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Force and Fury Member
Actually kind of mellow
STATUS: Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/… 4 yrs ago
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Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
4 yrs ago
Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
4 yrs ago
So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
Stay awesome, people.
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Part Three: Horik of Eskand
Few were the people who knew of King Horik's true nature, for had more known, perhaps they would not have called him 'Horik the Lean' quite so mockingly. Indeed, the gargantuan figure tore through the common sellswords, foaming at the mouth and roaring like a beast. Even blows that were blocked broke the arms of those who blocked them. People were thrown dozens of meters through the air and you could tell which had the Gift and which didn't by how they landed.
Whoever was commanding these people was smart, however, because, after less than a minute of this unholy massacre, they regrouped wordlessly and changed tactics. The skirmishers closed in close to the King's men, leaving little opportunity for him to attack without harming his own people. The magusjaegers remained hidden in the trees, but they shifted their fire from the behemoth of a man who'd been deflecting their bullets back, using them to find the assassins. Instead, they focused on his honour guard, and a couple of figures dropped immediately.
One of their first targets was Marlijn Vaanse, but she was not there for long. Heart thudding in her chest, the youth grabbed a hold of the light and vanished from view. Normally, moving quickly and trying to maintain invisibility was impossible for her, but the darkness and chaos helped. She didn't need to be too precise. Instead, she made for her brother's position, letting her veil of shadows fall away and drawing all of the heat and metabolic energy from a dying horse. She knew the animals. She knew when they were suffering, and this one was finished. She took the gift of its life and turned it into death, unleashing Wyvern's Breath on the nearest two enemies and Owain. Of course, her brother wasn't stupid. He drew from her fire, creating a freezing aura around himself and launched his own fireball. A roiling ball of orange, it roared into the trees and set them ablaze. "Let's see you hide now!" he bellowed, stoking the flames, spreading them. Oraff-Zept, forgive us, Marlijn prayed in her head. It is to preserve life that we take it.
Desmond, called 'Catulus' ('Young Wolf' in Avincian) in lieu of a last name, was one of the few who had stayed mounted, wheeling his horse about with the practiced hand of a sellsword. He exchanged fire with the enemies in the trees, bullets arcing, jumping, and zipping, but had little success. He was fundamentally at a disadvantage in the open, while they fired from cover. Then, he noticed Owain's fireball. It hit the trees and gave him an idea. As the Eskandishman stoked the flames, so did he, pausing his gunfire. It was not long before this tactic paid dividends. Most magusjaegers were about stealth above all else and, robbed of that, were easy targets. As they poured out from the burning forest, he took out one, then a second, and then a third in succession. Their bodies thumped as they hit the ground. He winged a fourth, who screamed. Desmond grimaced, resighted the enemy, and put her down for good. Then, the easy part was over. Those with RAS levels high enough for illusion magic in the dark began to fade. So a shadow game it was to be. He would find them before they could find any of his allies. Lives depended on it.
More importantly, Desmond needed to find whoever was coordinating them, doing such a good job wordlessly moving them around like pieces on a chessboard. His experience told him that it was likely an internal chemical mage, and those were very dangerous targets. As he started to reach out with his senses, looking for the telltale agglomerations of energy that denoted magic users, things took a turn for the worse. A Tan-Zeno, overwhelmed by bullets from multiple directions, let one through and fell. The sellsword could see Anesin Bjelke, with whom he'd shared a class or two, rush over in an attempt to heal him, but then there were other problems. A freezing wind whooshed across the trees, quelling the flames and deadening the smoke. Someone or something hurled King Horik backward, unafraid of his immense power. Desmond was a practical man. He knew that he couldn't tangle with whatever monster was capable of doing that, but there was a subtler figure at work here, equally as dangerous, and something needed to be done about them... quickly.
This was something that the convoy's lone Paggonian, Karim Nazeri, a youth who looked like he'd seen combat once or twice before, agreed with. In truth, his appearance didn't make him a soldier, but one would've been hard pressed to recognize that based on his skilled deflection of the new volleys of bullets and knives that came his way. Everything metallic that approached him went careening away and, slowly but surely, he built up a charge that people around him on the battlefield could tangibly feel. The air hummed with electricity and it arced and leapt from his fingertips. Karim was no killer by any stretch of the imagination. He was a plain, good old-fashioned Paggonian merchant's son, but mortal danger tends to make moral danger fade to the back of one's mind. Desperately, a pair of sword-wielding figures hurtled towards him, their movements enhanced by kinetic energy, trying to stop what they knew was coming.
They were too slow.
As if he were some Thunder God of yore, bolts of lightning leapt from Karim's fingertips and pounded the attackers. They screamed and writhed, their bodies going stiff and burnt, and dropped - smoking - to the ground. Next, he turned his attention to an area of the trees where he'd noticed a lot of fire coming from. Stalking forward, gathering energy, he brushed off the sting of a bullet graze, grunting in pain, and unleashed a second torrent. Electrical power, scorching, arcing, peeled off of him in waves, sweeping through the nearby forest. Invisibility doesn't help when there is nowhere to run. Assassins tumbled from branches, convulsing and shrieking, and Karim had held back. He wasn't a killer. He was a protector and these men might live were they wise enough to stay down and surrender. He opened his mouth to give them a warning, still fairly charged up and ready to unleash should he have to, but that was when King Horik was hurled like a ragdoll. He noticed Desmond looking too, and then Marlijn Vaanse was there, materializing seemingly out of nowhere.
"Gentlemen," she panted, looking haggard and exhausted, "I hope you're not thinking we should join that fight. We'd be worse than useless. We'd be a liability." Her eyes darted between them, and then she winced and focused, calling up a stone from the ground to deflect a bullet. "There is someone else here: a controller of some sort. We need to reach him. We need to stop him."
But it would all be for nothing if the King didn't win his personal duel. Anesin, scion of House Bjelke from the deep spine of Eskand, had remained by her King's side. She had done so, openly, as a Blood Mage and received no reproach. She had pulled from living beings - pulled the life and existence from them to fuel her magic, and unleashed hellfire that nearly matched the King's own. Yet, still Horik's power was greater. She had felt it at the start and felt it now. He must be a mooncaster, she realized, but whoever this was who'd appeared before him, who'd caught him off-guard and flung him aside like trash... this woman is inhuman. Even standing near her was draining. There was... an aura, one could almost call it. It was heavy and oppressive. It drained Anesin of energy and will. It made her head pound and body ache. Internal Chemical Magic. Her movements felt sluggish. They cost more energy and had less effect. Offensive Kinetic Drawing.
Dressed in a white and blue cloak, with an owl mask covering her face, she dodged King Horik's murderous attacks with a nimble, mocking ease. In return, she bashed him telekinetic shoves. She uprooted rocks and trees from the ground and hurled them at him in a growing maelstrom. Horik roared in challenge and frustration and Anesin could feel a massive intake of energy. The air grew colder. The sky seemed momentarily to dim even further. It took her a moment to realize what he was about to do and, drawing a wrecked carriage to nothing, she filled herself with energy and bolted away.
"Everybody back!" She screamed, grasping a couple of the injured with threads of energy and pulling them along with her. Then, the sky exploded. The force of the shockwave knocked her clean off of her feet, singeing her hair and skin, and she used the Gift to keep herself from burning alive. Debris, plants, and corpses pitched and tumbled back from the epicenter and she blinked, flash-blinded and deafened, as a towering mushroom-shaped cloud rose hundreds of meters into the sky. King Horik... she thought, guts turning to ash. He had sacrificed himself for his people, to take out that... blue woman, whoever she was, or had been, for surely no human could've survived such a blast.
Anesin stumbled to her feet, a dull, numb thing. Her hands were burnt and shaking. She would need to heal herself, and others too, she knew. She blinked furiously and her eyes watered. Dirt and ash rained from the heavens and the massive cloud grew still, blotting out the light of the moons. Then, she felt it, unmistakably: energy - massive, abominable energy. The sheer force of it was like nothing she had ever experienced. In the center of an enormous crater stood Horik Vinderborg of Oleften, Berserker King of Eskand. Dirt was still falling from the sky and the air around him glowed with energy. His great beard was seared and singed, still smoking. His clothes were a tatters, his massive chest and the runic tattoos across them exposed as he stalked forward. Anesin's heart leapt.
And then, it stopped.
It lasted only a second. She felt something grip her inside and she knew fear. The pain was barely recognized before it was over.
Volto Azzuro, the one they called Triste, cast the girl's body aside, body language and voice alike disinterested. She turned her gaze upon the King of the Eskandish. He was more powerful than they'd told her. This was a real fight, but the child had gotten in the way and, sadly, the only way to get her out of it was to end her young life. "You didn't think a parlor trick like that would really work," she sneered, "did you?"
King Horik's eyes went to the body of his countrywoman. She'd been brave and capable, young and beautiful. Too brave, though, he thought somberly. In time, but for the eagerness and foolishness of youth, she might've grown into someone great. Now, because of this blue witch, she and a half-dozen others would be nothing. "You will suffer for what you have done here," he growled, drawing from the power of the four moons. Had the fifth been up, he would've cast her aside like the dirt that she was. "By the Old Gods and the New, I will break you slowly. The Poets will pen tales of your suffering." In one fell swoop, he drew everything from the smoke, the ash, and the residual heat of his mighty blast. It burned inside of him, he drew in a great gulp of air, opened his mouth almost inhumanly wide, and breathed fiery death.
Part Two: Rouis of Perrence
Perhaps the assassins had underestimated King Rouis and his retinue. Perhaps the students and guards defending him were just that strong and resourceful but, whatever the case, they seemed to have turned the tides against those who wold assassinate the King of the Perrench.
Rouis himself was plowing through sellswords like a battering ram, Fleur-de-lis cloak fluttering behind him, long, wavy hair whipping each time he changed direction, but he was handful for his own side too: the king's eagerness in battle forced them to throw themselves to his defense, desperately blocking bullets with defensive magic. Penny Pellegrin, the printer's daughter with the missing leg, was a revelation in particular: disintegrating projectiles in midair, spreading flames, and tossing bodies around like ragdolls. She was not the only one: Carmillia Carbonneau, a hesitant fighter at best, displayed a different skillset, marshaling the students among the honour guard, sending one to stop the carriage and commanding another - Madeleine Marchand - to light the trees on fire. What dividends the act paid! The forest was ablaze and enemies were pouring out of it, coughing and staggering. How shortsighted of them to hide in a place so flammable. Zenos Lascand and Giroux employed their master-level Chemical magics to render these threats unconscious for later questioning. Muttering about the folly of war, the former bustled about the battlefield patching the wounded up, including his own nephew.
It had become a mop-up action, the attempt on Rouis' life thwarted through brave and decisive action. The king thrust his sword into the air. "Vive la Perrence!" He shouted, towering above a handful of bound and gagged captives. "Vive la peuple Perrencais!" A cheer rose up around the clearing, and he returned his sword to its sheath with a flourish. "I promise you this, my people and our loyal friends: Perrence will repay your efforts. We will not go gently as our enemies wish us to. Why, even now, as Doge l'Anguilla believes that he has our nation in his nefarious trap, it is he who has fallen into ours. That is a matter for a day soon to come," he amended. He cleared his throat. "For the time being, I wish to recognize the bravery and ingenuity of those who have won this day." His eyes beamed with pride, taking in his fellow Perrenchmen and Perrenchwomen. "Miss Carmille Carbonneau," he announced, "though a mere girl of seventeen, your level head, cunning, and command of others has not gone unnoticed and shall not go unrewarded. Please step forward..."
Yet, not so very far away, there was still some deadly intrigue left to play out. For her part, the Tan Keoulean, Seung Eun-Ji, had swept the perimeter clean, making sport of most of her targets. One had his head cleaved open with a knife, Another's had been smashed to a pulp. It was a clean, precise sort of brutality, but utterly brutal nonetheless. When she'd gone in for her most recent attack, however, Eun-Ji's target - a nondescript-looking magusjaeger - had simply disappeared as if he had not existed in the first place. This, she knew, was a powerful enemy. She had not even sensed more than basic illusory magic out of him - the sort commonly employed by those of his skillset for camouflage. The ability to make oneself invisible and project an illusion, all while masking the true extent of one's magic... that was academy-level skill. She was not far from the main struggle. She could likely retreat, but would it be wise to let such an adversary escape? Did he even want to escape? Was it worth risking her life against someone of this caliber, for some foreign king? Eun-Ji reached out with her magic senses and, all around her in the forest were the little spots glowing with energy that denoted the presence of living things. They were not as clear as they could've been, however. The fire drowned many of them out, its thermal and chemical energy radiating across the area, making it difficult to detect those who wished to remain undetected. To be fair... that was something that she, herself, could use.
Meanwhile, for his part, Flavius continued to monitor the battlefield from his treetop perch. Stealth had always come naturally to him and he considered himself rather a master of it. The fact that he had not detected Eun-Ji's hidden opponent beforehand was alarming. This guy was good. He reached out with his senses, looking for all of the usual tricks, but was having trouble -
"The next time you see her," said a voice, and Flavius was immediate in his evasive action. "Tell your lady that she is on the wrong side." The speaker perched almost... delicately atop a nearby branch, no more than a handful of yards distant, hands clasped behind his back. A featureless white mask covered his face, but Flavius could sense amusement in his voice, maybe even a smile. The depth of the skill gulf between them was immediately evident. The youth was plenty good enough to know when he was profoundly outmatched, though that did not happen often. "Also," said the white-masked man, his voice a rich Revidian roll, "you may want to watch your footing." As he spoke, the branch beneath Flavius disappeared as if it had never even existed, as did the speaker. Not even a trace.
The Three Kings and the Doge
Part One: Jobanzaggah of Belzagg
Nothing that had happened sat well with Jomurr as he dawdled back from the docks - nothing at all. That the enemies of Belzagg were acting so brazenly was a sign that they felt powerful: overwhelmingly so. Mighty Jobanzaggah had managed to cut some kind of deal to stay on the council, but he would not say what, even to Jomurr, and the future duke was certain that it has been an Eshiran's Bargain.
The last of the sun's rays had faded from the sky, pulling curtains of tangerine, magenta, and indigo closed behind them. The nighttime fog, he knew, was soon to roll in and cover the city in its ethereal blanket. It was nothing like the vast, dry savannah of home, with its termite mounds, islands of acacia trees and roars of lions in the dimness. To be honest, it still unnerved him and perhaps always would.
There was something else about this night, though... As one would expect of a youth of his station, Jomurr had always been possessed of strong instincts. Walking through the disgusting streets and hovels of this slum called Mudville, he wrinkled his nose, but it was as much in distaste for the situation as the place. Then, however, he felt it. The second son of House Ikon blinked and reached out with his senses. His head snapped about, eyes gazing intently out across the water. An intake of energy - a massive one. It was coming from the direction of the Indomitable Lion - the King's ship. Then, another. Something was wrong. He glances around, checking if anybody else felt it, but it was distant and the people around here were weak. They would not feel it. The boy's heart hammered in his chest. He should tell somebody. No, he should investigate. If he took the time to tell someone, it might already be too late. Indecisiveness was not a trait a future duke should cultivate.
Jomurr pushed off with his feet, sprinting for the ocean, pulling, with each step, from the fires and the lights around him, from the pounding, churning waves as they bashed against the promontory at the mouth of the harbour. He felt the power fill him, lift him, propel him. Still, he drew more, until he felt warm and light-headed. His arteries bulged with magical energies as they had scarcely ever done before. Don't foul this up, Second Son. He breathed deeply, the wind beating against his face, pulling the wetness from his eyes. The sparse gatherings of people about at this hour turned to watch, and they would've seen a human-shaped blur plunge over the edge of the cliffs, but Jomurr did not fall. He pushed all of that kinetic energy out, hammering against the forces of gravity, launching himself through the sky.
He was flying.
Unbidden, he let out a bark of laughter, and got a mouthful of dry wind for it that puffed out his cheeks and made him cough. His dreadlocks whipped against his neck, back, and shoulders, but he scarcely paid them any attention, continuing to draw from the waves and expel, trying to maintain his height. Gravity pulled at him and he drew from it, effectively reversing it. This was what mages called the 'gravity loop' and he'd done it before, of course, but never like this. It was... joyful, freeing, empowering, and inn a way that all of his worldly wealth and command.
But then Jomurr was sobered, his wings clipped. Up ahead, he saw the Indomitable Lion, and it was indeed under attack. There were fire and flashes onboard and the youth, streaking in like a comet, steeled himself for combat. He would earn his spurs or he would die defending his king, for such was the highest duty and honour of one of his station. His mouth became a grim, determined line. He drew copiously from his momentum, slowing and dropping, trying to stick the landing.
Figures resolved themselves on deck: black-clad and masked. Rezaindians! How had they gotten there!? The Royal Guard was heavily engaged. Some of their number were down, along with some of the attackers. But the King himself stood like a mighty predator, laying waste to all who approached him with Arcane Lances and Kinetic Sledgehammers. Jomurr picked a target - a Rezaindian who'd cornered an injured Royal Guard - and converted the last of his kinetic momentum into a powerful Arcane Lance. The beam impaled the attacker through the chest, leaving a smoking hole where once he'd had a heart and lungs. Jomurr dropped to the deck and landed in a crouch, casting about for danger.
It found him before he could find it, however. A trio of throwing knives hurtled toward him in the darkness, slowing and dropping maybe a foot from his head and chest. The youth scrabbled backwards and Jobanzaggah himself was there. "Brave," he snapped, "but foolish. You should not be here, boy."
"I would die for my King."
The monarch's face shifted for a moment and seemed to soften in what Jomurr wanted to think of as respect, but it became hard again quickly. "You may very well get your wish." Then, he was gone, leaping from the forecastle to the stern in a single bound to bring the fight to the enemy.
This was his King: a mighty lion of a man whom his family served with unswerving loyalty. It had brought them power and wealth and suzerainty over one of the Empire's most powerful duchies, but when Jomurr was challenged, he did not take it lying down. Spreading his arms, he pulled with everything he had. His body crackled with energy. His eyes flashed with it. The air around him burned and froze in turn. The waves went eerily still and the ships tattered sails slack. As could only someone trained from early childhood, the Second Son reached into the very heart of the matter around him and ruptured it. Colossal flashes of power brightened the night sky and filled him to bursting. He turned to face a tall, robed figure who perched on the forecastle, directing the other attackers and unleashed hellfire. He pulled and released, pulled and released, and the enemy was erased before him.
Inn a haze of power and bloodlust, Jomurr scarcely recognized that the figure he had been pursuing had escaped - evaporated as if it had not even been there. He scarcely felt the pull of the King's grateful energy. Then, Jobanzaggah disappeared, an apparition himself, but the air hummed with his massive power. The youth staggered and blinked. The deck was awash in flames, the masts destroyed and sails burnt to cinders. The ship was slowly sinking. Only a handful of guards remained, but every single assassin was dead, save the leader. Jomurr reached out for energies and could feel him and the king moving even though invisible. The power! It was fantastic - mind numbing. It actually made his head hurt. Then, there was an explosion in the water. The youth darted over to the side railing as the robed figure was hurled mercilessly into the ocean. Jobanzaggah dove in after him, relentless, merciless, pummeling.
Yet, the water boiled and ruptured, glowing orange and bursting open. The Lion of Belzagg was thrown backward, catching himself nimbly against the side of the ship and backflipping to land on its deck.
The robed figure was a woman - she bolted in so quickly that Jomurr did not get much of a look at her. He felt his mind burning and recognized chemical magic. Desperate, he reversed his polarities and she backed away, staggered.
The Second Son slumped against the deck, blinking to clear his head, but the king took advantage of his counter and went on the offensive again. The Kinetic force was incredible. He plowed into her, knee first. Like a ragdoll, she smashed through three decks. Jobanzaggah rose into the sky, eyes burning gold and orange, opened his mouth, and belched pure flame. A heaven's lance of Eshiran-Zept, it caught her on the arm as she was shooting out of the way, propelled by a kinetic draw, and erased the limb from existence. She howled and stumbled, glaring at the king with bloodshot eyes, and Jomurr could feel a powerful chemical attack building.
"Not so fast, rabble!" he shouted, more to distract her than anything else, but she began glowing with chemical fury and the King groaned and grabbed his head, fighting off the internal attack. Jomurr scowled. Time to put you down, he snarled inwardly. Gathering up his energy, he unleashed it upon her: Wyvern's Breath. Consumed by fire, she thrashed and screamed, and the youth counseled himself not flinch away from the sight. "He's coming for you," she wailed, "You'll see! Your time is up. He's -"
Impassively, Jobanzaggah wrenched her head around, snapping her beck, and the attacker went silent. "We show mercy to the doomed," he said, bowing his head slightly, and Jomurr followed his lead. This woman had been strong - unnaturally so. It had taken both he and his king, working in concert, to defeat her, and both were among the strongest on the continent, at least in terms of raw RAS level. "It was an honour, my King." Jomurr bowed immediately and deeply. "We have won the day."
The great king's head reflected the light of the four moons and the fires flickering across his ship. With a great, freezing wind, he swept them out. "Good men and women have died, serving me. I would not call this a victory, young count. This was survival." His face was pinched, his tone pained, and Jomurr furrowed his brow, apologizing instantly, having learned that the mandate of a king was to care for and protect his people. "Come now, let us tend to the wounded."
The two of them made it no more than a handful of steps. At the bow of the ship, a small flame flickered to life, illuminating the tattered remains of a sail that fluttered behind it. Into relief it cast a shadow: a lone, tall lean figure.
Jomurr felt a pressure begin in his head. The wind disappeared and the very air seemed to still. For as far as he could see, the sea flattened like glass. Flames flickered and the sky darkened. A cold, electric pulse traveled up and down the boy's spine and even the mighty king seemed to hesitate. The pressure built: burning cold, crushingly heavy, oppressing Jomurr and driving him to his knees. A man in a mask. He tilted his head to one side.
"To your feet, boy!" Jobanzaggah commanded.
"My king: I will fight with you."
But the monarch's face was haunted, as if he had peered into the eyes of Eshiran himself. "Don't be a fool. That is..." He regarded the figure perched almost mockingly on the bow. "A monster among monsters."
The pressure built and Jomurr fell back to his knees. Such power: it was unimaginable. This is what a 9-plus draw feels like, he realized, with pained clarity. The figure began walking towards them, his voice sepulchral, dripping with a deep, cold disdain. "A pity that did you did not rise. You will die as you lived your life, then: on your knees."
Who was this monster!? What was he!? Jomurr knew terror then like he had never known it before, but he knew defiance, too. The weight of this man's energy was crushing, but he forced himself to his feet, blood trickling from his nose and ears. "I will live!" he grated, "on my feet!" he roared, but that was the last he spoke.
The king's shove caught him off-guard, and he sailed from the dying ship and hit the surface of the water with a cold splash. He could feel himself moving - he knew not to where - then, darkness claimed him.
So named because they all take the same Kotoden bus home and use those ubiquitous cards, these four third-year students at Kōkyo have gotten to know each other fairly well, despite their very different personalities and backgrounds. They comprise the character ideas that I had for this RPG and I hope that you like them! I doubt that I can play all four, of course, so feel free to pick the one that you like best or, if you're cool with all of them, I don't mind picking either. You're welcome to make the others into NPCs. Also, if anyone else is struggling with character ideas or likes one of these, I'm up for adopting them out!
I N T E R E S T
I И ꓕ E ᖉ E S ꓕ
Location: En Route to the Dying Mistle @ The Ruined City // Date: February 23, 2057 // Time: 11:08 // Interactions: Vincent @Daxam, Dallas @pantothenic, Desmond @Theyra, Ajax @DClassified
The string of curse words that flashed through her thoughts was a rich and colourful one. This wasn't Lysandra's first rodeo - not by a longshot - but things were dicier than usual. She'd gotten reckless. The Advance team could've saved themselves. Now there were enemies closing in from two of the four cardinal directions and she was undefended save Desmond and her own weapons. Her fingers found the necessary switches and Sage and Princess rocketed back, rotors screaming at full thrust. No sooner had they arrived above her than the air lit up with crimson bolts. Her skin prickled with sheets of cold static. A-type. She watched Dallas take a clean head shot through Princess' rapidly-gaining cameras and he slumped to the ground. Three thralls closed in on his prone figure and her nerves fried with adrenaline and a sense of helplessness. She took Sage off of follow mode and set him to engage the hostiles. Sonic Blast. Dallas was unconscious and the others were far enough away that it wouldn't be anything worse than unpleasant for them. Then Vincent was taking a glancing blow to the shoulder from the A-type and he was nearly spun off of his feet. Sage blasted the thralls and they screamed and batted wildly at their heads, halting their advance on Dallas. Vincent had recovered and was racing over to the husk of a car. He dived behind it, taking shelter, and that was one less thing to worry about. Lys, however, was out in the open: a sitting duck. There was an O-type coming too, shield up. Dallas was down. Vincent was cornered. Desmond was close to being overwhelmed. Run! screamed every instinct that Lysandra called her own, the impulse of a scared animal demanding that she turn tail and take flight like she had countless times before, darting and dodging through the labyrinth of ruins until she was safe. That instinct, however, was lost on her body. Numb and dumb to it, her legs refused to move and reason reclaimed her.
Lysandra set Princess to turret mode, Evasive pattern Z, released her brakes, and flipped her headset up. For a moment the diffuse glare of the real world caused her to blink, but then there was a massive groan and Vincent was rushing forward with the car held out like a shield. She watched him leap with it and bring it down on top of a thrall. He was an absolute battering ram, plowing through them like it was nothing. She put hands to wheels and headed for the cover that he was offering. Then, he took a shot from the A-type that staggered him. Her heart caught in her throat as he winced and nearly dropped the car. He recovered himself after a second, though, and gritting his teeth, stepped in front of her and slammed it down. A half-dozen thralls dissipated and he stood there in repose, burning with reddish-orange energy. Lysandra was saved.
"That should buy you a bit of time," he panted, clutching at his side, where he had taken that shot during his mad charge. "I'm gonna get back out there and try to get that fucker shooting at us. If I can get the shield guy, too, then that's a bonus."
"I'll cover you!" she shouted, but he was already moving, screaming out loud at the Lost all of the obscenities that she had screamed only in her head. Immediately, her attention turned to Desmond and Dallas. Ajax had made a break for the shadows earlier, and she could only assume that he had some greater purpose in mind that she couldn't see. The former had taken cover behind her, switching from gun to glaive, focused on warding off the stray Thralls. The latter was up, with a bloodied nose, and charging back into the fray, wrecking house with his battleaxe. Right, Lys thought, back in. He had things well under control. She had enough cover. It was time to help Vincent, and so she flipped her headset down and took control of Princess, setting Sage to orbit and defend her and Desmond.
9/12 on rockets, she reminded herself, all other ammunition full. She needed to take out that A-type or, if the opportunity presented itself, Princess could slip in behind the O-type, where its shield would be useless. Vincent against both, though? Ajax, where are you!?
Then, everything changed. Lys was so in the moment, piloting Sky Princess, that she barely registered the crash, but she physically felt the massive Tentacled Lost slam Dallas into the ground. She saw his arm hang limp and she saw the thralls closing in. "Sorry, Vincent." She almost couldn't do it. She felt like she was abandoning him, but Dallas needed her help more and that took precedence. She steered Princess toward the gang of thralls approaching him, added a bit of height, and target locked the two closest to him. Princess confirmed lock and she grimaced as she spent two more rockets. A readout in red confirmed two targets down and she decided that should give Dallas the breathing room he needed to deal with the Tent.
Then, however, Sage's proximity warning beeped and she switched to his view. Two more tentacles emerged from the building at her seven, the one with what she recognized as a faded 'Subway' sign. She doubted the Lost were smart enough to have done this intentionally, but the Rear Team was being caught in a pincer movement. Those things were big, too. They usually took two rockets each, and she was already down to seven. Lys set Princess to sonic blast them before they were too close. She put hands to wheels and turned, unable to see what she was doing but recognizing a one-eighty by muscle memory. Instinctively, she backed up a push but, by the time that she felt the ground slip out from under her left side, it was too late. She shifted her weight, nearly thrown from her wheelchair, and settled at an angle, wheel caught in a deep crack that must've been the result of Vincent slamming the car. "Fuck!" she shouted, straining to push herself free.
Lys tore off her headset and looked down. To her horror, the controller had slid off of her lap and clattered to the ground, out of reach. She tried to wrench her right side around, but there was no wiggle room. The crack was just the right width and her wheel was in deep. "Horsie! Lift!" She commanded, fighting down a rising panic, but the ground was caved in around the car and he was at an angle, unable to get much leverage. He tipped back and forth as he tried. The pair of Tents were whipping at Princess with their tentacles and one actually nicked her. Lysandra's stomach turned into an icy pit, but the drone spun away, recovered, and rose higher, its automatic defensive programming kicking in. They lumbered closer and she grabbed for her bow. The angle wasn't perfect. She had to twist her body awkwardly. She was loath to use up one of her few high-explosive arrows, but this would have to be a one-shot kill. There was no time to breathe deeply or set herself. She pulled back and loosed.
The sheer force of the explosion was fantastic. It reverberated through her chest like a thunderclap and she blinked, half flash-blinded and deafened. Chunks of the Tent were strewn all over the place and, absently, she noticed its guts on one of her legs. The second Tent had fared much better, though. Flung to the side, it was burnt all down one flank and had lost an arm and a couple of tentacles, but it stumbled to its feet, very much alive and very much furious. It let out a bellowing roar, tendrils writhing and glowing, and charged at her.
Location: En Route to the Dying Mistle @ The Ruined City // Date: February 23, 2057 // Time: 11:00 // Interactions: Akaia @Exit, Poppy @dreamingflowers,Cerise @Medili, Ajax @DClassified
This is a haunted place, Lysandra couldn't help but think so as she wheeled along. Of course, she did not believe in ghosts in the literal sense, but it was haunted in other ways, and palpably so.
Ensconced snugly in her gloves, her palms made intermittent contact with the hand-rims of her wheelchair, and the Rear Team's lone female member pushed herself warily along. Finding a patch of blessedly even ground, she took a moment to flex her fingers. The soreness was nothing unusual; such was her life on these long sojourns and she was well used to it. They were cold, though, like it was leeching up from the ground and into her through her wheels. The sun beat dully on a thin, sickly veil of clouds and a dead-smelling wind filled her nostrils. Lys blinked as a gust blew up, reaching out to shield her eyes with a forearm. Unlike the others, save Desmond, she could taste the dust and the death. It lingered in the back of her mouth, dry and scratchy, like the cold lingered in her hands. She coasted until she couldn't any longer, easing herself over an unavoidable crack in the pavement and into the vast, enveloping shadow of a leaning skyscraper.
Lysandra glanced down and watched the stark line of darkness work its way up her legs, over her hands and chest. Then it was behind her. The final few members of the rear team entered the deep, cool land of unnatural darkness. Up ahead, she could see the lead party leaving it and she longed to be one of them. Tall buildings filled her with unease. They loomed, dead and hulking. They could fall. At any moment, they could plummet, and she would be trapped.
Then there was the quiet. Unnecessary conversation was noise. Noise brought Lost, so Lys' only comfort was the thump of footsteps on pavement and the quiet hum of Iron Horse. Below and behind her, latched onto the dead axle of her wheelchair, he was in 'energy neutral' mode. He wasn't pushing her - thankfully, she had barely needed him for that so far - but neither was he deadweight, having to be pulled.
She continued, pushing a little faster, wanting to be out in the sun. Bleak as it was, any warmth and light were welcome. She was gaining on Desmond, though, and eased off as she passed into the sunlight. It would not do to stretch the defensive diamond that Ajax had insisted on. Half an hour ago, she'd had Sage up and he'd spotted a group of Lost in the area. Truth be told, they could be anywhere now. Their trajectory had had them crossing paths with the Commune's route at some point, and the best course of action would've been to wait them out or detour around them. The first option put pressure on the Sidhe's limited supply of oxygen, though, and that was a dangerous game to play. The second was equally untenable. There was no nearby alternative route that Lysandra could hope to traverse, and going further afield would reproduce the issues of the first.
So the meatheads had asked her for a figure as if it were that simple, just like everybody who had no understanding of probability did: "Predict for us, science lady!" There were too many variables. For all that Lysandra knew, those Lost might veer off and never arrive, but just as likely, they could arrive well ahead of schedule. The Lost mind was poorly understood, but she had catalogued as many of the different types as she could. She had made an assiduous list of stimuli that seemed to affect them beyond simple prey drive. One or two small changes and they could gallivant off in a different direction. A single alteration and, instead of the Commune's path crossing theirs at a right angle, the Lost could decide to cut across the hypotenuse and could be upon them...
Assuming they maintain their speed of 7.5 km/h... she did some mental math and consulted the map of the city in her mind's eye. A deviation of forty-five degrees... She accounted for the fact that they'd be unable to take a perfectly straight course given the grid layout of the city. Average walking pace of 5 km/h for a healthy human in their twenties or thirties... Lys felt a warning prickle on the back of her neck. Over her objections, they'd squeezed an estimate of 'close to half an hour' out of her, but the Lost could be here as soon as...
Cerise held up an arm. She closed her hand into a fist and the lead group stopped dead in its tracks Now.
The commune leapt into action, Poppy rising into the air laden with opium bombs, Cerise scrambling up a nearby building with a faded billboard. The Forward Team took their positions and then Lysandra saw the enemy. Thralls, Tentacles, and... Shit! Infernals.
They couldn't allow the two Teams to be cut off from each other. Ajax was already barking out orders to that effect, mostly for the newer members' benefit. "Horsie, push!" Lys commanded. "Terrain following: friendlies, and avoid non-friendlies - ten meters!" Her hands were already off of her wheels as a fantastic boost propelled her from behind. She reached into her bag and out came Sage, a controller, and her headset. Unceremoniously, she tossed him into the air and his rotors screamed to life. Hurtling towards a vastly physically superior enemy at a breakneck pace, Lys' pulse filled her eardrums. Every time that she did this, it genuinely occurred to her that she might be insane, that her life expectancy was unlikely to be more than a couple of years. Twisting as much as she could, she heaved Princess out of her bag, flicked a switch, and hefted her up into the air. With a stuttered roar, six propellors thrummed to life and Lys flipped the headset down. "All systems active: battery 100%, ammunition 100%," a readout displayed. "Sage, orbit and defend mode," she called out, and could dimly register a high-pitched wail as he took off to catch up with his 'sister', but it was a distant thing.
Lysandra Tran's world faded away and she was no longer a thing chained to her own broken body. She rocketed ahead of the others at over a hundred kilometers per hour, dancing nimbly around obstacles, the world flashing by through Sky Princess' cameras. She saw Poppy's bombs land. She saw the chain come for her friend. She saw Cerise tangling with the infernal who was unnervingly like her. Poppy was being reeled in. Lys' fingers twitched the controls with savant-like speed and precision. She flipped a switch. A glowing box appeared around the Infernal's head. "Target Locked," read a readout in appropriately blood red letters. "Fire?"
She had a dozen rockets and one full reload. There were three thralls headed straight for Akaia. Time to thin those numbers out, Lys decided. She added a second target. "2 Targets Locked. Fire?"
She pressed the button. "Kaboom, Bitches."
Location: The Telescope Room @ The Crows' Nest // Date: February 23, 2057 // Time: 10:02 // Interactions: Erik @FunnyGuy, everybody
Lysandra's hands were already on her wheels as Erik began wrapping up his little strategy speech. She nodded along with most of his tactical decisions, thoroughly ready to go. A dedicated scouting party meant saving Sage and Princess' batteries. In fact, she was starting to consider reworking her RC team now that they'd picked up so many new people. It wasn't like the old days with just her and some combination of Erik, Ajax, Cerise, Poppy, and Akaia minus whoever stayed back. Sage could do with some more offensive oomph, or maybe she'd retire the Immortals-themed team, finally, once she'd finished work on The Federation. Enterprise, Voyager, Discovery, Defiant.
Then, everything changed in the blink of a cliched eye. Erik turned that whiteboard around and Lysandra Tran beheld the greatest work of art to see light of day since the cataclysm of the Great Collapse. She made a face that looked just a little bit like this:
She glanced back and forth at a couple of the others, trying to gauge if they were even half as amused as she was. Almost involuntarily, her hands migrated from her wheels to her backpack, where she kept an old Polaroid camera for field observations. Without shame, she pulled it out and took a picture of the masterpiece, grinning like a magpie. At one or two quizzical looks, she merely shrugged and arched an eyebrow. "Are any of you seriously gonna tell me that didn't deserve to be preserved for posterity?"
The photo was finished. She pulled it out, grinned, and set it and the camera on her lap, glancing down momentarily in admiration. Her hands settled back on her wheels. They released her brakes. "Anyways, I'm more than ready to go. Anyone feel free to lead the way."
Location: The Telescope Room @ The Crows' Nest // Date: February 23, 2057 // Time: 09:56 // Interactions: Akaia @Exit, Erik @FunnyGuy,Cerise @Medili
"Flower Power," Lysandra replied, improvising a new term of endearment as she rolled up to Akaia, "Shhhhhh." She held a finger up to her lips in the universal gesture for quiet, but softened it with a conspiratorial smirk. "I think you know very well what we're doing. I think even Licorice knows." She glanced over at Cerise, who was examining her nails in an only marginally less universal gesture for, "I'm staying out of this one, hun. You made this bed and you're gonna sleep in it." The only thing that would've made it more complete was if the revenant had been whistling mock-idly.
Lysandra reached for Akaia's hands and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. "And it was about Vincent. I'd say both of those qualities are a bit hard to miss, though maybe I'm being a bit harsh with the second. He's just broken so much of my stuff already. Speaking of stuff," she pivoted, "You're all kitted out." She looked the petite sidhe up and down and leaned in a bit more. "Bring back anything cool for me?"
Then a sudden entrance, marked by a familiar ecstatic voice.
“Alright! I think you ladies earned a few extra points for being early. You all look ready. Good!” He stood in the doorway of the strategy room and nodded in approval before joining the three around the table. It was then that he noticed the odd silence between them all as if he had walked in on a conversation he was not meant to be privy to. A curious look of narrowed darting eyes crossed Erik’s face as if searching for an answer. However, as usual, it was only a brief break in his usual demeanor. His eyebrows perked up when his eyes landed on Akaia.
“Switching up the style, huh? It looks nice on you!” Erik stepped towards his favorite Sidhe to get a closer look at her outfit while also minding Licorice perched on her shoulder. He’d feel quite awful if he unintentionally startled the crow… something he had a history of accomplishing. After visually scanning Akaia, Erik nodded once more in approval. He had the feeling that someone else might have assisted with Akaia’s current attire but did not find the detail all that important as he complimented her. Erik was simply spreading around his feel-good energy.
Lys was feeling it. A giddy kind of excitement made war with her nerves and it won out. There were nine of them going into the field (for it had already been decided that Ionna would be staying back): a veritable army. It reminded her of those superhero teamups from the comics she’d read as a kid. “Yes, totally, hun. You look legit amazing.”
There was a short pause of silence as Akaia looked down at herself in surprise. She hadn’t expected to get any comments on her changed appearance, but hearing the both of them comment on the attire stoked a prideful flame in her. She beamed them both a smile and nodded a small ”Thank you” in return before turning to her crow.
A click of her tongue alerted the bird and it hopped off her shoulder and landed gently on the table, skipping to a spot on the map and tapping its beak on it repeatedly. ”For Lee-Saw. Too big.” She said, opening the satchel on her shoulder to demonstrate the limited width of its opening.
The location in question was not terribly far from where the mission had to take place and had been visited briefly by the Sidhe early on in her travels.
“Well geez, now you have me intrigued.” Lys looked up, brow furrowed. Her travel bag was sizable, but she might have to choose between filling it with things that she needed and things that she found. Anything that large was likely to be a substantial piece of useful salvage. She knew that Akaia was generally much better at identifying than articulating what she’d found, but Lys was curious and would have to trust that, not being a cat, she would survive the explanation and maybe even make something of it. She thought of how best to put things. “What sort of thing is it? Will it take up most of my bag?” she inquired.
Akaia placed her satchel flat on the table, coaxing the worn leather into a vague and very imperfect shape of a rectangle. She then held her hand a foot and a half above the pressed bag and turned to Lysandra. Pale eyes searched hers for an image of an object that was not in the room.
”Box.” She stated simply. Her other hand found an invisible spot in front of this box and from her mouth was the perfectly recreated sound of a button’s click. She repeated this a number of times to drive the point.
So, it’s a box with a button: a computer? That’d certainly be welcome. Whatever it was, she was not about to play a lengthy game of charades to find out precisely. It was enough to know that the find was mechanical in nature and worth picking up. She remembered to smile. “Thanks, Kai,” she began. “I’ll make room for it.” Turning back to the table and rolling up to it, she twisted for a moment. “You’re a treasure.”
People were filtering in now and hopefully they’d be off and away soon. The anxious anticipation building up in her was of the species that made you curl and uncurl your fingers, pace, and tap your foot as you waited. Lysandra settled for drumming on the tabletop and thinking, mind skimming through potential scenarios, obstacles, and opportunities at a breakneck pace, but she found herself distracted. In the background, Akaia continued clicking away with two fingers, thoroughly amused with herself, and Lys imagined the little routine as the sentient version of an ‘Error 404’. She groaned inwardly and hoped that Birdbrain wouldn’t keep it up for the entire ride. She’d have to stop for a drink at some point… right?
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