive Kerry and her bee-brained schemes to the headstrong Gringor and his pea-brained tactics," she laments, "Liliana is simply a product of her nature and species, while Io truly a relic of a bygone era, pretending to be relevant. Useless, the lot of them in a true war with stakes."

<So mean. So cruel. Oh, how I missed this side of my sweet, sweet Alice,> Carroll cooed, her lips nipping at Alice's right ear. <If only we could be free again... unbound by the word given to that woman. Then, we could decimate the Varjans and claim their Kingdom for ourselves...>

Alice moaned softly, as Carroll's bladed fingers dug into to supple flesh, and crept to her nethers to polish as her hidden blade. "In due time, Carroll, in due time. All we need to do is play along, until the moment arises," she says. "In the meantime, we will just wait and watch..."

And, so, she would; content to sip her tea, while Carroll explored her body, slowly shifting from light petting to heavy petting, as the fights carried on, serving as fuel for her self-gratification.

@VitaVitaAR

In hindsight, I feel like it would have been better to take my character to PMs, so she could've been sorted better and cleaner with all... above. That said, the cast is kinda on the big size, so I think I will bow out. 10 characters is a lot to keep track of.

Best of luck, and have fun writing.
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