Hm, Broken, think it’s necessary to clarify it as “Arcane Defense increased”? Or do you think it could be set off with any sorta increase?
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Atzi felt the heat before she felt the touch, the warmth that exuded from the demon’s body so out-of-place in the frigid chill of Azral Suralng’s wake that it couldn’t have been anyone but Vamessa. Her presence had been important to Dawn’s survival, and her gift with flames had saw households through cold nights once the firewood ran out. For all the disdain that came with the demon’s origins, Atzi herself held no great grudge against her.
And honestly, it wasn’t as if Dawn was a sanctuary of prudes to begin with. So long as Vammy figured the time and place for her groping, she’d fit in just fine. Akala, after all, didn’t have any bad blood with her, and that priestess was the holiest individual present.
“That’s good,” she responded with a firm nod in her direction. “Thanks.”
Akando’s concern was also appreciated, though with a boy and a childhood friend at that, Atzi couldn’t help but put up a stronger front. Forcing a grin, she wrapped her hand around the back of his head and pulled him in, bumping foreheads. “Not like you could, anyhow. Last time we wrestled, you couldn’t toss me even when I stood straight up, remember?” Her teeth flashed. Happier days, warmer days. She released him, then smacked him on the back with a vigor that wasn’t completely fake. “Show that elf up, Akando.”
And with Achel looking like she was finally going to take a break, Atzi decided to get to work too now. For all the emotional labour, her body remained thrumming with energy, and she struck her bicep with the palm of her opposing hand. It was a meaty thwack that carried well throughout the echoing chambers of the church. “A moment then!”
Without anything else holding her back, Atzi ran off, her heart speeding up as her lungs pumped cold air through her burning blood. Crusted snow scattered as her mocassins smashed against the ground, and within moments, she reached Bolcha’s workshop and home. Though they were ostensibly family, a desire for independence had come with a desire for privacy, and Atzi had built her own little hut a couple meters away from the craftsman’s abode, where she could entertain her personal guests without bothering her foster family, as well as where she could experiment with her craft without disturbance.
This time, however, she was here only because she had a habit of keeping a warm oven, and to pick up her equipment. Pushing open the slab of wood that served as the door to her mudbrick hut, Atzi pulled an extra cloak that laid in a heap, rescued a loaf of bread from her stove, empty out her waterskin and replaced the contents with some wine, and finally strapped her wooden club to the loop in her belt. Maira’s own home wasn’t even a day’s walk away; if she kept a good pace, she should reach it expediently. Wouldn’t even take half a day if she tried. All she had to do was stay in motion.
Atzi stared at the embers and the ashes, breathed in the oils and fats, the acrid but tantalizing stench of scrambled brains and unscented soap. Her bed had been lonely for too long. She would invite Maira over tonight.
Right. That's a certainty.
Because she’s still alive.
…
Atzi returned, the sweat beading over her body already wicked away by the breath of winter. She placed the round loaf of bread, kept warm during her return by being wrapped up in a cloth and held beneath her armpit, firmly into the Chiralta gravekeeper’s hands, then swivelled about to locate Vamessa again. It looked as if the demon was nursing a bump on her head, but if it was just a bump, then it was fundamentally nothing.
“Let’s go. Can you run?”
If she couldn’t, that was no problem either. Atzi was just going to carry her there.
With the main threats slain and the remaining monstrosities turned to nothing more than fertilizer, the mission concluded in a rather uneventful manner. The Chi-Mechframes performed more or less as expected in the end, even with the extra wrenches tossed in their way. He had managed to foist the glory of the kill upon Faye, the rest managed to get their little commendations in, and the soldiers could live to fight another day. Job success, in the end.
Well, now, his other job began.
A cold shower cleared up what sweat had built up, and a half hour of stretching afterwards had insured that his muscles would be fine come morning. Though the Horizon wasn’t so luxurious as to afford something like a swimming pool inside it, the gym was a place to visit after everything got wrapped up. Dressed now in sweatpants and whatever t-shirt he first saw when he opened up his closet, Xuan-Yu slipped into the mess hall just in time for Teodora to shatter his eardrums with her screams. He turned briefly to Norika, who looked even more reluctant than he did about entering, before flashing a grin.
“C’mon kiddo,” he said, tapping his foot against the back of her knee. “If you’re not quick about it, they’ll snatch you up n gobble you whole.”
And with that, he stepped into the mess hall as well, taking all of ten seconds to cross past the infusion of estrogen that was a trio of girls giving themselves diabetes, before slipping past the doors and into the kitchen.
…
Another minute later, and Xuan-Yu walked back out, balancing four 16-packs of beers on his shoulders. The boxes dug into his flesh and his hands already felt like they were freezing over from the cold, but work was work and it wasn’t as if any of the others were budding alcoholics. Probably. Pilots that had drinking problems were a big problem, in some part of the world at least. As he made to make a swift exit once more, his eyes caught the mountain of snacks that Hoshiko now had before her, and, well, what could be said?
“Keep up the good work, punchgirl. You’ll be a rollin’ boulder in no time.” His head tilted, a brief contemplation. “Save the sweets for morning though, unless you're interested in night watch.”
There was probably a pessimistic part of Klava’s mind that figured that they’d all be dead regardless. Blasted to bits when the Fritz decides that she could just get a construction crew to clean up the debris after all, and call in an airstrike from the good ol’ US Air Force instead. Even if Billy could survive it, he wouldn’t have his angels left over to watch his ass from the Fritz’s magical bullshit. And then it’d be all extra over.
Even a couple of snipers positioned to start blasting through the windows would do it. One didn’t need an instrument to fuck an Esper up if their gun was of sufficient caliber. Klava had positioned herself close to Billy for that express purpose, imagining all the batshit things that self-righteousness government spooks could do to secure some semblance of victory after their squad had a hilarious fuck up. But the worst cases never manifested, and it was only when they dropped down into the wine cellar, moments away from being able to escape the Bastion, that Klava realized that one of them was missing.
The only one who she didn’t know, really. So personally, no big loss.
Billy took the kids. Tetrad took off. Klava remained there with Kristina for a moment longer, then let out a long, deflating groan. Fuck that wasn’t smart of her. Too caught up in the moment once again, too focused on being herself rather than being fucking alive. Oh, long term consequences, what were those? God, imagine if she had just shanked that butler a week or two back, then GEMINI could just be like “lol mission accomplished, we’ll let y’all go this time” instead. Fucking bullshit, for real. Such incredible cringe. Just totally built different, wasn’t she? And a dick? Seriously? Had the whole medieval weaponry and architecture theme going, and she just went and bungled it for an adolescent joke? What was she, 15? Yeah, she was definitely going to sleep on it. No regrets, of course, because GEMINI are still a buncha rat bastards, but there were a dozen ways she could’ve approached this.
“Trixy, huh,” Klava said. It looked like it fit more. Maybe. She rubbed the palm of her left hand against her eyes, then made her way down to Bastion as well. “So, what was that thing about eating babies that those GEMs were saying?”
Accepted, as per our PM discussions. Replace Ashley's CS in the Character Tab with her, and you're good to go!
Yeah, I basically already ok’d it anyways so it’s whateverrrrr.
@BrokenPromise So it does the total of an E rank damage note over the course of two rounds? Or it does an E rank damage note every round, for two rounds?
Manegold Aelious Grayle
Ser Manegold Grayle of the Eclipsing Strike. Of the Zeroth Tempo. Of the Golden Stags.
A Knight-Commander in his early thirties, Manegold's rise to prominence was seen as the miracle of his own generation, a combination of his skillful preservation of his Aura as well as his political acumen. He would be the first to admit, after all, that there are others in the Western House who are more powerful than him, more physically capable. He is no breaker of hordes, no defender of gates, and for that, there are those who detract from his accomplishments. But his sharp wit has propelled him to the upper echelons of command, and his martial philosophies have propagated into his entire House for being an Aura-based martial art that one could accomplish without Aura. The paradox confounds, contradicts.
And yet none could deny that an Aura Master of the Western House is worth more than an Aura Master of any other House. And if it came down to one on one duels, Manegold himself stands unmatched in the seven seconds that most of his duels last for.
After all, his namesake, the Eclipsing Strike, refers to a riposte that occurs at the same instant as his parry, in the very moment his opponent has committed too much to an attack to convert it into a feint. A split second manifestation of Aura. A golden flash, and then, it's over.
He is one of the leaders of the moderate faction in Grayle, believing that all is inevitably lost if Fendel doesn't even need to appear in order for humanity to destroy themselves. He, like many nobles, possesses an aristocratic veneer that serves only to hide cold calculations, but he still has a soft side that he reserves for his family. Though his marriage with Marquis Azurea Rhymisain, a well-esteemed woman who runs the Rhymisain family's central business of textile exports, was arranged, the two reportedly have a loving relationship and are expecting their first child within five months. In what leisure time he has, Manegold enjoys watching opera with his wife and traversing ridgelines in his lonesome.
He grows a beard to appear more mature and worldly, but if that's removed, he looks more like a man in the springtime of his youth.
There was no omen at his birth.
A Knight-Commander in his early thirties, Manegold's rise to prominence was seen as the miracle of his own generation, a combination of his skillful preservation of his Aura as well as his political acumen. He would be the first to admit, after all, that there are others in the Western House who are more powerful than him, more physically capable. He is no breaker of hordes, no defender of gates, and for that, there are those who detract from his accomplishments. But his sharp wit has propelled him to the upper echelons of command, and his martial philosophies have propagated into his entire House for being an Aura-based martial art that one could accomplish without Aura. The paradox confounds, contradicts.
And yet none could deny that an Aura Master of the Western House is worth more than an Aura Master of any other House. And if it came down to one on one duels, Manegold himself stands unmatched in the seven seconds that most of his duels last for.
After all, his namesake, the Eclipsing Strike, refers to a riposte that occurs at the same instant as his parry, in the very moment his opponent has committed too much to an attack to convert it into a feint. A split second manifestation of Aura. A golden flash, and then, it's over.
He is one of the leaders of the moderate faction in Grayle, believing that all is inevitably lost if Fendel doesn't even need to appear in order for humanity to destroy themselves. He, like many nobles, possesses an aristocratic veneer that serves only to hide cold calculations, but he still has a soft side that he reserves for his family. Though his marriage with Marquis Azurea Rhymisain, a well-esteemed woman who runs the Rhymisain family's central business of textile exports, was arranged, the two reportedly have a loving relationship and are expecting their first child within five months. In what leisure time he has, Manegold enjoys watching opera with his wife and traversing ridgelines in his lonesome.
He grows a beard to appear more mature and worldly, but if that's removed, he looks more like a man in the springtime of his youth.
There was no omen at his birth.
@Psyker Landshark
While the newspapers brought up some concerning local news, it was informative enough to release the dorms that Jeanne was staying in as well. After all, she was supposed to be functionally under house arrest, and considering the nature of how rooming worked in Bermuda, it was more or less a public service to alert other young, budding Polymaths of whether or not their apartment featured a psychotic arsonist who burned down libraries and didn't even care enough to pretend she was remorseful.
The Incan-style apartments then, was where Valeriya ended up.
By the time she arrived, most of the premises had been vacated, the residents having left during the early hours of the morning to either get things done or prepare for anti-fire measures. A few students lounged still by the beautifully clear pools, enjoying fruity drinks and the warmth of the sun, but beyond the smell of grilling meat, Valeriya could sense a more disturbed stench. Her training had exposed her to it, after all, as a simple matter of course when learning to fight with electrically-charged less-lethal weaponry. The smell of burned flesh. The drops of blood upon the stair steps, flaking and dried out, but still very clearly visible. If she had waited for noon, perhaps this would be gone, flakes brushed away and air purified by seaside breezes.
But for now? Something was certainly off here. She simply didn't know what.
While the newspapers brought up some concerning local news, it was informative enough to release the dorms that Jeanne was staying in as well. After all, she was supposed to be functionally under house arrest, and considering the nature of how rooming worked in Bermuda, it was more or less a public service to alert other young, budding Polymaths of whether or not their apartment featured a psychotic arsonist who burned down libraries and didn't even care enough to pretend she was remorseful.
The Incan-style apartments then, was where Valeriya ended up.
By the time she arrived, most of the premises had been vacated, the residents having left during the early hours of the morning to either get things done or prepare for anti-fire measures. A few students lounged still by the beautifully clear pools, enjoying fruity drinks and the warmth of the sun, but beyond the smell of grilling meat, Valeriya could sense a more disturbed stench. Her training had exposed her to it, after all, as a simple matter of course when learning to fight with electrically-charged less-lethal weaponry. The smell of burned flesh. The drops of blood upon the stair steps, flaking and dried out, but still very clearly visible. If she had waited for noon, perhaps this would be gone, flakes brushed away and air purified by seaside breezes.
But for now? Something was certainly off here. She simply didn't know what.
Klein kept his head down, and Leif kept his nose up, their two bodies pressed close as Arion fumed and flew over the plains. Every second or so, another blast of psychic energy cratered the ground, but at this distance at least, there was still enough of a delay between the flash atop the mountain and the actual impact for the Wolfpack Shaman to maneuver, dodging by the nick of his skin even as he continued to burn out his resources slowly. In combat, after all, one’s MP did not regenerate naturally, and Arion was chugging through his MP in order to make it out alive.
So, what did he do? Simply sacrifice others.
One second elapsed, and the shot did not come. It streaked elsewhere instead, accompanied by the faintly visible rising of threads in the distance. Another second elapsed, and the sniper shot dogged his heel once more, as if to remind him that he was not off the hook yet. And so it continued, Leif chased by a sniper whose bullets traced him so long as he did not point elsewhere. Perhaps it was cruel, unusual. Perhaps Klein simply continued to bitch about how OP ranged was. But Leif’s strange partnership appeared to be working out, at least. And as Arion’s tank ran empty, as his own MP reserves dropped and he could no longer sustain his activities…the expected shot did not arrive.
Instead, there was a ping in his mind.
…
“600 rishi? Dang, sounds good.” As the axeman figured out payments and rooming arrangements with Britomart, the others settled down at another table, happy to just be able to chill. The metalband youth turned to face Magpie as she spoke up, nodding in appreciation of her aesthetic.
“Just travelling through ourselves. We're off to join the war effort, yeah? The actual jobs sounded sorta bullshit n all.” A couple of them nodded in agreement, as the cloaks were stowed away and the weapons that any half-noteworthy Immortal would have glimmered in the Sweet Maid’s lighting.
“Crazy place though,” commented the sage of the group, a wand hanging from his beaded sash. “Literal inn in the middle of nowhere. No roads or anything. How did y’all find this place?”
A more rogue-like figure with a demonic half-mask covering the lower half of their face flicked out a couple of coins and waved at Britomart. “Round o’ fruit juice, pretty miss~”
So, what did he do? Simply sacrifice others.
One second elapsed, and the shot did not come. It streaked elsewhere instead, accompanied by the faintly visible rising of threads in the distance. Another second elapsed, and the sniper shot dogged his heel once more, as if to remind him that he was not off the hook yet. And so it continued, Leif chased by a sniper whose bullets traced him so long as he did not point elsewhere. Perhaps it was cruel, unusual. Perhaps Klein simply continued to bitch about how OP ranged was. But Leif’s strange partnership appeared to be working out, at least. And as Arion’s tank ran empty, as his own MP reserves dropped and he could no longer sustain his activities…the expected shot did not arrive.
Instead, there was a ping in his mind.
Killer Gram has sent a friend request.
…
“600 rishi? Dang, sounds good.” As the axeman figured out payments and rooming arrangements with Britomart, the others settled down at another table, happy to just be able to chill. The metalband youth turned to face Magpie as she spoke up, nodding in appreciation of her aesthetic.
“Just travelling through ourselves. We're off to join the war effort, yeah? The actual jobs sounded sorta bullshit n all.” A couple of them nodded in agreement, as the cloaks were stowed away and the weapons that any half-noteworthy Immortal would have glimmered in the Sweet Maid’s lighting.
“Crazy place though,” commented the sage of the group, a wand hanging from his beaded sash. “Literal inn in the middle of nowhere. No roads or anything. How did y’all find this place?”
A more rogue-like figure with a demonic half-mask covering the lower half of their face flicked out a couple of coins and waved at Britomart. “Round o’ fruit juice, pretty miss~”
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