Recent Statuses

9 mos ago
Current That amazing high when you realized how far you've come in improving your writing. It's impossible to describe, but drowns you in a positive glow.
1 yr ago
I love being a terrible person by making my PCs' lives miserable, it's art form that never gets old or boring.
2 yrs ago
In the end, one man's hell could be another's paradise. Never underestimate the power of perspective.
2 yrs ago
Nightmares fuel my muse, keeping her nice and satisfy...
3 yrs ago
Stupidity can be the most dangerous thing to a person...but damn, does it feel good laughing at it when it's not you.


Personal details I've got enough room to share.

Nicknames....Fallen (preferred), Reaper, Devour of lost souls, etc.
Sign...............Libra (true to sign surprisingly)
Occupation....Wandering and exploring the caves of my insane mind
Location.........USA (Lost in the Cornfields!)

Status............Stable.I'm currently staying with my Aunt at her house and looking for a new home, so if I vanish unexpectedly it's because I'm busying moving and found a new place to live.


Click the links (Titles) below to be taken directly to the thread.

Advance RP

Accepting: GM/Co-GM Nitemare Shape, Hound55, & Dedonus

Coruscant Sacked: Aftermath
Accepting: GM/Co-GM Ellri, Sundered Echo, & Fallenreaper

⊰Manifest Anima: Planes Divided⊱
Accepting: GM/Co-GM yoshua171, Celaira, & Assistant GM Tuujaimaa

Mass Effect Andromeda: Frontier
Not Accepting: GM/Co-GMs Dervish, Dear Trickster, & Mortarion

Essence of the World: Flesh Reborn
Still Accepting: GM/Co-GMs Synthorian, Fallenreaper, and Themerlinhawk

Casual RP

Samhain Intrigues
Still Accepting: GM/Co-GM- LadyRunic

Blood Act: Ghosts of the Past
Still Accepting: GM/Co-GMs Fallenreaper, Lucius Cypher, & Rtron

Nation RP

Formaroth Part 2: Throne of Lies
Still Accepting: GM TheDuncanMorgan

Arena RP

None yet.

Arena Stats

1 Wins / 1 Losses / 0 Draws
1100 points

Most Recent Posts

Plans Come Crashing Down Part 4: The finale

Location: One Night in Hell→ Exiting
Time: Evening- Opening



Darius’ eyes scanned each individual that even resembled Masha. He had stopped about three before his vision caught her waving her hands about and calling him by her private pet name. Relief washed over his human features as he cut quickly toward her. He didn’t even care about his appearance as he gently took her arm then examined her from top to bottom. His expression hardened slightly whenever he spotted superficial wounds, but aside from that she was fine. This was enough to cause him to relax a bit.

“What happened?” Darius quickly asked, though he knew the answer.



Nikki was bent down on one knee. Her hand stretched out over an injured arm as she poured her Vis through it, gradually knitting his bones and flesh back together. Suddenly the Vis’ power sputtered then ceased. The throbbing in her body returned while confusion flooded her expression. Slowly a foreign sense of fear and panic washed over Nikki. It took a lot not to pull a knee-jerk reaction when the emotions emerged from nowhere as her figure pulled upright, her legs stretched out underneath her. She paused long enough to watch the confrontation between a strange woman and Damian. The Licenti was a complete wreck causing her to pull closer.

“Damian, calm down. It’s going to be alright… you’re not helping Killian acting this way,” Nikki attempted to soothe his emotional state. The whole time she fought back the fear rising within her chest thanks to his new form. One she’s never seen before. Her hand reached out to touch the immaterialized figure in the only way she knew how to calm someone down.

“Breath, in and out. The ambulance is on their way. Have you eaten… anything today?” She had a feeling she already knew the answer since she had friends that dated Licentia before, her eyes glanced at the state of Killian. He was in pretty bad shape.

~Few hours later~

The snowstorm had become worse. Snowflakes poured down in relentless sheets, visibility crippled and roads dangerously slick when first responders arrived at One Night in Hell. Red and blue lights from the sirens pulsed across the darkened, snow-covered streets as EMTs rounded up the injured. Though the scene’s confusion had portrayed the bomb’s collateral damage to be much worse, only about a fourth of those caught endured any serious injuries. Many helped by Katarina’s brief efforts.

Killian was gently loaded up into the back of an ambulance to be taken to the ER. His body bobbed lifelessly in the gurney as his vital signs were carefully monitored, his brain unresponsive to the attempts to revive him. His physical wounds were temporarily patched to prevent additional bleeding out during transport. A young officer, Jameson, casually took down both Masha’s name and Killian’s contacts before popping into his car.

Nikki watched the ambulance go for a few moments, silently praying that Killian was going to be alright. She had refused to go to the hospital. Mostly because she still had a little boy that needed to be picked up and her scratches were already fully healed.

She turned to Damian, “So, do you have a place to stay?"

Location: Sherman Square
Time: During the Hound attack

“So… do you have any bright ideas over how to deal those?”

The virus’ voice rang in Racheli’s ear. His shape stood just in the corner of her vision, about a meter behind her. She wasn’t surprised if she was the only one that could see him. The bastard liked to fuck with her, making her come off to be crazy to others.

Before the woman, four large Mechs were menacing down on her. Their size rivaled two-story houses while the guns on their left arms raised upright and ready to fill her with bullets. Racheli could hear each tiny gear grind and squeak against each other the moment the gun was raised. Above, the rain and wind began to hammer downward. Each droplet tried to pierce into her coat. The water dripping along the creases before they rolled off onto the ground. Lightning streaked across the darkened skies as a loud crack followed in its wake. The flash illuminated her features in the darkness. Her mask obscured her sea-green irises flooded with the color of onyx.

The guns fired.

Metal bullets flew out of the muzzles, driven by the subtle flash of gunpowder and smoke. Racheli’s figure tried to move out of the way before the air around her warped. Abruptly the metal bullets slowed then stopped in place, held there by some invisible force. Rain and wind whipped about the still figures before the shells fell, useless, onto the ground. Their ringing drowned out by the storm.

Racheli’s eyes widened in surprise. She hadn’t even raised her palm to stop them before realizing who had used her magnetic abilities, her head whipped to space just behind her. The Virus held a wicked, knowing smirk across his lips. His eyes fixed with hers to let her suspicions fester a moment more.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She snapped.

His smirk seemed to widen at being noticed then replied, “Keeping you alive. You’re lacking training and knowledge over how to fully use your abilities. Most of all, you are lacking what’s the word… Ah, tactical skills.”

He then pointed back at the threat looming over her, “Try to keep your focus in the fight, not on me. I’ve warned you once already…this time it’s not training.”

Racheli’s eyes widened in realization before a metallic fist rushed into her peripheral vision. It collided instantly just when she turned her head, the electrical energy erupting in her skull. She felt her feet leave the pavement as she was sent flying into the nearest building. Instinctively Rach’s arms wrapped about her head when she bashed into the wall. The concrete spiderwebbed from the impact point before she crumbled into the ground, cursing loudly. Weakly she pushed onto her hands and knees, trying to clear black blood from her vision. The mechs began to step forward with each rumbling step betraying their location.

Unfazed by Rach’s failure to defend herself, the Virus casually walked to her fallen form. His arms held at his back’s nook while he navigated the shortest route to her. When he finally reached her, his figure leaned over.

“Will you…please listen to reason? Let me in or we’ll both die,” He calmly requested, hoping a less forceful demand might yield better results.

“Fine,” Rach snapped, getting tired of being a punching bag for the walking tin can, “On one condition: No one is killed.”

He began to protest, “They are just hu-”

“Take it, or leave it!” Rach interrupted, finally wobbling to her feet.

The Virus sighed then nodded his understanding, “Very well. No one gets killed…”

He lifted his arm to press to Racheli’s shoulder then vanished from sight, a small voice whispering in her ear.

“Now… just relax while I feed that violent nature of yours.”

Then everything went dark.

The Virus flexed his newly gained control as his head leaned to one side, then flipped to the other. Both motions made an audible crack making him smile. Slowly his arm raised once more and extended outward toward the nearest Mecha. Again energy warped about Racheli’s shell causing the magnetic metals to shake then screech upon being bent away from him. The mecha, either ignoring or unaware of the danger, jerked its arm back for another punch. It let it fly directly at the ‘helpless’ woman.

The edge was met by an invisible wall as the Virus smirked, using Rach’s lips. His fingers then crushed into a fist, the palm still facing his target. Metal quickly crumbled inward like a tin can. The effect traveled from the knuckles to the forearm and up the bicep, making a path toward the cockpit.

His other hand raised a finger then wiggled it side to side, “Tsk, tsk. I shouldn’t expect humans to actually used the brain cells that evolution gave them. It’s expecting too much.”

As fluid leaked through the ruined arm, the Virus tugged his arm back behind him. On cue, the mecha’s own arm was ripped from its socket then tossed to the side. Metal across the woman’s neck melted into small trails, traveling down the arms and into the hands. Long, wicked claws formed rapidly. Subtly a single trail from each clawed ‘glove’ had slithered along the side of the body into the soles of the feet. The Virus intended to use these paths to navigate the electrical currents into the ground where they would be harmless to him. As long as he kept his feet on the ground that is.

Not wasting time, the Virus rushed forward. The right hand sliced into the mecha’s lower left leg as his magnetic field repulsed the limb into the one behind it. Electrical energy darted into the body only to be caught by the metal being used like a lightning rod. It scorned the leather enough to leave blackened lines across the sides where the path was located.

Unbothered by the shocking he had received, his sixth sense alerted him to a new round of bullets coming in. Eyes jerked to the mecha he had knocked down with the thrown leg and watched it angle its gun arm upward. He twisted out of the way just when the muzzle had flashed. Meanwhile, his earlier victim was struggling to remain upright while on one single leg. The weight shifted then tilted finally to the right causing it to come toppling down. The virus ducked behind mass for cover, the bullet shredding the back. When the

“That’s not playing fair at all,” he noted then pulled away from his makeshift cover.

The Virus twisted about to face his aggressors as his arms jerked upward, flipping the fallen mech into the air. It rotated in mid-air before it came crashing down on top of the remaining mechs. Feeling confident, he straightened his jacket collar then walked over to finish the job. A mistake because one of the machines managed to angle their gun from the tangled mess and opened fire.

When the bullets stopped... Racheli's body fell back onto the ground. Water slowly tainted by black coloring spreading from her torso.
Mistakes were Made

Location: Loom’s General Hospital (A204)
Time: 3-7 AM

Cross and Garner were the first officers on the scene. They cautiously stepped through the hallway, scaling the stairs and holding their hands close to their guns. They were expecting a potential threat to leap out at them at any moment. In their wake was a small, mousy looking man with his bag in hand. He timidly glanced around to ease his nerves before following at the police officers’ signal. Gradually they arrived at JP’s apartment number.

They checked the door then enter the room. Once cleared, they gestured for the paramedic to enter. The man pushed toward the two unconscious individuals. He checked for the pulse, vitals and confirmed everything that Matthew already knew. Both checked out to be fine, but the amount of blood on the woman was alarming.

Shortly the two individuals were loaded into a gurney each, then moved into an ambulance. Both apartments were tapped off and would be investigated by the authorities later. At this moment, a voicemail rang throughout Holly’s apartment. Cross immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Lily from the department. He sighed then carefully picked up his own cell and dialed her number. When he heard the line being answered, he quickly explained what they suspected a burglary had gone wrong. He ended with the fact Holly was being transferred to Loom General Hospital for observations. This also meant an immediate investigation into what exactly happened.


“Well, hello sugar,” commented a feminine voice.

JP would feel a small hand press against his forehead. As his vision cleared, he would see a blonde woman with curls down to her shoulder and a hourglass frame. She had brought a tray for him since it was drawing near breakfast time. It was a light, but simple set up of buttered croissant, coffee, orange juice, and a whole sliced apple. Gently she set the tray across JP’s lap then moved toward the window. She continued her conversation as she opened it, careful to do it slowly so his eyes could adjust to the light.

“How are you this morning?”

Waiting Room

Robert Norton was new at the Bureau and this was his first assignment. This fact made his heart twitch like a jack rabbit trapped within his ribs, leaving a slight discomfort in his chest. He ignored it as he stepped up to the front desk. A woman, distracted by her work at the computer, paused then casted him a sideways glance. She briefly looked around to see if anyone else would address him. Seeing no one but herself, she bit her tongue during her inward debat over handling the situation. Finally she returned to ignoring him and began to type once more.

Robert frowned. Now he was forced to be more assertive than his personality was used. He began to cough for her attention. She wasn’t fazed in the least. This blunt rudeness only increased his annoyance. Not willing to waste anymore time, Robert smacked the counter hard enough to get her attention and risk earning her temper.

“What?” She snapped at him, rolling herself from the desk.

Robert fought not to retort about her behavior as he put on his politest smile. Ignoring the outburst, he continued, “Yes I’m here to talk with a Holly Knight and a Jean-Philippe Vannier over an incident a few hours ago.”

The woman’s eyebrow raised in question. Robert’s teeth gritted a bit at her next reply, figuratively biting his tongue.

“I need your name and identification first.”

Robert pulled out his fake FBI identification then gave his name, “Officer Norton.”

She gave him a suspicious look then glanced at his badge number, quickly typing it into the computer. After a few moments his name, picture and additional information pulled up to confirm his identification with the local police department. She seemed to take her time absorbing the information before she turned to him.

“Alright, go right in. Ms. Knight is in A203 and Mr. Vannier is in A204.”

“Thank you,” Robert said but the woman had already went back to her work, ignoring him again.

Sighing under his breath, he made his way toward the hospital rooms before he abruptly paused in his tracks. Someone had caught his attention while sitting in the waiting room.

Scene 1, Minor Arc 1: Sheep’s Clothing

Location: Loom’s Slums, heading to Club Ambrosia
Time: 3 AM

“I agree. However, when you think about it… do you ever ask permission before you eat your dinner?” suddenly said a male voice over Ashlyn’s shoulder.

Behind Ashlyn stood a tall, willowy dark skinned man dressed with an Louisiana style to his appearance. His fingers narrowed into a few dark claws as he casually picked off a trace of lint from the suit jacket, casually draped over his shoulders. White pupiless eyes turned toward the huntress before giving a toothy grin. He appeared to be an African descent individual in his early twenties. When Ashlyn finally noticed him, he made a slight bow while tipping his fedora in politeness.

“Pardon for the slight impoliteness, but I see you found a body. I was hoping the night would’ve been boring during my patrol,” Jack Doucet commented then flipped his hat back onto his shaven head, “Sadly, seems some nasty demon is stirring up trouble.”

Casually his feet stepped toward the corpse, still attracting flies. His lips curled into disgust before he turned back to her, “You wouldn’t have happened to see the guilty party, would you… dear? I hate paperwork back at the Bureau.”

He didn’t hint if he heard her outburst or not earlier, but his last reply seemed to hint that he did.

~|Fond Memories and New Threats|~

Location: Nyhem
Time: During the Party
By: @Klomster & @TheDuncanMorgan & @Fallenreaper

Claus sat and took a hearty gulp out of his goblet as Alasdair held his speech, he applauded when he felt it was fitting and gestured for a servant to fill his cup some more.

Clearly enjoying the whole spiel, acting all high and noble for Claus had gotten a seat at the honour table as befit his status of royal advisor… or imperial advisor as it seemed after that one.

He’d even dressed up a bit and the only armour he was wearing was his black cuirass with the emblazoned white gauntleted fist of his company. A nice new black gambeson with red lining and a broad dark blue hat with red trim and silver bands with a white feather on top.

After Alasdair had finished Claus let out a voiced thought which could be heard by some of those near him.

-”Empire? That has a nice ring to it, let’s hope it works out.” He took another pair of hearty gulps of wine.

Mmmm, Orog wine he thought.

Patrick threw Claus a disapproving glare as he took yet another gulp of wine as he continued to make a fool of himself. Patrick was sat next to Claus and had watched him drink more than the rest of the high council combined, gulping wine as if it were water. Before Claus could take another swig Patrick grabbed the goblet from his hands and slammed it on the table.

“You are now a member of the high council now and you will act as such” Patrick growled under his breath “Whether you wish to drink yourself under the table during your private hours is your own concern but while you are here you will keep yourself presentable, at least in my presents, otherwise people will think me a fool for electing you to the high council”

With a shocked expression, Claus was cast from his good mood and into the angry remarks of a stern man.

He eyed Patrick for a moment before voicing his response.

-”It’s lucky you’re the kings… emperors brother, since otherwise what you just did is probably illegal somehow.” He finished off with a serious stare completely bereft of even an ounce of drunkenness straight into Patrick's eyes. Which quickly turned into a smirk.

-”But luckily I don’t care nor do I want to get on your bad sides. This is also far less than I can drink and still hold my manners about. It wouldn’t even be hard to drink all of these wimps under the table.” He finished by gesturing towards everyone present at tables.
Making another spiel of it, Claus gestured for a servant to wipe up the spilled wine from the table.

Patrick’s face remained unchanged. He was about to protest, though as he looked at the nobles that surrounded him he knew he needn’t bother; after the speech, the drinking had only intensified and a couple of nobles had already passed out, carried away by their servants under the commands of their disapproving family. Who would notice one more drunk fool? Still, the sight made Patrick angry; these were the elite of Formaroth, those who were responsible for keeping order and ruling throughout the concord. Yet they acted like drunkards and spoilt children. Until Alasdair had taken the throne many of them would have openly declared the De Reimer’s unworthy of their title and secretly many still did. At least he had earned their title and proved to be deserving of it, unlike the fools that now surrounded him, that only had their titles because of their birth. As he looked back at Claus his face, though still stern, softened.

“Very well, though I ask that you hold off on your drink until you have heard what I wish to say”

-”I am all ears when you have something to say, after all, your ideas have worked out wonderfully so far.” A massive grin was on his face while taking a sip of wine, but as a gesture, Claus put some water in his goblet as well.

“From what I gather you are still having trouble replenishing the steels fists forces and that most of the new recruits quit the moment training became challenging. I have the means to solve this problem, tell me to have you heard of Cawaport’s ‘Darktown’”?

Thinking for a moment Claus answered.
-”Not much, it’s a shithole, what of it?”

A shithole was an understatement, Darktown was not only the poorest area of Cawaport but the worst slum in all of Formaroth. Under the De Reimer’s rule, Cawaport’s wealth had increased greatly improving the lives of the cities majority. The same could not be said for Darktown. In improving the cities wealth the De Reimer’s also ended up increasing the wealth gap between the rich and the poor and both the population and squalor of Darktown had grown exponentially. Now the once poor yet safe slum was a crime infested pit of despair, segregated from the rest of the city by a stone wall to keep the rest of Cawaport safe.

“As you know, Darktown is the worst place someone could find themselves, with almost all of Cawaport’s crimes originating within it,” Patrick said “We are trying to find a way to deal with the problem and one such solution that has met with some success is conscripting these vagabonds into the military. Either they remain in the army where they are of some use or they are put to death for whatever crime they committed. If you wish I can send some of them your way, I can guarantee you no matter how hard your training the fear of what awaits for them back in Cawanor will ensure they will not quit”.

Claus answer was quick.

-”I am skeptical, the Steel Fist is built upon discipline, and many a common crook lack even the slightest sense of it. But if you want I can turn them into a decent militia force and cherry pick the ones I like.”

“Good, they will be far more useful as a militia than they will be plaguing the streets of Cawaport” Patrick said. Patrick’s attention was broken as a figure amongst the crowd caught his eye “I was unaware we had invited elves to this party” Patrick said with mild contempt.

Seeing what Patrick had spotted, Claus immediately recognized Dyril looking rather out of place at the right table.

-”That’s not just any elf, it’s a friend,” Claus said with happiness since he realized that he now had time to catch up with lost time with her.

He stood up with his goblet and boomed out with his usual disregard for proper etiquette.

-”Dyril! Still on your first cup?” He grinned and walked over and simply sat down opposite her on a stool he brought along, pushing some drunk person out of the way.

Dyril’s head turned to the sounds of Claus calling her. She shook it a little, clearly amused and unsurprised by his antics. Her eyes followed his figure lifting from his seat then plopping right across from her. Small delicate fingers twisted the goblet in place as she had been lightly sipping it. The taste wasn’t quite sweet enough for her compared to Elven wine.

“Yes, I am. Grandfather ensured I was not exposed to too much so I’m a lightweight. However, it’s nice to see things haven’t changed with you,” she said with a hint of enjoyment to it, “It’s interesting to see as someone of authority now. How did that happen?”

With one of his telltale smirks, Claus answered after a short thought.
-”Barely any idea honestly, but it has to do with that sour fella.” He motioned for Patrick with his goblet as he said it. Waving in a silly way with his fingers to the serious king.

Dyril expression had a subtle change, edging into disbelief, before evaporating altogether. Her head tilted into Patrick’s direction. Observing him for a moment, she then returned to her conversationalist, “He obviously didn't know you very well or made a hasty decision.”

A booming laugh was the answer which Claus stopped with a sip of wine.

-”Damn right you are, I have little to no idea what a military advisor does, but as the old saying goes, fake it ‘til you make it.”

-”So, what in the world are you actually doing here and not in a boring castle in Beilokias?”

“That’s complicated. I was hoping to reconnect with some family while trying to establish a trade agreement that would benefit both sides, but it appears war happened. My father never arrived leading me to believe they were no longer interested or didn’t have the time,” Dyril paused for a breath then continued, “Naturally grandfather wasn’t pleased, but several relatives were eager to get rid of their unsightly blight on the family name. So my uncle decided to allow me to take over his role within our family.”

Kiseo leaned in around Dyril, allowing Claus to catch sight of her as she removed her mistress’ partly empty goblet. She flashed the mercenary a gentle smile in a respectful manner then retracted back to dispose of the cup onto a nearby passing tray.

-”Hey there!” Claus said with a wave to Kiseo before returning to Dyril.

-”Long time since I saw a mao, nice to see one without scars as well. That was… Kisso? The men mentioned her and I know you did as well.”

Dyril fought hard not to roll her eyes at his mispronunciation of Kiseo’s name. Kiseo, on the other hand, stifled a giggle under her well-placed paw. Her eyes looked to Dyril for permission to speak before receiving a nod from the blue-skinned woman.

“Key-so,” the mao kindly corrected, careful to word her name in two easy to say words. As she let the soak into Claus’ drunken thoughts, she continued.

“Much pleasure to meet you, Claus. And yes. Very taken care of well by mistress I am. Formaroth is still getting… better?” At the last word, Kiseo looked to Dyril for guidance if she was using the correct word in its proper form.

“Yes, you’re getting better. Still needs a lot more improvement,” Dyril confirmed, “Yes, her mother served me before she did. Sadly, Shinx, her mother, was… disposed of during an errand for me.”

Both fell a bit silent at the memory.

Claus picked up on the gloomy thoughts and instinctively raised his goblet.

-”For a fine mao, a memory toast for Shinx.” He moved to let the goblets clink into Dyril's.

“And what is it that you are toasting for,” Patrick said; while Dyril and Claus had been talking Patrick had made his way from the honor table over to them. He would have remained at his seat, however, he had grown suspicious of Dyril; an elven woman making casual conversation with the new advisor of war. Perhaps she was an ambassador, hoping to gain valuable information for the Imperium.

Kiseo’s eyes lowered instinctively when Patrick arrived, glancing away from his direction. Dyril acknowledged him as frowned slightly, but said nothing.

-”We are toasting for a lost friend and a missed mother,” Claus responded to Patrick as he dragged out another stool for him to sit on.

“Yes,” Dyril said as she sized Patrick up, before she spoke, “I’ve not had the chance to meet you. I’m Híril Dyril Elian.”

“I see, I am Patrick De Reimer; ruler of Cawanor and brother to the High King” Patrick said as he slowly sat down on the stool Claus had offered, keeping his back straight so to remain taller than those who sat at the table “So Dyril, I assume your origins are from Beilokias? Tell me what business do you have here in Formaroth”?

“Yes, I was conceived, born and raised there. As I mentioned earlier to Claus, I was here originally to establish a trade with the human side of my family. Since they didn’t turn up, I assume they no longer held any interest and are no longer important,” she cleared her throat, trying to keep the distaste out of her voice, “I managed to get an audience with the High King then showed him some premade magical items. It ended up leading to a better trade negotiation.”

“Your human family?” Patrick said as he raised an eyebrow, he had heard that humans and elves were able to produce hybrids, though he imagined such pairings were rare, looking down on Dyril’s hands confirmed her claim. Patrick was always perturbed by the three claw-like fingers that most elves had, Dyril’s hands, however, were far more human-like “Who was your human family, do they share a name I may have heard of”? Patrick continued as he looked back at Dyril

“I only know a name, but it’s not important. Personally, they are no better than the family that raised me now,” Dyril stated bluntly, her words held a slight ice to it when thinking of her Elven side, “Hybrids aren’t… viewed fondly on. I was considered the very shame of my family that needed to often be reminded of her place. I prefer not to be reminded of it.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Patrick said bluntly, he did not like people avoiding his questions “What was their name”?

-”Now, let’s not dwell on unimportant things. Why not instead ask what kind of interesting things Alasdair is buying from her?” Claus interjected not wanting the mood to be ruined.

Patrick remained silent for a short while as he considered whether to pursue his question. Eventually, he decided against it, if he continued asking Dyril about her family he would be viewed as overly forward at best and desperate at worst. “Very well, what items have taken my brother’s interest”?

“Mandrakes and their unique ability to lengthen a natural lifespan,” Dyril said calmly, relieved he was dropping the subject.

Patrick’s interest peaked upon hearing this “Now that does sound interesting” he said as his stern expression softened slightly “Do say more, how long can these mandrakes increase one’s lifespan”?

“Without magical assistance, at the most tests have shown it to be one or two years at least,” Dyril truthfully repeated the same information as she did the High King, seeing the same strange interest.

“Interesting” Patrick said as he remained silent for a short while, contemplating what he had just been told, “You say without magical assistance if a magic specialist were to work alongside you, along with sufficient funding, would it make a difference”?

“It would. The increase would be about five at least, through additional research could improve it. However, I need to make arrangements to locate a suitable place to grow them and harvest a crop.”

Dyril thought a moment then continued, “It is difficult to tell without attempting it first. I do recall reading up on the theory, but for most Elves, that’s just a drop in the bucket for a natural lifespan.”

“I see,” Patrick said as he stood up from the table “This has been most...informative, I shall certainly remember to keep an eye on your work. For now, I must return to the honour table, gooday” Patrick said as he walked away, he had ascertained that Dyril was not working for the Imperium and any information that Claus may drunkenly share would not be reported back to them (though Patrick doubted he had anything of significant importance). But more importantly, it appeared this ‘half-blood’ may have the potential to increase one’s lifespan. It was certainly something he planned to inform Alice about.

As Patrick moved off, Claus leaned in towards Dyril and whispered in brutally broken elvish.
-”He has such a stick up his arse, just watch him waddle off.” To which he took a hearty gulp of wine.

Dyril fought not to snicker as she raised her hand to her face, her lips curled briefly into an amused smile at Claus’ comment. Her fixed expression softened slightly. She gently placed her hand back underneath the table while she replied in fluent Elven.

“He seems to wear that stick proudly. Are all De Reimer like that?” Her eyes spied his path heading back to the table, relieved there would be no more poking for her lineage.

Keeping in elven and now grinning like a fool.

-”Nah, Alasdair and the others aren’t as fat as him.” To which he snickered and drank some wine. He then stopped and returned to Formarothian.

-”It’s good to have a nice chat without your nasty relatives and old Doroka looming over, much more relaxed don’t ya think?”

Dyril paused for a moment, considering what Claus pointed out.

“It’s freeing almost, but I’m still waiting for Grandfather or one of my Aunts to suddenly appear. Then just sweep me away under the rug,” Dyril said with worry in her tone, remains of her less than ideal home life.

“Now, I’m just worried about things crumbling here and I being forced to return. Also, you do realize… I know you have better language skills than that, right?” She said with her head tilted in his direction, noting how he rarely changed since her childhood. Then again she didn’t expect him to because a few years were like days in an Elf’s lifetime.

Looking suspiciously guilty, Claus smiled and responded in fluent elven.

-”I know.” Followed with a wink, Claus had learned two phrases fluently in elve, one was that and the other was ‘i’d like some wine.’

He kept on in Formarothian.

-”You know I’m always ready to punch that old geezer if you want to. Never liked the old guy anyway.” Just realizing, Claus waved to a servant to come over before turning back to Dyril.

Her hand twirled with the fresh goblet, now replaced with water, on the table. Kiseo had left briefly to retrieve it since Dyril doubted any of the servants would actually offer anything other than wine, ale or other exquisite drinks.

“Punching him wouldn’t do anything. We both know that. In his eyes, I should’ve never been born. In my mother’s, I was merely a tool for manipulation and gaining some human connections to make our family’s life easier,” Dyril said with distaste while she sipped the better tasting water. She noted him getting more wine causing her to ask, “How can you stand that… bitter stuff? Especially after having the better quality drink at Beikolas?”

Her nose scrunched up in distaste at the rate he was consuming it.

With a wondering expression, bordering on poetic, he gazed into the bottom of his cup and thought of this deep question.

-”Good question, I guess it’s an acquired taste. Like that Keller root wine from the province south of where you grew up. I love the stuff, while all my men gag at the thought of it.”

-”Also I’m a bit of a party person, if there is booze, I drink it.” One of his smirks snuck into his face, revealing his easygoing attitude to all of this.

Flipping to the native language, she sighed softly, “Don’t drink too much or I might have to send Kiseo along to ensure your cups are watered down. I rather there wasn’t another incident. Your predecessor had to do some quick thinking in order to smooth things out with grandfather.”

-”Ah, but these ARE watered down, lord grumpy over there made sure of that.” Claus pointed casually towards Patrick without turning, making the gesture a bit less obvious.
Here the servant Claus had waved to arrived and made a polite bow.

-”Great, you, make sure to write an overly pompous and impressive letter to my father, Adolf Rotstein from Scassia that I have become royal advisor…. IMPERIAL advisor. Make it extra jolly as well, he’ll hate that.” The servant made a barely noticeable raising of an eyebrow, before bowing and beginning the task, or getting the proper people to do it.

-”It’s great to be an advisor, I’m practically nobility!” Claus raised his arms and was genuinely happy and leaned back on the table. A massive grin on his face.

-”Want some cider? I’m tired of this wine anyway, they probably have some weaker stuff.” He asked Dyril.

“And how many did you have before they were watered down?” Dyril asked accusingly.

She meant no harm by it as her lips curled into a small smile, showing her amusement at Claus’ disgruntled behavior. A subtle hint of surprise crossed her face at Claus’ statement over his father. It made her eyes tighten in thought before dismissing until later. Dyril shook her head at her friend’s reaction before reminding him of true facts.

“True, but what the High King gives, he can take away. You have to remember you only have power due to a title. Lose that and you might end up worse off than when you started. You’re also in a position of importance after all,” Dyril gently reminded him, then nodded at the offer of cider. It had to be better than what she was currently drinking.

A moment of contemplation came from Claus, with him stroking his chin in thought, followed with ignoring the tough question altogether.

-”Honest to Jykher, two cups. Sure it’s a goblet…” he stared into his goblet” I’m just surprised these fellows can’t handle their drinks better than this.” Almost on queue as he said it, a man passed out next to him and sort of slid off his right side. A pair of servants began to drag him off after apologizing to Claus.

With a loud shout, Claus ordered a servant over and asked her to bring some quality light cider.

-”Always preferred the taste of cider and beer to wine anyway,” Claus said as he turned towards Dyril once more, suddenly he had his rare darker tone to him, shadow over his face and a slight tilt of the head.

-”As for titles, my power comes from the fist, my connection to Timtos and my blade. If I want more…. I get hold of more.” His smirk wicked.

Dyril rarely saw him like this, but it had happened once or twice before.

Before she had time to answer, the cider arrived and Claus was back to his usual jolly mood, pouring drinks and smiling.

Dyril fell silent. She wouldn’t deny the expression on his face caused her to shiver in fear slightly. It felt like a different individual was holding the reins within his body whenever it happened, drawing out an instinctive need to recoil for protection. Quietly sizing him up, her attention was distracted by the servant’s arrival as she placed their drinks down.

Letting the uneasy feeling go, Dyril and Claus began to reminisce over their past. A long, enjoyable conversation that turned to their future too.
Cade stepped into the box.

His eyes turned to his sleeve, casually rolling it up then fastened it at his elbow. When he finished, Cade reached for his back pant pocket. He checked for his senbon. They were still there, locked in a case. Each tip was laced with something dangerous, but Cade had little idea what it was. If Angel was scratched by them, it made treating him difficult until Samad revealed the poison. He questioned if the Iranian would do it immediately and this along made him hesitate ever bring them out

The medic was a healer at heart, not a murder. Yet he was walking into a warzone now without any chance of coming out unscratched at all. Angel was far more experienced in the art of warfare than himself. If the Lost Number wanted to kill him, it wouldn’t be hard.

As Cade reached for his bo-staff, his ears caught Angel’s mockery toward his ability and power. The younger Asylum wouldn’t argue because it seemed everyone believed he was weaker. Even his own partner. The truth couldn’t be disproven, but eventually the roles reversed if the individual lived long enough.

‘What are you up to?’ Cade thought mentally, his eyes locked with the Lost Number.

His hand reached for his bo-staff as Angel’s ‘encouragement’ tried to urge him on. Cade slightly sighed at the insult before he than considered how to begin.

“Are you really communicating with me telepathically?” Angel replied through the telepathic channel, his disapproval rather apparent even through thought. “In battle you never open a channel with the enemy boy, do you know what I could do to you with such as easy access?” The Lost Number continued while shaking his head and then the channel was severed, an act of kindness.

“You are not taking this seriously are you my young, naive, little friend?” Angel replied, this time speaking verbally while leaning against his coffin. “My task is to duel you, rather simple. There are no restrictions and that curtly translates to, you may die. As to why?” The Silver Reaper seemed to take a pause at that, his veiled gaze meeting the Chrono then back to the medic. “I am afraid that is the point and you must figure it out, do not disappoint me little medic.” As soon as the last words parted from his mouth Angel’s form dissipated like mist, appearing behind Cade with a palm on the Asylum’s head.

“When given the luxury of the initial strike, never refuse it.” Angel drove this lesson with some practical demonstration, Cade’s mind experiencing a short burst of agonizing pain, short enough not cause any permanent traumatic harm. And that was the second act of kindness, And last.

Cade’s eyes widened in shock. The sensation of someone’s palm against his skull then followed by the sensation of pain bolted into his mind. It felt like he had been hit by a sledgehammer on the brain. His teeth gritted tightly to prevent the loud scream from escaping his throat. Instinctively his right hand gripped his staff tighter, tilting it at where he suspected Angel’s gut was, then released it right into the Reaper.

Before the staff could connect a foreign force seemed to hold it as if an invisible hand had kept the weapon at bay. A smile laced across Angel’s face, his shimmering spectacles meeting Cade’s eyes. “Evasion is advised,” with a heart beat of a warning his stretched palm struck for where the Medic’s heart would be. A killing blow to signify the Reaper had come to reap.

Immediately the medic’s body shifted to the left. Angel’s hand brushed by his ribs, nearly cracking them with the radiating power alone. It was enough to draw a visible flinch from Cade. His right leg continued to pull to the side and tried to put distance between the two. His figure slowly turned about to fact Angel with faint hopes it would improve his counter ability.

“When faced with uneven odds, distance is usually your ally,” Angel lectured remaining stationary, his posture once more leaning against his coffin. This was after all a lesson for the students as well and from the Reaper’s demeanour he was quite comfortable with punishing the medic while teaching a class. “But even more so, you need wit and resolve. You must focus and discipline yourself else you be swept away by fear,” as if to stress his words the Lost Number activated his Alchemic Drive, the sheer pressure stifling the cube, not even the field could hold back the magnitude of it. “What will you do boy, you face a leviathan, what will you do?” Angel wore a simple expression on his face, pure and utter malice, the bloodlust almost tangible.

Cade’s arms leaned heavily on his staff now fully extended. His breathing was growing heavier with passing time and his limbs were weighed down, his eyes still looking at Angel. The look on the Lost Number was difficult to ignore. His lungs struggled to retain breath as he didn’t answer the stronger individual. There was nothing to argue. Their power differences were too drastically different. He was a gnat trying to annoy the bull.

“When you embrace the impossibility of a situation you create the inevitability of it, you create your failure,” Angel spoke once more, his candour replaced by an almost imperialistic tone. “Is the futility of it all so daunting? When faced with death you would gawk at your impending end? Is failure parallel to death? If death is so certain then why restrain yourself, what more do you have to lose. Show me the splendor befitting of an ant!” As Angel spoke, a smile seemed to creep upon his face, not one to taunt the medic or to demean him. The end was certain, but how it will end was not. “What will you do boy?” As Angel repeated his alchemic drive finally returned to normal, the pressure subsiding only to be followed by a barrage of telekinetic blows.

Cade’s body felt a punch hit his side, then followed up at his knee back. Several more followed suit from different angles causing him to flinch away. The medic’s arms raised to protect his face and head while the assault continued. His mind was flickering through the possibilities surging through his thoughts, but each one seemed unlikely to work more than the last one. He barely realized he was curled into a ball upon the ground until Samad’s voice reached out to him.

‘What...doing? Are...hit you… us both killed?’

Cade couldn’t bring himself to answer. He closed his eyes, still feeling punches jerk across his surface, before jerking out his senbon. His eyes spotted where Angel was leaning on his coffin then took aim. Electrical energy began to build within the metal needle just when he shot at the Silver’s Reaper’s location. It flew with surprising accuracy at the image.

Before the lightning charged needles left Cade’s hand a strange shimmer appeared around the Reaper, as if smooth transparent plastic had been laced around him, a telekinetic barrier hence allowing Angel to remain leaning comfortably, staring at the onslaught on Cade as well as the mosquito of an attack. It was at the first spark that Angel realized the purpose behind the weak attack and the Lost Number’s tinted glasses did little to protect his sight from the blinding flash. With that the barrage on Cade seized leaving Angel simply staring at the Asylum’s general direction.

Cade wobbly rose to his feet. His expression twisted into something akin to a mix of pain and determination. Blood dripped from his fist, the palm bleeding now. In his other one was a bloodied senbon in his grip indicating he had carved out a symbol on the only canvas he had: his flesh. It appeared Cade had used a clean senbon to inscribe on his palm while Angel had been beating the living hell out of him. The red liquid dribbled down as it pooled into a small puddle at his feet.

With the Lost Number temporary blinded, Cade increased his speed in the same fashion he had seen Samad do before. He had been watching his partner for some time as he adapted his alchemy to mimic it. Electricity surged through his system and poured into the blood collection in his hand. It settled there for additional use. Already Cade’s eyes shut in order to protect his eyes from the additional flashes he might have to create. His other hand reached for the laced senbon in his back pocket while his staff was appeared forgotten for the moment.

When his last flash died, he let blood droplets scatter in his wake. They touched various surfaces they could easily attach there and waited. Their surface crackled in anticipation.

Before the Lost Number knew it, Cade shifted his direction to Angel’s right then threw two senbon at Angel’s right side. Both were aiming at the largest center mass of the man’s body nearest the ribs. While Cade didn’t expect them to hit the target, it would force Angel to move and buy more time. His hand slammed down where he pressed the crude sigil into the floor before shooting around. It wouldn’t be as strong as if he had carved it by hand, but that alchemy would take too long. So he had to improvise.

Any and all incoming attacks were swiftly negated by Angel’s telekinetic barrier, the Lost Number now no longer kneeling against the coffin. The first few seconds were perhaps the most bothersome but eventually darkness settled and the Reaper grew accustomed all additional flash bangs were a minor inconvenience. “Quite the underhanded maneuver,” the Lost Number complimented. His palm pressed out in front of him, maintaining the shield. Very few had this knowledge but Angel would often use his gaze to direct his alchemy, a subtle form of motem which prevented the Reaper from expending unwanted energy. This implication of having to do just that did not sit too well.

“I was intending to avoid this, but this is getting tiresome,” with a weary resignation the Lost Number massaged his temples and then he stood still. His veiled gaze staring ahead, at something and nothing.

[b]”Like Vermin you slither in darkness, I need to sight to listen to the cries of a lonely mind,” when Angel finished his gaze was now directly staring at Cade.

”Learn to silence your mind boy, the Lost Number sneered, his words echoing within Cade’s head something akin to telepathy but different, more coercive. Now what say I shatter your very being?

[color=7ccd7c][i] ‘Stay out of my head…’[/color][/i] Cade answered before his hand raised at Angel.

He had managed to place four ‘stamps’ as he stood upright, his fingers moved and generated alchemy through his palm. Electricity crackled at the scars then it shot out in a single, focused bolt of lighting right at Angel.

Before Angel could begin to warp Cade’s mind to his liking, to mould the medic anew, something instantly yanked him away. His mind regaining cognition a second too late, realizing the shield had shattered under a sudden focused alchemic bolt. Normally the Reaper would have been fast enough to stabilize his shield once more, but the lack of sight coupled with the sudden ejection from another’s mind along with the realization the medic had surpassed expectations, all of it had helped in catching the Lost Number off guard. The initial lightning bolt connecting with Angel’s outstretched palm followed by an explosion of electricity in proximity to him.

Cade watched the ‘fireworks’ begin. Several scattered droplets and the sigils placed down glowed then exploded creating smaller damage when the shield went down. He didn’t expect the effects to last long. Cade began to heal his palm, the sigil expended, creating a new cavanas. His hand reached for the senbon to carve a new sigil.

Once the dust cleared Angel’s silhouette slowly took shape, the Lost Number was nowhere close to his coffin, skid marks revealing that the lightning bolt and the accompanying explosion had forced him a considerable distance. Minute scratches and tears laced the Reaper’s once pristine clothing. The air around him was shimmering once more revealing he had activated his shield to avoid the brunt of the damage, though Angel’s still outstretched palm had been scorched black. An orb of electric energy danced within his seared palm, with evasion impossible the Reaper had resorted to taming the energy directed at him, it was not as simple as expected. A rather open frown took shape on Angel’s face, clearly finding the pain bothersome.

“You underestimate yourself medic, you hide your potential behind excuses and self loathing. Enough of this farce,” if the Lost Number appeared intimidating before simply leaning against his coffin then the fact he decided to finally walk towards his target should have been terrifying.

The sigil was only a third of the way done when Angel began to walk. Cade frowned a bit at Angel’s words before reaching for another set of senbon, placing the non contaminated one into the nook of his thumb. He was down to six now since the last two failed to hit the target.

Feeling like Angel being in close combat was a bad idea, Cade began to focus on keeping distance. In his haste he appeared to have dropped one of the senbon as he rushed to the right.

The Lost Number continued to walk patiently towards the medic, each step relaxed almost casual and with the next step the appearance of Angel dissolved. Capitalizing on the illusion Angel had already situated himself in Cade’s path and greeted the Asylum’s ribs with an alchemically powered knee.

The sound erupted in Cade’s skull when the bones gave away to the impact. It was enough to push out the breath from his lungs causing him to to crumble onto all fours.

The next bone to crack was Cade’s leg as Angel twisted it at an obscene angle via telekinesis, the Reaper’s fingers dancing and Cade’s limbs reacting. “Why do you consider yourself so worthless boy?”

As Cade’s screams prevented him from answering, Samad had stepped into the box. His steps were crisp and cutting the distance fairly quickly, discomfort riddled his movements. It was obvious he could feel everything his partner could, but it barely seemed to register in his behavior. Or maybe… he didn’t feel it as well as he should’ve.

“I think you’ve made your point and won the spar. Is this really needed?” Samad asked.

“No...I am afraid I have not made my point. Neither of you understand. What use are those eyes if you willfully stay blind?” Angel’s tone took on a more repulsed tone when addressing the Iranian as if he were the primary issue here.

“Well at least the first lesson has succeeded. As Asylums you are never alone, to be an Asylums means to move together, disregard that and you disregard what you are.” The Lost Number couldn’t hide the venom from his tone, as if silently blaming Samad for taking this long to intervene.

”The lesson has just begun.”

Samad’s eyes narrowed as he felt the venom roll off Angel. He didn’t engage in the argument for Angel to mind his own business. Samad didn’t tell the Lost Number how to grieve or treat his own partner, hating he was saddled with Cade.

Angel didn’t wait for Samad to respond almost instinctively knowing what the fool would think. “Ah you foolish child, so stagnant in your self pity. How often must you have contemplated why did you survive, why couldn’t it have been your original partner. Such useless thoughts. Your partner died because she sacrificed herself for you and you return her selfless gift by becoming a retch, a weak….sad little man too afraid to open your broken heart.” The Lost Number couldn’t help but laugh.

Samad’s hand tightened into a fist. Knuckles whitened as he glared at Angel, every word right as it was spewed back at him. He inhaled a moment then exhaled. Letting the building fury retract for now.

Cade was already trying to fight through the pain. Hand shifted through numerous signs, sloppy and quick, to heal the bone. Every fragment collected then shifted painfully back into place. His breath was labored from where the ribs had collapsed into his lung, tearing it in silence.

“Wasn’t your… fuck… sparring match against me... Reaper. Why… provoke Samad?” Cade asked through wheezing breaths.

“Be silent, you who cannot even understand something as simple as that!” It was clear that by now the Reaper had gone from mildly irked to quite annoyed by the antic of the Experimental Team and he demonstrated his displeasure by hurling Cade away with a telekinetic push.

“I do not provoke, I say things as they are. You are the embodiment of failure Iranian,” Angel spoke once more, his gaze falling upon the Momentum Alchemist.

“You who failed your partner!”

“You who failed yourself!”

“You who cursed another to a life of pain!”

“You who can’t face his ghosts and so haunts the living!”

“You who condemns the selfless to death!”

Each accusation hammered in the mind of Samad, accompanied by a migraine the likes of which the Iranian will never experience again.

Samad’s muscles stiffened. His head felt like it was splitting open from the center as his hand touched his temple, his teeth gritted to keep from screaming out. A small trickle of blood rushed down his upper lip. It took everything that he had to remain upright as he continued to hold eye contact with the Silver Reaper. Then the words came. Each one nailed itself into the pain, lessening it slightly until it was gone.

“It was my fault she died. I will never deny that. I should’ve not let her do it,” Samad stated through his teeth, trying to ignore the flare of pain it brought up. He blamed himself every day for it.

“Of course you can’t deny it, you live it. Over and over, refusing to forge ahead. You stooper with the weight of nonsense. It is all irrelevant, she is dead, she is dust. Yet you mock her memory with your weakness, how she would weep knowing she sacrificed herself for someone so unworthy. Your audacity knows no end, does it Iranian? You mock the death of she who saved you and you mock the efforts of he who keeps you alive. And yet you do not lower your gaze.” Angel couldn’t help but chuckle again, the irony of it all simply astounding, the laughter swiftly followed by a heavy impact a kin to a bus slamming into a bystander, in this case the bystander was Samad.

Samad’s body was thrown across the box, skidding across the floor. Bones made an audible crack as the force hit him dead on. The Iranian barely had any warning in order to defend him when the attack came. Blood leaked from his ears and nose, staining his face while he tried to get back up. His broken arm cradled against his waist while he calculated the damage. The stun from the impact slowing his recovery.

Meanwhile, Cade was trying to mend his own wounds quickly. Especially when Angel’s toss was nothing but rough. He could feel another rib fracture then break when he hit the wall, drawing a cry forward. It was clear Samad was going to get killed unless Cade did something. Fear, anger and worry poured into the young medic. It drove him to push upward onto his newly fixed leg.

“I won’t stand by while you kill him,” Cade growled, his emotions rising higher. Already his body surged with electrical energy under the surface.

“THEN KNEEL!” Angel’s composed expression vanished as he screamed while flaring his Alchemic Drive, the Lost Number shattering Cade’s knee caps with a snap of his fingers. His open palm stretch ahead as if holding an apple, then his spare hand clenching into a fist and hammered down on his open palm, a hammer meeting the anvil. Mimicking the action a painful force struck the Iranian and the Medic, snapping more bones.


Samad and Cade screamed. Every bone felt like it would snap under the weight as it became painful to breath.

“WHAT IS THE LESSON!” Angel repeated, his words followed by yet another smash.

Cade’s broken hands twitched then pressed into the floor. Quickly electrical currents began to charge the air around the fallen Asylums, energy flowing chaotically and rapidly through the molecules. Drowning the section of box with a heightened tension. The blood that spilled out of Samad, his lips quietly mouthing the words, began to move. Red lines hasted across the floor with a purpose. They crossed into each other creating an intertwined design surrounding the broken bodies. Then the blood mingled with the air. Like a chemical reaction, the energy sparked into a surge of lightning when it neared Cade. A blue-white energy appeared as it began to take shape, empowered by the pair’s drives.

Suddenly a twelve-foot asiatic lion was staring down at Angel’s figure. It made a crackling snarl. As it took a step, it crumbled apart into a rain of lightning down into the ground. Bolts flew with sharp determination. The streaks bounced off the floor and any wall it made contact with, frying any living flesh on contact. Wherever Angel looked, he found lightning leaping at him. There was no obvious tactic but pure, unbridled chaos to hit everything within the box.

With each bounce, they diminished in size. In a short time it was over. Black spots littered everywhere showing there was little chance of escaping the small storm created in its wake.

Finally,[ Angel thought as he felt the Experimental Team begin to synchronize their alchemic drive. He felt a ripple in the air, static around him, his hair stiffening along with a twitch of a smile. It was always a treat to observe what form the OverDrive would manifest itself as, especially since it represented the bond between the alchemists, a reflection to their souls. The Reaper wasn’t disappointed as he watched a massive lion appear before him, the conjured beast primarily composed of electricity but just as he was beginning to brace for the upcoming attack, everything changed.

“Wha-” Angel didn’t receive the luxury of voicing his confusion, instead the Lion exploded a storm of lightning and death raining down faster than possible, the entire process a haphazard collision between momentum and lightning. The first bolt struck Angel dead in the chest, punishment for his indulgence, the alchemist felt the skin blister as his vest and shirt turned to ash and then another followed, then another. There was no mercy, no respite, just bombardment.

“AEGIS,” the Lost Number found himself yelling while becoming a blur of movement, his form rapidly teleporting, avoiding the oncoming barrage. The scene could only be described as a flash of speed within a vortex of lightning, each bolt striking where Angel would be and each time the Asylum teleporting and reappearing, the process repeating at such stunning speed that it appeared as if Angel and the lightning that followed him were in multiple places at once.

Then the Lost Number found himself staggering, his lips parting for a gasp from the exhaustion. It was no surprise that this was not how Angel prefered to do his battles, he despised strenuous activities. The next bolt, realizing he won’t be able to evade, the Reaper deflected with his arm and as such burning it down to the flesh. In the distance a compartment slid open from his coffin and a liquid metal like substance dripped out, shooting out towards Angel, as if pulled by a magnet.

“This will kill you fools!” Angel yelled his concern, knowing what the two Asylums were doing was not an Overdrive. An Overdrive was a balance, it synchronize two Alchemic Drives and as such amplified the resulting alchemy. What Cade and Samad were doing was pure chaos, each was forcing his Alchemic Drive into the other and as such coercing the power to increase beyond the safe limits. This was a Death Drive and while it offered a tremendous power burst, the payment was a heavy backlash that would eventually kill the alchemists. In short the alchemy would be unstoppable and would only stop until one of the alchemists would die.

Angel grimly observed the lightning storm growing in strength, realizing that the alchemic energy was being condensed in a final strike and then it happened. A gargantuan bolt of lightning colliding into him, the sheer force forcing Angel to collide with the protection barrier, breaking it and the world went white from the flash.

Once vision returned to normal almost every student and observer’s sight seemed to track where the Lost Number had fallen, a mixture of expression on their faces. The first from the thought that the infamous Angel maybe dead and then the second awe coming from watching a tall figure slowly approaching the ‘Box’. A silhouette draped in a large GunMetal overcoat, the fabric rippling and moving as if alive, as if a liquid flame enveloped him with a single point charred black, the Reaper’s chest, the nanomaterial slowly repairing the damage.

The slow walk slowly turned into a brisk one and then the Silver Reaper was a blaze of speed, his infamous coat expanding and fluttering like a demonic cloak. Before anyone registered it, the man was standing in front of the Medic and the Iranian, that is where Crow smiled as he gazed upon the broken heap of bones and flesh.

“Death follows me, yet it is denied for I shun it. I ask this, one final time.” Crow spoke, his voice no longer the imperial superiority that it was but pure menace. A single tear of blood dripping down the Lost Number’s scarred eye.

“What is the lesson?” As he spoke, the fabric of his coat rippled once more, two thin blade like constructs forming from the Lost Numbers back. Like massive spider legs, the spiked appendage narrowed down on the Medic and Iranian, resting at their chest.

Between the two asylums, it was obvious who took the blunt destruction of the Death Drive. Cade felt concern at the numbness etched across his figure. The lightning had cooked his insides causing organ failure and complete shutting down. His hearing had diminished greatly in one ear causing him to barely hear Angel’s question, but it didn’t matter. He knew it by heart now.

Jagged black lines raced along his flesh on various locations. Hot enough it burned the clothing, revealing peel back flesh, muscle and singed bone underneath. A smell of overcooked meat soiled the air with its foul stench causing Cade’s stomach to churn, threatening to toss out whatever liquid filled it. He had reached the point that the nerves no longer registered the pain.

A flaking, half bald head weakly tilted toward the Lost Number’s direction. Samad, he could faintly sense, was out cold. Unable to reply and leaving it all to Cade to either end their misery slow or quickly.

“Teamwork...” the medic wheezed, faintly through his parched lips.

As Cade spoke Angel’s face remained blank, his gaze drilling into the Medic as the spider-like appendage remained positioned at their hearts and just for a brief second it appeared as if the answer didn’t satisfy the Reaper but a single word from the Chrono appeared to snap Angel from his state.

“Close enough,” the Chrono replied apathetically, her tone simply stating a fact though she didn’t seem to deter the Lost Number from carrying out the execution.

“Close enough,” Angel finally mimed his partner, nodding and heaving a weary sigh. It took the Reaper a second or so to realize that he was actually wearing Aegis and then the Lost Number began laughing. “Seems like I lost,” he finally accepted with a shrug. “Another lesson that my devious partner seemed to want to teach you, kids, never underestimate your opponent and overestimate yourself.” With those final words. the Lost Number telekinetically lifted the injured duo and walked away to the infirmary, a golden glow shrouding the two activating healing alchemy in order to stabilize the two.

“Suppose there is hope for those two after all.”

<Snipped quote by Fallenreaper>

That probably would do more damage than good. lol

Nay. It's just like jump starting a car. Just got to give it a kick start.
I'm trying to get something going, but I'm having a major case of writer's block. I'm gonna try and keep at it today and hopefully something will work

*takes out your brain, gives it a shock then inserts it back in* there, now try it?
@Fallenreaper What's your preferred Collab format?

Currently Gdocs right now. They are pretty easy for me to access and modify on my laptop.

@Eklispe@13org@May@Raijinslayer@The 42nd Gecko and anyone I might've missed for the Club scene!

To give life to the OoC, I posted! I think within the next few posts we should consider wrapping up this scene and moving on, sound like a plan? Btw, Gecko... do you want to do a collab with Nikki? It would cover more ground than single posts in my opinion and make things easier with back and forth replies. I got to give a little comic relief to this scene after all. XD
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