ERode

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

Ok nvm, internet crapped out and now I sleep.

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

I'll be getting up a post later today, unless @OwO would prefer I stay my hand?

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

He had heard the Athena Familia was still recovering from some tragedy or the other that had stricken them six years past, but, looking from the outside, it certainly looked like an exciting, rowdy place, popular enough that an excess of seven people would eagerly crash through the gates, apparently competing to see which one of them would be able to send their application first. Crazy stuff, honestly. Made Triss excited himself. After a whole two months spent on a boat, the Pallum was eager to stretch his legs, get his falna, and flex on some dungeon creeps, and though there was a part of him that worried about the Warrior’s Rest perhaps being a little too full of wannabes, the size of the estate looked like it could accommodate well enough. And if not…well, Triss could just sleep outside. Master’s training readied him enough for that too.

But no! No negative thoughts! It was going to be fine. It was going to be great. He was going to have a grand ol’ time in Orario, and he was going to rub it into all the haters’ faces once he started punching out Monster Rexes.

With a spring in his step and the door already conveniently opened for him, Triss strode in confidently, thinking nothing of it as he walked right up onto the top of the messy dogpile that rudely blocked the hallway. There were grunts, of course, some curses too, but the Pallum just thought they’d ought to be thankful he wasn’t wearing something brutal like stiletto heels. He hopped down afterwards, his braid bouncing up and down as he landed, his golden eyes bouncing from one face in the pile to another. Oh, there she was, right at the bottom! Golden hair, like the rays of the summer sun, ruby eyes, glimmering like pigeon’s blood. Amongst the swath of mortality, her divine aura radiated even as if she was mobbed by eight other fellows. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare, truly must be loved, if she’d be glomped by so many random people on such a non-particular day.

No need for hesitation then.

Squatting down (for even he knew that it was rude to look down upon a flattened goddess), Triss said, completely ignoring whatever other words spilled from the mound of living dead, “I am Triss Honeyforge. Goddess Athena, allow me to join your familia!”

Certainly, there was a time and a place for everything. Triss simply believed that his time was the time for everything and anything, other people’s circumstances be damned.

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

Personal Information
Name: Triss Honeyforge
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Race: Pallum

Appearance

Triss is what you’d expect out of a Pallum: a human child with a round face and bright eyes. Cute in the way that small pets are, there’s no particular reason to invest any sort of trust in him, and indeed, he doesn’t look very reliable at all, not with his skinny, boyish build and his stupid grin. But there are always scrapes on his fair complexion, and his hands are perpetually bandaged, to protect present wounds and to protect from future wounds. Despite his looks, he has a history of hard work, and an ardent flame burns in his heart, pounding on and on no matter how battered he becomes. It’s a shame, truly, that his Pallum constitution prevents him from truly getting what he puts in.

Out of respect for his master, Triss wears the garbs of the Far East and owns only one set of clothing: that of a dirt-stained robe that may have once been white, and a pair of sandals to protect his feet from less pleasant terrain. He’s often bandaged up, particularly around the limbs and the chest, and he keeps his otherwise unruly hair in a long braid, showing some hesitation in simply lopping the whole thing off. While not wholly adverse to other fashions, this Pallum certainly enjoys wearing looser, baggier clothing, thinking of it as something ‘fresh’ and ‘chill’.

Height: 3’6
Weight: 58 lbs
Eye color: Gold
Hair color: Auburn

Personality

Triss Honeyforge is not one for social graces or euphemisms: he cuts to the chase with a directness that can be both tactless and refreshing. Occasionally, this manifests itself as a laconic wit that stoic heroes often tote, but most of the time, it makes him appear simple-minded instead, clearly a child who lacks sophistication and all that jazz. Triss doesn’t mind though. His self-esteem is enough so that he values his hard-headed, obstinate nature as what allows him to slam his skull against any wall until it eventually breaks down. Challenges and trials are embraced, rivals are valued more than comrades. That isn’t to say though, that the redheaded Pallum enjoys fighting for the sake of fighting. Rather, the competitive spirit he has within his heart pushes him only to win. Only perpetual losers say stuff like “losing is a valuable experience”, after all, and Triss has no intention of developing that sort of depressing philosophy. He’s in it to win it, and he’s going to go all in for that.

For all his stubborn competitiveness, Triss is still an intrinsically good person. He takes everyone seriously, no matter who they are, and he strives to be valorous and decisive, a Pallum who wants to shape himself into a leader. There is no ambition or pride behind his effort, merely a desire for continual self-improvement and a hell of an inferiority complex. He hates it, after all, when people look down upon his race, and has made it his life’s mission to get to the point where he can rub it in all their stinky smelly faces that he’s higher-level than them AND a front-line melee fighter. To that end, Triss can be rather shameless: he’s willing to kowtow for lessons, and there’s no grunt chores that he’ll turn his nose up to. Every experience has value, even the most menial of labors. If there’s something that no one else will do, he will volunteer for it. By putting his best foot forward every day, by working hard and living a fulfilling, adventurous life, he believes that good things will come and his efforts will be rewarded.

Which probably marks himself as just another naïve Level 1 adventurer, doesn’t it?

Likes: Victory, Ale, Mildly Sweet Candies, Martial Arts, Serving People Their Just Desserts, Soft Beds, Dwarves, The Amazement of Others, Most Forms of Music
Dislikes: Loudmouth Bitch Boys, Chauvinists, Meat, Hot Weather, Heroic Ballads, Clowns, Complicated Plans, Books Without Pictures, Crowds
Hobbies: Cleaning Their Room, Training, Harvesting Crops, Dancing, Writing Letters, Eavesdropping

Background

Why would one want a Pallum?

If you wanted someone stout, Dwarves are much better.

If you wanted someone fierce and powerful, take any Demi-Human.

If you wanted people in the backline, Elves and Renards are both great choices.

If you wanted a Supporter, even humans can do better, by virtue of larger bodies that can reach places where Pallum can’t.

Dark vision? Laughable. The Dungeon’s interiors are filled with luminescent crystals, and even in places of true darkness, a torch easily solves such problems. Have them be scouts? With such short legs, there’s no way they’ll cover any ground at all, compared to any other race.

Honestly, why would anyone want a Pallum adventurer?

No one would. And that’s why Triss strove to become one.

His parents were merchants, plying dyes and cloths from exotic lands, but trade and clothing never excited Triss. He was a dutiful son, of course, sweeping the floors, feeding the draft horses, doing everything without complaint, but like many a youth in an era blessed by Gods, he wanted more. He wanted to do something special, he wanted to be someone special. And, more than that, he hated people treating him nicely just because he was small. Perhaps it was petty, perhaps it was disagreeable, but even then, Triss wanted to be recognized as something beyond his height.

So it made him really angry, when he began to really listen around him and absorb just how much shit people talked about Pallums. It made him really angry, and it made him get to work.

It started with just helping his father load crates onto the wagon. Then he transitioned into lifting stones and shit. He started running too, because that seemed like it was good. He picked up sticks too, and waved them around like swords, dreaming of one day proving some vague, nebulous point about how Pallum can be front-line warriors too, with the same efficacy as literally any other race. But meaningless training got nowhere, and when Triss confronted some of his peers, he still got beaten up for it. And god, it sucked.

It sucked a lot. And that bitterness made him try all that much harder.

Years passed and his family’s trade routes grew larger and larger until finally, they reached the Far East and Triss found his true calling. A Kung Fu Master! Oh, how exciting! To fell monsters with fists alone would surely teach all those naysayers a lesson! Others relied on the might of their arms, but through martial arts, one required only forged, polished techniques to fell beasts many times their size! It felt to Triss a perfect match, and he immediately began to go around towns and villages, invading dojos in search for an apprenticeship.

Some kicked him out. Some kicked him before kicking him out. Others just sorta laughed. And still more didn’t actually understand what he was saying, because damn, language barrier is a thick one.

But one person acknowledged the Pallum’s desires, and with the promise to write often and stay safe, Triss parted with his parents in order to live life with a stranger.

It was rough. Very rough.

But when he took the ship to Orario, four years later, donning the garb of his master, Triss could feel it in his bones.

He was ready.

Or, at least, he hoped he was.

Wallet:
1,000 Valis

Parameters & Skills
Level: 1
Achieved Floor: 0
Class: Adventurer
Affiliation: Athena Familia

Equipment:
Dirty Clothes and Cloth Bandages

Stats:
•Strength: G
•Endurance: H
•Dexterity: G
•Agility: G
•Magic: I

Basic Skills:
Fury Fists: I (This skill increases the damage of each successive, unarmed melee-attack the person with this skill makes. Although not particularly noticeable at first, in a drawn-out or prolonged fight the result can become very helpful eventually. Resets if switching targets.)

Development Skills:
N/A

Spells:
N/A

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

Puncher Pallum

Personal Information
Name: Triss Honeyforge
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Race: Pallum

Appearance

Triss is what you’d expect out of a Pallum: a human child with a round face and bright eyes. Cute in the way that small pets are, there’s no particular reason to invest any sort of trust in him, and indeed, he doesn’t look very reliable at all, not with his skinny, boyish build and his stupid grin. But there are always scrapes on his fair complexion, and his hands are perpetually bandaged, to protect present wounds and to protect from future wounds. Despite his looks, he has a history of hard work, and an ardent flame burns in his heart, pounding on and on no matter how battered he becomes. It’s a shame, truly, that his Pallum constitution prevents him from truly getting what he puts in.

Out of respect for his master, Triss wears the garbs of the Far East and owns only one set of clothing: that of a dirt-stained robe that may have once been white, and a pair of sandals to protect his feet from less pleasant terrain. He’s often bandaged up, particularly around the limbs and the chest, and he keeps his otherwise unruly hair in a long braid, showing some hesitation in simply lopping the whole thing off. While not wholly adverse to other fashions, this Pallum certainly enjoys wearing looser, baggier clothing, thinking of it as something ‘fresh’ and ‘chill’.

Height: 3’6
Weight: 58 lbs
Eye color: Gold
Hair color: Auburn

Personality

Triss Honeyforge is not one for social graces or euphemisms: he cuts to the chase with a directness that can be both tactless and refreshing. Occasionally, this manifests itself as a laconic wit that stoic heroes often tote, but most of the time, it makes him appear simple-minded instead, clearly a child who lacks sophistication and all that jazz. Triss doesn’t mind though. His self-esteem is enough so that he values his hard-headed, obstinate nature as what allows him to slam his skull against any wall until it eventually breaks down. Challenges and trials are embraced, rivals are valued more than comrades. That isn’t to say though, that the redheaded Pallum enjoys fighting for the sake of fighting. Rather, the competitive spirit he has within his heart pushes him only to win. Only perpetual losers say stuff like “losing is a valuable experience”, after all, and Triss has no intention of developing that sort of depressing philosophy. He’s in it to win it, and he’s going to go all in for that.

For all his stubborn competitiveness, Triss is still an intrinsically good person. He takes everyone seriously, no matter who they are, and he strives to be valorous and decisive, a Pallum who wants to shape himself into a leader. There is no ambition or pride behind his effort, merely a desire for continual self-improvement and a hell of an inferiority complex. He hates it, after all, when people look down upon his race, and has made it his life’s mission to get to the point where he can rub it in all their stinky smelly faces that he’s higher-level than them AND a front-line melee fighter. To that end, Triss can be rather shameless: he’s willing to kowtow for lessons, and there’s no grunt chores that he’ll turn his nose up to. Every experience has value, even the most menial of labors. If there’s something that no one else will do, he will volunteer for it. By putting his best foot forward every day, by working hard and living a fulfilling, adventurous life, he believes that good things will come and his efforts will be rewarded.

Which probably marks himself as just another naïve Level 1 adventurer, doesn’t it?

Likes: Victory, Ale, Mildly Sweet Candies, Martial Arts, Serving People Their Just Desserts, Soft Beds, Dwarves, The Amazement of Others, Most Forms of Music
Dislikes: Loudmouth Bitch Boys, Chauvinists, Meat, Hot Weather, Heroic Ballads, Clowns, Complicated Plans, Books Without Pictures, Crowds
Hobbies: Cleaning Their Room, Training, Harvesting Crops, Dancing, Writing Letters, Eavesdropping

Background

Why would one want a Pallum?

If you wanted someone stout, Dwarves are much better.

If you wanted someone fierce and powerful, take any Demi-Human.

If you wanted people in the backline, Elves and Renards are both great choices.

If you wanted a Supporter, even humans can do better, by virtue of larger bodies that can reach places where Pallum can’t.

Dark vision? Laughable. The Dungeon’s interiors are filled with luminescent crystals, and even in places of true darkness, a torch easily solves such problems. Have them be scouts? With such short legs, there’s no way they’ll cover any ground at all, compared to any other race.

Honestly, why would anyone want a Pallum adventurer?

No one would. And that’s why Triss strove to become one.

His parents were merchants, plying dyes and cloths from exotic lands, but trade and clothing never excited Triss. He was a dutiful son, of course, sweeping the floors, feeding the draft horses, doing everything without complaint, but like many a youth in an era blessed by Gods, he wanted more. He wanted to do something special, he wanted to be someone special. And, more than that, he hated people treating him nicely just because he was small. Perhaps it was petty, perhaps it was disagreeable, but even then, Triss wanted to be recognized as something beyond his height.

So it made him really angry, when he began to really listen around him and absorb just how much shit people talked about Pallums. It made him really angry, and it made him get to work.

It started with just helping his father load crates onto the wagon. Then he transitioned into lifting stones and shit. He started running too, because that seemed like it was good. He picked up sticks too, and waved them around like swords, dreaming of one day proving some vague, nebulous point about how Pallum can be front-line warriors too, with the same efficacy as literally any other race. But meaningless training got nowhere, and when Triss confronted some of his peers, he still got beaten up for it. And god, it sucked.

It sucked a lot. And that bitterness made him try all that much harder.

Years passed and his family’s trade routes grew larger and larger until finally, they reached the Far East and Triss found his true calling. A Kung Fu Master! Oh, how exciting! To fell monsters with fists alone would surely teach all those naysayers a lesson! Others relied on the might of their arms, but through martial arts, one required only forged, polished techniques to fell beasts many times their size! It felt to Triss a perfect match, and he immediately began to go around towns and villages, invading dojos in search for an apprenticeship.

Some kicked him out. Some kicked him before kicking him out. Others just sorta laughed. And still more didn’t actually understand what he was saying, because damn, language barrier is a thick one.

But one person acknowledged the Pallum’s desires, and with the promise to write often and stay safe, Triss parted with his parents in order to live life with a stranger.

It was rough. Very rough.

But when he took the ship to Orario, four years later, donning the garb of his master, Triss could feel it in his bones.

He was ready.

Or, at least, he hoped he was.

Wallet:
1,000 Valis

Parameters & Skills
Level: 1
Achieved Floor: 0
Class: Adventurer
Affiliation: Athena Familia

Equipment:
Dirty Clothes and Cloth Bandages

Stats:
•Strength: I
•Endurance: I
•Dexterity: I
•Agility: I
•Magic: I

Basic Skills:
N/A

Development Skills:
N/A

Spells:
N/A

The Promised Children : Eat, or Be Eaten

It wasn’t going to be the end of anyone there. That, #13 could guarantee.

As the helicopter shook from the initial impact of the explosive weaponry, the raven-haired youth calmly slid his Kindle back into his pocket, before unbuckling himself from his seat and sliding on his parachute. There was a part of him that was afraid, yes, but at the same time…he was getting way too dizzy from all the spinning to be afraid. Urk, he might even hurl at this rate!

Before he could, however, his keeper leapt out, and #13 decided to follow.

The winds that whipped by were truly cold now, slicing into his cheeks and passing easily through the white collared shirt he wore. Where had his jacket gone? Oh yes, Augustine had it. He wanted it back now. Could he take it back? The failing chopper told him no, a hunk of broken machinery obstructing his view of his keeper as the winds pulled them apart. Smouldering rings flickered about, searching for the third member of the doomed flight, but there was no other parachute blooming against the night sky.

#13 took a sharp breath, pulling the string on his own parachute. The harness dug deep into his shoulders; he dug deeper into the recesses of his power.

Slowly, the death spiral of the helicopter was arrested, rising up towards the Promised Child instead. Doomed as they were, the propellers stopped rotating, instead twisting and folding alongside the rest of the vehicle. The fuel tank, burning and fuming, was torn out of the chassis, ejected by a mysterious force before, moments later, it exploded in a fiery mess. #13 blinked away the fireball’s afterimage while the remains of the helicopter, swearing pilot included, matched his own rate of falling, held afloat by a mysterious miracle.

Time passed until both touched the ground. Immediately after, #13 ejected the pilot from the vehicle as well, the parachute already twisting around him in a rudimentary form of padding and protection from the elements. The wreckage of the helicopter suited him well too; though there were no innate weapons, propeller blades were still propeller blades and made for a cool, if not crude, sword. The transformation was swift and loud, tortured metal screeching as #13 reformed it into his daunting armor, folding sheets into themselves to increase thickness. The RPG won’t catch him aware a second time, that was for sure.

Hm…but with this, he couldn’t exactly communicate with gesture alone, huh?

As a helmet of polycarbon sheeting and military grade steel completed itself, #13 turned to the pilot (quite a rugged, manly man, all things considered) and said, _{“so uhg…oh excuse me…”}

A loud cough, and his throat was cleared.

“Right,” the youth tried again, boyish mirth and embarrassment in his tone, “I'm just going to sit tight here. Watch my six, and hopefully my keeper can show up soon enough. Do you have a...name?”

Hopefully it'll end without a direct confrontation with whoever blew them out of the sky to begin with.

But that was just childish naivety.

The ground began to rumble soon as well, #13 drawing more material from all around him to further fortify his Sarcophagus.

DanMachi: Alter Oration [DEAD]

If the RP's open for a new slot, mind if I join then? The elusive Danmachi RP that does not insta-die escapes me thus far.

Talrae Reborn

Status

Level 15
Health: 2900/2900
Mana: 3280/3300

Strength: 30 + 5 [Power Treads]
Agility: 85 + 5 [Skirmisher's Buckler] + 5 [Cutthroat Gloves] - 4 [5% Armor Reduction]
Intelligence: 0
Stamina: 10

Action Slots: 7 + 4
Defense: 13U 17P 12B 6C 11M

Skills

Polearm Wielding 70
Acting 22
Beautifying 20
Light Step 20
Sewing 44

Equipment

Steel Spear (Mythic) _{Electricity Affinity, +7% Damage}
Cutthroat Gloves (Uncommon) _{+5 AGI}
Light’s Bane Cloak (Uncommon) _{+5 Hide}
Leather Armor (Uncommon) _{7U/9P/11B/5C/10M, 5% AGI penalty}
Java Jungle Wear (Common) _{Severe Heat Debuff reduced}
Skirmisher’s Buckler (Uncommon) _{4U/6P, +5 AGI}
Power Treads (Uncommon) _{+5 STR}
Ring of Protection (Uncommon) _{+1% to all items' resistances}
Teleport Ring (Common) _{Teleport small distance, once per day.}
Jewelry x2 (Common)

Lagley’s Spear (Uncommon) _{Large, 5% Crit Chance}
Boots of Travel (Uncommon) _{2x Walking Speed}
Raincoat (Common) _{Soaked Debuff reduced}
Java Jungle Wear (Common) _{Severe Heat Debuff reduced}
Fancy Clothes (Uncommon) _10P

Passives

Lycanbane - Increased Damage against Lycan-based Enemies
Feral Experience (X/Title) - If User is to gain experience in Wild Areas, User receives increased bonus experience.

Light’s Bane Cloak _{+5 Hide}
Ring of Protection _{+1% to all items' resistances.}
Teleport Ring _{Teleport small distance, once per day.}

Light-speed Escape (8) User's body automatically moves a medium distance away at the speed of light when they fall below 10% of maximum HP. Passive.

Bounty (1/Universal) User gains D10 extra Renn whenever they receive Renn from GM. Passive.
Greater Bounty (5/Universal) User gains D10 extra Renn whenever they receive Renn from GM. Stacks with Bounty. Passive.
Grand Bounty (10/Universal) User gains D10 extra Renn whenever they receive Renn from GM. Stacks with Bounty and Greater Bounty. Passive.
Ultimate Bounty (15/Universal) User gains D10 extra Renn whenever they receive Renn from GM. Stacks with Bounty and Greater Bounty. Passive

Trip (15/Universal) Upon successfully avoiding an enemy's melee attack, the user automatically uses their weapon to trip the opponent knocking them prone.
Blood Thirst (15/Universal) User gains 10% of their damage as HP. Does not work with Actions and Spells.

Flexible (1/Lancer) _{Whenever user successfully Evades a melee attack against the user, user may immediately move backwards or counterattack to deal low piercing damage.}
Practiced Steps (5/Lancer) _{User gains +15% Evasion chance if an opponent has a short-range melee weapon.}
Polearm Mastery (10/Lancer) _{User's normal attacks deal 5% additional damage.}

Summary

Purchased Java Jungle Wear x4 for 500 Renn.
Got some free bananas too.

"I'd like to think I'm sweet in action too," Cecilia replied with a wink. "But I thank you for your generous discount regardless, Mrs Farlie, and I'll be glad to relieve those bananas from your hands as well."

It wasn't as steep a discount as she'd have liked, but the Lancer certainly wasn't going to press for much more than that: four sets of heat-resistant clothing will be enough to see the frontline through, at least. Holly, Aura, River, and herself. Considering how cumbersome and stifling his suit of armor was, she doubted Prome would gain much from the clothing anyways, and Willow didn't exactly move enough to warrant the help either. They'll just have to make do then, she supposed. Making a mental note to visit the couple again after she returned, just to build a strong foundation for a relationship with someone in the marketplace, Cecilia headed off, a spring in her step. Cream from the Verdant, was it? She never heard of bananas and cream fitting together well before, but maybe that was Reliqua's version of a banana split?

Hm...yeah, now that she wanted. It was almost a tragedy that no one in her party was well-versed with ice magic; ice cream was something that'd make them all rich in these humid temperatures.

Willow's message brought her out of her dreams of capitalism though. Looked like they were doing two quests after all. Always nice to know. Taking a quick inventory of her own armor, Cecilia was more or less satisfied with her state: the Kill Team had been effective in letting the DPS DPS and the tanks tank, and her own armor was probably still good for another couple days of hard combat. No money left for any half-decent HP pots though. A good chance to see how well her new Passive helped with sustain then. Slinging her spear over her shoulder and re-equipping her armor, Cecilia checked the weather, swapped out her Raincoat for her Light's Bane Cloak, and, with some sadness towards her drop in Piercing defenses, removed her custom-made dress for mass-manufactured Java Jungle Wear.

The fabrics were coarser than what she had grown accustom to, but the design itself was loose with tribal patterns sewn in. Sections of the clothing, especially around the joints, were only joined loosely by thread, leaving gaps for ventilation while still protecting most of the skin. Breathable and tough. Not too bad...but she was still going to have to touch it up later. Colorful as it was, Cecilia wanted to add at least something colorful and reflective. Colors to complement her eyes too. Maybe improve the embroidery around the hem?

Uncharacteristically lost in her own thoughts, Cecilia certainly didn't notice the crouched figure at the edge of the market until it was almost too late.

Almost.

A mid-step from collision, the lilac-haired lady sidestepped, her movements akin to a ballet dancer as she swept around the child instead. Stopping beside Nanila, she blinked, before crouching down, amber eyes searching for the girl's own gaze. "Morning there, little miss," Cecilia began, projecting the aura of a confident, trustworthy adventurer, "Are you quite alright? Don't happen to be lost or something?"

The Promised Children : Eat, or Be Eaten

#13 bobbed his head along whenever his keeper turned in his direction for validation, but he didn't really care otherwise. Maybe that made him a bit of a brown-noser too, meaninglessly agreeing with the judgements of his leader? Naw, couldn't be. After all, nodding to the words of the buxom lady wasn't going to promote him to #12 or whatnot. Listening half-heartedly to whatever she said, just enough that he wouldn't be caught offguard if she suddenly tested him on it, the two made it to the helicopter without incident. Pleasantly, the propellers were loud enough to drown out whatever else the woman may have said, and #13 sat himself snugly in the seat as they took off. Occasionally, he looked out the window, marvelling the scenery that rolled on by. Other times, he read passage or two, drowning in eloquent phrasing and subtle rhythmn. Still more times, he glanced towards his keeper, the bitter cold's effects evident in how she vibrated in place, pale flesh paler.

Well, maybe he was just imagining it. The heli itself shook, after all.

But it came easily for #13 regardless. Expression neutral, the youth shrugged off his own uniform's coat, sniffed his wrist in an attempt to see if any unpleasant odors emanated from himself, before offering it to the woman. No smile, no words, just a proposal of sorts. It'd be bad if she got sick, after all. More so than if he became sick.

Did Numbers get sick? He heard somewhere that low-IQ individuals were less prone to disease, but wasn't that just because sports-inclined individuals were in better health and shape than the bookworm types with their frail constitutions and bulging brains. Something else to read up on, if he could get access to it. Regardless of whether or not she took his coat, he left it on his knee as his inkstone eyes found the glowing screen of his Kindle once more, quietly passing time as Finland neared.

The Promised Children : Eat, or Be Eaten

_{Hector knew Troy will fall, while Achilles knew death was foretold,
Yet both warriors stepped into battle just as fearless and bold,
There was no escape, yet their courage only grew
True heroes they were, and we shall be too.}

#13 closed his Kindle, leaned his head against the wall, and basked in the glory of that stanza.

Humans were one thing, but their creations were another. #13 found it beautiful, that such war-like creatures could create such wonders. His brethren and himself, as well as all the art in the world. Was it divine inspiration that brought forth such works? Or was it the dual nature of destruction and creation that inspired such beauty and tragedy? There was nothing as boring as an artist with a pleasant life, after all. Content pigs were pleased merely with lying in the muck, and wars always pulled forth something new. The mother of invention was necessity, and necessity showed itself most when nations fought for survival.

What then, would arise from this conflict, devoid of heroes brandishing spear and shield, devoid of duels that shone with savage valor? Only despair and cruelty, tears shed amongst boundless tragedy, for that, #13 was certain.

The raven-haired youth let out a sigh, his inkstone eyes affixed upon the view beyond the windows. Smoke bloomed, fires licking the frozen blackness. There was more illumination than a winter night suggested, spoiled snow reflecting the crudeness of war’s present reality. Not a champion in sight, merely nameless, unrelated souls who sought to escape death behind rows of pseudo-mechs only to be set upon by missiles from the skies. The generals who he had claimed the heads of were not men of valor and wit. The machine-knights he had torn to shreds were without soul and passion. It was tragic. It was meaningless. The only thing that would come out of this war would be some tearjerker memoirs, but that was mere surplus. If only the Russians could join the folds of the Church. That would be nice. Surrender would end all these meaningless casualties.

And then he could be sent somewhere else in the world, in search for a human like one in the myths. Maybe Japan would be good. A real life, modern-era samurai who could cut through steel with his relic of a katana might be something to enjoy. Or Somalia? He’d heard that there was a legendary mercenary there, a blind badass who operated in the dead of night, throwing poisoned darts with pinpoint accuracy to take down whole platoons. But it wasn’t in #13’s hands. And that was saddening.

More saddening was that his keeper’s generous offer to end this pointless conflict was rejected.

As she approached, he straightened, the smouldering rings in his eyes shifting slightly towards the military man further beyond. Slowly, #13 lifted up his index finger, before drawing a line against his throat and directing a questioning look at his keeper.

Replace him?

No, didn’t seem like they were this time.

Without a word, he fell in step with her. Finland, was it? That was a new place. Nordic nations were pretty in the winter, weren’t they? Perk of the job, it was, to be so widely travelled at such a young age.

#13 slowed down his steps, enough that he was behind his keeper now. Surreptitiously, he opened his Kindle and began reading again.

Hm.

Not too much on Finnish mythology, was there.