HereComesTheSnow

Olympus Academy // A School for Demigods and Demigoddesses

Jonas Highwind

@Krayzikk@Plank Sinatra@Write

"Well, you're smelling the bacon more than the eggs, probably." he corrected mildly, a light smirk gracing his strong features. "I'd be worried if it was the other way around, to be honest with you. If you wanna help, these are nearly done— grab me a plate and paper towel like I had for those."

He indicated the strips, now resting atop their muffins on a single large plate, with the slotted spoon he wielded. As his faithful disciple did so, dutifully and quickly, he too the time to skim off the excess ribbons of egg white that hadn't coaleasced around their requisite yolks, tossing them into the sink. Any second now, the poached eggs would float to the top— there it was. That meant done.

He killed the heat, and as he transferred each shining orb of milky white onto the plate, he considered what she said.

"It's..." he frowned, choosing his next words deliberately. "It's like that a lot. I don't know how many fights you've gotten into in school, but this isn't any different from those."

A pinch of salt fell like snow upon each egg, seasoning them just enough to wake up the flavor innate to the egg white— he didn't need much when there was a bevy of sodium from the bacon it would rest upon in the first place. The interplay between each ingredient was what made dishes like these a skill to truly master as opposed to simple sets of directions to follow. Ideally, each element would service the others in some way to create a complete flavor profile, and part of that was minding not to overdo a certain aspect. In cooking, erring on the side of caution was smart, especially with something like salt— simply put, you could underseason and add salt as necessary, but if you had too much salt once everything was put together, you weren't getting it out easily.

"There's no nuance in these things— The people running the show don't want to do the legwork of determining the right and wrong of it. 'It doesn't matter who started, since you were both in the fight you both get suspended'. It's stuff like that."

Gingerly, he lifted the first poached egg off of the plate and onto the bread-and-pork base with a spoon. Golden-brown toasting on the baked base, followed by a cross of each halved strip of crimson bacon, savory and salty and smoky as you liked, and then centered upon that the pristine and perfectly round, white eggs, topped all with that pale yellow Hollandaise, rich and luxuriously smooth with the perfect hint of brightness to avoid being overbearing...

Oh, hell yeah. Dusting of Paprika on that and I'm golden.

He was much more satisfied with how his plating was shaping up than his school year— if you ate with your eyes, only one of those would prove a feast.

"As cynical as it is to say, I'm used to it after a fashion... But it doesn't mean either of us— doesn't mean any of us have to like it. I don't think I ever will. Not when I know I wasn't wrong."

He turned to the diminutive daughter of the seas, favoring her with a smile that, while warm as usual, didn't manage to kick every other emotion he held out of his eyes. Discontent, disquiet, disgust, disdain, disillusion— a swirl of it managed to leak through his normal stony exterior. For such serious matters, he liked to stay cold, calculated, to not give anything away. It was the most he'd let slip since they'd returned from their homes. Maybe since they'd met.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Rhea. It wasn't your shouting match to get into in the first place."

He continued his sequence with the other eggs, placing them upon their awaiting bases exactly as he had the first.

"I'd be a dogshit teacher if I expected you to fight my battles for me, y'know?"

Just like I would be if I made you follow me out.

From the hall, he heard the door across his opening and a pair of footsteps making the extremely short jaunt into the kitchen, and with a single, exorcising breath, shook off his many misgivings for now. Time to play host, the gracious and masterful chef par excellence whose only mood was to serve up something to take the edge off of them all.

"Yo," he said in greeting, meeting Rebekah's earnest smile with a grin that edged on cocksure. "No coffee, didn't bring a machine and if Dal did, he didn't unpack it. Sorry. But forget that, what I've got here,"

He took the bowl of Hollandaise and dunked his spoon within the velvety yellow suspension, shaking free any sauce that hung too precariously to safely make the transition, and laid it atop his first poached egg in a single, smooth deposition, blanketing the stack of breakfast staples beneath.

"is Eggs Benedict. We kicked all kinds of ass last night— I say we treat ourselves. To hell with keeping quiet, it's worth celebrating. So, I'm gonna throw my weight around as a chef a little and go all-out."

The same motion, smooth and precise and positively mouthwatering, draped similar coats of Hollandaise onto the remaining towers of savory excess. Producing a shaker full of crimson powder from wherever he had placed it off camera, he tapped it in steady rhythm as flecks of smoky Paprika graced the yellowed surfaces below.

"Kansei."

Finished.

His sister was here, he may as well put on a show in her language as well as his own. Lifting the platter, he set it down at the center of the table that was previously spartan and untouched, and stepped back to face the trio of demigoddesses with a full courtly bow.

He couldn't deny that theatrics were fun, every now and again.

Ham was good for a meal, after all.

"Enjoy. You've earned it."

Olympus Academy // A School for Demigods and Demigoddesses

Jonas Highwind

@Krayzikk@Plank Sinatra@Write

So much grease in that pan.

Six strips of bacon rendered a substantial portion of fat, as it turned out— nothing unexpected, of course, he'd been cooking since he was a kid— but nonetheless, he forced himself to make a note to switch around a meal or two for the rest of the day or axe them completely. No matter what angle he attempted to combat it from, be it as a humble weightlifter "cultivating mass" or being a heavyweight, "like anyone above 5'4 should, no excuses", two words still existed at the back of his mind, a brand placed upon him by his most honest and critical of sisters.

Mo-chi tum-my~

...

Well, if he didn't make a habit of this, he wouldn't lose core definition from one luxurious meal alone. Summer had been relatively lazy for him, but to most normal people it was the difference between a sea and an ocean. You knew one was smaller, but you couldn't wrap your head around it in a meaningful way when you saw it. Break down the numbers and some of the barbecues from work were calorically worse anyway.

He'd be fine. And to speak of the ocean—

A trio of confident knocks came upon his door, heralding the familiar voice of his de facto protege. "Yo coach, you in there?"

Well, she was certainly in for a treat.

"Yeah, c'mon in! Almost done here!"

bzzt. bzzt.

A pause as both checked their phones. That door was gonna get knocked on again in five anyway, so...

"Y'know what, just leave it open."

May as well save the trouble.

He greeted her with a smirk as she let herself in, turning his attention to the pan for a moment as he flipped the English muffins wonce the first side had nicely browned. No reason not to toast them in the grease— they needed to be crispy to hold steady against the weight of eggs and hollandaise sauce, and it also allowed them to soak up all the smoky and salty flavor that would have likely otherwise gone to waste. One of the easiest ways to both make something taste awesome and get rid of grease, which was annoying as hell unless you liked pouring it down your drain and clogging your pipes.

"Figured I'd switch things up. Go the decadent route. Hope you're hungry, kid."

Muffins were done. He took the pan off the flame and shifted the pot of water over it, deftly plucking the bowl of sauce from the top and setting it onto the countertop. No need to heat that any more, this was the final stage. A healthy pinch of salt was tossed in, followed by a splash of the vinegar he'd used in the sauce— the acidity actually helped the egg whites set when you poached them.

While that was coming up to the boil, he regarded Rhea as he began to set up the final assembly, snapping strips of bacon in two and placing them atop the toasted slices. She'd been present alongside them as they'd gotten chewed out by the brass— but reserved as she was, compared to the likes of Dallas, it was a bit harder for him to gauge where her head was at.

After a time, the burly would-be chef spoke.

"...Helluva start to the year, huh?"

He'd been guiding her for what felt like ages now— and she'd come a long way in finding her confidence. But since even he had his doubts about whether this place was really right for them... Well, projecting his own thoughts and misgivings onto her would be stupid.

That said, she definitely deserved less of a tongue-lashing than he or, say, Bekah did. She'd dutifully kept to her post as rear guard, keeping noncombatants safe from overt danger. Even if you wanted to make a case about directly attacking 'Shadow', she wasn't at all culpable. Holding the backline firm had to be the least "offensive" position anyone could have mustered there, but as usual these things were not treated with nuance in the slightest.

It wasn't fair to him, but it was even less so to Rhea. He doubted that she wasn't feeling at all slighted by this either. May as well get her perspective on it and let her vent.

The water had reached a rolling boil, so he killed the heat down to a simmer— too much chaos in the pot would cause the eggs to explode. Learned that one the hard way. Whisking it up into a whirlpool, he cracked a trio of eggs into it, the turbulence wrapping the whites around the yolks perfectly as they quickly began to set.

All the while, the wonderful smells of the kitchen began to waft towards the door.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

@Psyker Landshark Best of luck brother

Olympus Academy // A School for Demigods and Demigoddesses

Jonas Highwind

@Krayzikk@Plank Sinatra@Write@Caasicam (text) @NeoAJ@Altered Tundra@Rockette@Inkarnate (mentioned)

What an utter anathema.

Setting the door to Apartment 2A shut behind his back, the dark-haired son of War itself dispassionately placed an array of overpriced groceries from the campus market onto the marble countertop that flanked their new range. With how they had needed to scramble to put their faculty-maligned bash together in the span of the afternoon, the space was for all intents and purposes pristine save for a sea of boxes— they'd just barely managed to unload his Ford and Dallas's Subaru before setting off to work.

He doubted either of them would be in the mood to settle into this place for a while longer. It was only in search of pots, a pan, and a whisk that he even thought to tear one open. And only because he immediately needed them, at that. With the threat of expulsion looming over their heads for the crime of daring to stand against a glorified punching bag rather than run, Jonas saw no real reason to go through the work of turning this place into a home just yet.

Not when there was every likelihood this exact course of events would happen again, party or no.

He and Dallas had argued until they were blue in their faces about that point— with nothing to show for it. Not even a concession that they hadn't been able to alter its strength for four years prior. That paths they could only sneak through as a duo had not gotten progressively wider in the slightest, that nothing else had proven capable of slipping through—

Nothing.

"These are gas burners? Nice."

They had to hoof it to get the party favors delivered this time, yeah— but that was precisely because they never skimped on their method of exfiltration and infiltration of the Academy's defenses. It was threading a needle. Even after years of searching, they'd only found a precious handful of points of entry wide enough to accommodate his Ford. Nothing so large as a two-story 'Shadow'. They'd always made sure to give it a solid whack on their way back in, time and again, as a way of "covering their tracks". Whatever weakening their escapades had done, surely the absorbed power was enough to rectify it.

They were mindful. They were studious. They were experienced with this barrier. Probably moreso than most of the faculty that professed to maintain it. Their technique to bypass the field, even if somebody had observed the two beneath both of their notices, was singular to Dallas alone. Nobody else could have fine-tuned a replica version of themselves to throw at the thing— They would have seen this hypothetical third party emulate them by now. They had been doing this since 2013. It wasn't covering their own asses, they understood how the damn thing worked.

It all fell upon deaf ears, and had driven his best friend speechless with fury. Every single time something went tits up, he was regarded as though the organizer of every event that took place. Made a martyr and "example" to others, ignoring the very real threat that they'd stood against. It had been close to an hour since he'd last seen the Son of the Sun, stalking off towards open air and a serene surrounding to attempt to cool his head. Jonas had seen him get like this before- he usually said he needed the space. That it'd be better if he didn't wreck their walls.

This time, he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

I get that.

He felt a scowl grow upon his face, brow furrowing further and further, each time he replayed the last fourteen hours in his head.

We pull up to the barrier. We aren't followed. We use the lull to sneak my truck through. We hit it with a couple of "failed" attempts at escape. The damn thing absorbs enough juice to the point that I can actually see it. All is standard procedure.

With a trio of clicks, a blue flame kissed the bottom of a saucepot, warming the few tablespoons of butter that began to coast within. Another held a bath of water, slowly rising to temperature. Into a glass bowl he deposited a trio of egg yolks, reserving the whites in a measuring cup off to the side. Omelette for tomorrow.

We arrive at dusk, requisitioning the girls for help with transport. Everything kicks off properly. People are getting along, enjoying drink, music, eachother's company. The worst they could do is come at us for contraband alcohol from Denver. That's barely even mentioned post-mortem. This is at least an hour after we make our pass through the barrier. After we verify that it's absorbed equivalent force to what we used in passage, leaving it as strong as it had been in the months prior to our return. At this point, they have as much reason to concern themselves with the main road in we all took to get on campus.

A small splash of white wine vinegar fell into the yolks, acidity brightening the rich orange orbs within. As the pot with water came up to a simmer, he placed the bowl atop it. A bain-marie, the perfect source of indirect heat to cook these things through without scrambling them. Whisk in hand, he began to mix vigorously.

More time passes. It feels like an hour, but at this point it doesn't matter— if we were followed, we'd have known well before then. I begin to fend off unwanted advances. Dallas begins to make a psychological attack against my composure— Off-track. Unimportant.

Now he reached the part that had personally pissed him off: everything involving 'Shadow'. They were told by the teachers in no uncertain terms to never speak of this event— and that they had made it through by the skins of their teeth until the faculty had dropped in. It was dead. They had Original the Character dead to rights. It was literally falling through the portal when those idiots had closed it up on them.

The butter had melted. The yolk and vinegar mixture had taken on a creamy, ribbonlike texture. Time to incorporate. Pouring the hot fat into the bowl in small, controlled streams, just a tablespoon or so at a time, Jonas let some steam off as he whisked— the eggs needed to be constantly moving anyway as each portion of butter was homogenized into the Hollandaise, and he needed to get himself back to objective review. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he turned the full force of his mind back onto the problem.

Vivian shows up. With her, hounds. Obviously she's not at fault and is fleeing. They at minimum quintuple our group in number, and form a wall that pins us to the coastline. Nowhere to "run" as the staff so prudently suggest. I get the ball rolling tactically as they begin their wave tactics. Non-combatants stick to the lakefront, where Rhea's hydrokinetics prove stalwart defense against any that slip through both my point defense and the firing position I've set Rebekah, Danaye, and Kelsey onto. Ten minutes of combat pass without tragedy.

Without casualty.

Without even injury.

Last of the butter incorporated. The texture resembled custard. Perfect. Seasoning with a bit of salt, pepper, and the juice of a lemon to cut through the richness of the fat upon the palate, he set the simmering pot aside, leaving the bowl over the warm water to prevent it from going cold while he moved onto the next step.

It's by every account a perfect defensive position. It was the only choice we had to begin with, and as a group we excelled. Then as their numbers wane the thing coalesces from the remainder of the hounds, naming itself 'Shadow'. I still can't take that seriously. It never gave me a reason to in the first place. What the hell kind of hero would run from something that barely fights back? From a big target more interested in trying to belittle as opposed to kill or maim?

He quickly bisected a series of English Muffins before heating up the frying pan and laying in one, two, three strips of bacon. He'd do those in batches given the premium on space. More time to think. To try and come up with a fault in their actions, one so worthy of scolding by the higher-ups of the Academy.

He struggled to conjure an answer in their stead. He doubted a worthy one existed.

"Aha. Ahahahaha."

He still couldn't contain his mirth at how wholly wrong they had been.

"Threat to the campus"?

"Powerful enough to merit our arrival"?

"You obviously had a hard fight"?

I've taught kindergartners that offered more resistance than "Shadow"— And it only ever struck at me and that one Nyx girl. Didn't even attack her outright, it just opted for another attempt at mental warfare. El Cid's blades cut through it like butter, even if it did not feel fear. It had no answer for my Ornithes Arrows. If I wanted, I could snipe at it with impunity until the explosions rendered it smoke. I could easily go toe to toe with it in a contest of pure strength even before Haluk shot me full of adrenaline. Eckeseax nearly cleft it in two with one swing. And that was just me.

Liam and Rebekah both exposed it to primordial destructive elements, expressions of pure power gifted to mankind and the world by the Gods themselves. It had no answer for those. They also mimed hypervelocity kill vehicles, just outright slugging the thing with pure kinetic energy. Between the three of us, we were chewing through its composition with impunity. Knocking it all over the place.

Even if that girl hadn't opened a portal for us to direct that merry session of kicking around a training dummy the size of a house towards, we had it handled. Damien, punk that he is, took out three of its limbs with no recourse. Kelsey spent the whole time filling it with arrows, just as I could have, and she hadn't even broken a sweat. Haluk's arrival and support were unchallenged. It couldn't even figure out that it was HIM that suddenly made everyone twice as strong.

I am fully confident that I could take that thing on my own without much trouble. A certain level of danger perhaps, but that is the nature of fighting. With everyone here?

All those teachers did was steal our rightful kill. They saved nobody. They prevented nothing. For all their talk of Gods-granted authority and power, they accomplished exactly none of what we hadn't already. And then, they had the gall to turn onto us with every bit of the fervor they should by all rights have confronted the thing with in the moment it had appeared.

Even in the face of the smell of rendering pork fat that wafted through the room, Jonas's expression had hardened and set, his smug derision fading as his indignation swelled again. No matter how laughable their read on the situation was, no matter how much he, even in the midst of their lecturing, couldn't keep that smirk off of his face, they were still treated as the party in the wrong. Not even allowed to discuss the goings-on in the aftermath, to proceed as normal under heavy surveillance.

Prisoners in the very cage they'd defended.

He thumbed through his venerable iPhone, quickly finding the group chat Dallas had set up between their little contingent of demigods, and tapped out a quick message with one hand as the other laid crispy, smoky strips of bacon onto a napkin-lined plate to drain.

>Making food
>Grab a bite if you guys want
>Faculty's retarded

Three more strips sizzled as they entered the pan.

I think I'd welcome an expulsion by now. Under the tutelage of those who do not understand my ability, I learn nothing of combat. I scour through more myth on my own than they teach, rebranding the same basic overviews of Grecian and Hellenistic stories that any fifth grader could recite at least semi-accurately. I already know how to read and write, and am more rigorously tested in anything STEM back at UT. It's only my peers that keep me caring. My student. My sister. The people I've grown to love and care for and trust to test myself against. Who I've taken it upon myself to teach and protect.

I wouldn't see them. The only reason I wouldn't accept expulsion is if they aren't expelled alongside me... And to a name, they've all been held just as responsible, and stand at just as much risk. If we leave as a group, what would I really miss?

He hit send, and leaned against the counter as the meat cooked, folding his arms and regarding his still very-packed boxes.

If I am punished for valiant deeds here, of all the places in the world, then the Age of Heroes really is dead and gone for good. I should have no attachment to a wannabe college campus actively stifling my ideals, trying to cast my dreams aside for the sake of being one of their good little students. Herakles would not have run. That man stood against my Father and won the day— a place that tells me to run against something that trivial in comparison offers me nothing. I'd never reach my goal. I'd never escape being anything more than what I am right now: Not Nearly Enough.

I cannot sublimate into legend if I do not take a stand against that which would bring ruin to me and my own. Nobody who doesn't put themselves in harm's way deserves to be spoken of alongside the names of mankind's storied pinnacle. I'd choke my potential, and my desires, to death if I didn't do what I had done. On some level I get their ruling on messing with the barrier— but to not stand and fight against a foe borne of the terrors of night itself? To not be a light in the darkness, a pure expression of humanity's hope and courage in the fight against all that would tear that which we love from us?

That, I cannot abide. I cannot obey. It disgusts me.

Were it not for my bonds with everyone I've met here, I think they'd not even need to resort to expulsion.

A place that so fundamentally clashes with me... I'd have left myself.

Our Daily Lives have Become a Battlefield: A Battle School RP

@King Cosmos

"Ichiro... I will remember that." he stated simply as he hoisted the other boy up, holding onto his wrist for a moment more as the diminutive baseball player found his legs a little out of sorts for a moment. "I go by Kasemchai Sinbimuaythai. It's a practice in my home for fighters to honor their gym by taking its name in the place of your family names."

He had made that explanation many times both inside and outside of the Motherland. Farang learning the art didn't always understand this either, so many a native Nak Muay had a habit made out of quickly enlightening those who correctly deduced that "there's no way that can actually be what their family's called".

Though, it would not be wrong to say that many considered their teams as good as family, either.

"You will want a light step for your leg, shade for your head, and ice for both. Your conditioning as an athlete should help you recover a bit quicker than most, but expect some light bruising. It tends to bother those who do not experience it regularly."

As he spoke, he gained a certain tone of authority and expertise as he guided Ichiro over to the very same tree he had been lounging under as he had eaten, shielding his eyes from the midday sun as his brain shook off the cobwebs.

"As for Farang... well, I would be the Farang to you. It is how we say 'foreigner' in Thai. You are all Farang to me as non-Thais, but I would be the proverbial Stranger in this strange land."

He folded his arms and grit his teeth at his complaining ribcage, before looking up towards those monolithic buildings again, emerald eyes piercing and searching as if he would find some superimposed Student Council President upon them. When he spoke again, it wasn't nearly as lightly as his words moments before.

"My rank is 11, since you mentioned yours earlier. I have ambitions far greater than this place, so it's not of any real consequence to me— I will do as any fighter worth a damn does and climb the ladder to the top regardless. Within this system, I am just as much a nobody as you claim to be... But that is because they don't know better. I intend to inform them."

He turned that gaze onto Ichiro, regarding him as though sizing him up despite the fact that they had just fought. The boy had spirit, no doubt about it, but how far did he let that willpower push him?

"What of you? Does it simply start and end at your team?"

Would they meet this way again?

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

@PaulHaynek@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@ERode

A wet and heavy crunch sounded, as Artificer Elodie took it upon herself to expediate the death of Jeremiah, to leave no doubt as to whether or not he still drew his final breaths. Beyond a mild bunching up of her brow, the woman showed no great emotion in the act— nor had Gerard in witnessing it. They were both veterans of combat, and for all of his adoration of the ideals of knighthood, the sight, sounds, and stench of death would never elude them. Even the most righteous, lionhearted, and merciful knight was still a warrior who donned armor and rode to battle.

Fair enough.

He would be wrong if he denied having the thought cross his own mind, but while he shared her disdain for the man and willingness to fight him with full intent to kill, it seemed she did not share whatever it was that stayed his hand. He wasn't sure what that restraint stemmed from, either; he knew he'd been ordered to stab corpses as a mercenary before and did so without issue. He certainly didn't balk at the thought— it had kept countless men alive in war. He had plied battles as his trade for seven years.

Maybe his expectations of himself as a knight were unrealistic.

...He would consider that once they were done here. The unofficial surrender of a majority of the bandits was already unfolding before them— their young Captain's command was likely all anyone was waiting for. It was simple enough when you said it, but that was still a lot of weight upon small, inexperienced shoulders.

Well, she hadn't abandoned her role nearly so much as he, once the rightward detachment had entered the fray.

"I definitely still have much to learn." he responded to the diminutive and ancient Paladin's frank review of the engagement. "Though compared to your experience, I fear I always will."

He wouldn't demur that fact either. If he was to lead again, he could not lose sight of the task so easily. That they faced little more than thugs outside of the Bandit King would not be a privilege he could count on in the future. If skilled troops met skilled troops, it would be the chain of command that utilized theirs better that won the day. He knew that he would need to be ready for that in his future. He believed himself so as one of those fighters, at least, before today.

But now that he had both met this man, who quite possibly overshadowed him in battlefield ability, and been chosen, be it just as a matter of haste on Fanilly's part or otherwise, as someone embedded within that chain of command— he could be much less prepared than he had believed just an hour before.

The ride back would be a contemplative one, victorious or not.

Oh, speaking of.

"Sir Jarde— I still owe you a horse, don't I?"

Our Daily Lives have Become a Battlefield: A Battle School RP

not dead, just haven't sat down to work for this one yet

Olympus Academy // A School for Demigods and Demigoddesses

There's a familiar face.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP

@PaulHaynek@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@ERode

"We should hope." came the weary affirmation from Gerard, blade still very much in hand. "Maybe not totally dead yet, but if he could survive a thrashing like that, it would simply be inhuman."

He had once again sobered with the finality of the blow and subsequent fall of Jeremiah. He felt the lightness and heat in his chest and frame leaving him, his fullness of reason returning. The battle was by all means won, and there was no need to match its heat within himself. He breathed deep as he took a step back from the burning man's frame, pulse following closely behind his departing fierceness.

He had felt the resistance giving way beneath his sword when he'd swung, even through the roaring flame of the Artificer's blasting rod. Skin, muscle, viscera— he had not swung through empty air, surely. He doubted, though, his ability to point out the wound he had left upon the Bandit King's body. Somewhere upon his left side, of course, but the man was still covered in lingering flames and embers. There would definitely be no bloodflow to attribute to his name. Fire had a way of welding wounds closed much as it could steel.

However, it did nothing to mend the torn structure beneath.

"So saying, is everyone well?"

He had little time nor presence of mind to extend his concerns for the others before this point— one of the many reasons he was a devout Reonite, after all, was that the Sun Goddess's philosophy of whole-heartedly taking down the evil before you meshed well with him. He had turned all his focus onto "Knight's Doom" and ending him rightly from the moment he'd seen the man, after all. The chaos that followed did little to give him any opportunity to divide his attention elsewhere.

Though... It's not as if I am much good for more. I hold no shield to protect with. I would have likely died if I hadn't given my whole being to the fight. With how easily he cut through our fellows... This was the right path for me. So I believe.

He would still have much further to go and much more to learn before embodying the chivalric ideal he dreamed of, but he had made sure the task at hand was done today. As he regarded the burning body of that titanic murderer with slowly steadying breaths, he offered what small prayer he could muster to the Goddesses for the man's twisted soul.

It was a good deed to strike down the wicked. That was why he had joined this Order.

Olympus Academy // A School for Demigods and Demigoddesses

Jonas Highwind

Shoreline Skirmishers
@Krayzikk@Inkarnate@Caasicam@Altered Tundra@Rockette

A bolt from the blue above my head slams into the chest of the inky giant, collision in sync with my own cleaving strike tearing through his midsection.

Proper extension of the knee, striking surface is the heel, every lever involved arranged in a proper line driving all of the force onto that single hard point. Heedless of the crackling energy, symbolic of the King and directly above my head, I allow a smirk to play across my features. Nine out of Ten, Liam. You pick up Karate over break?

A beat follows his arrival, and with the crack of thunder, he leaves as quickly as he came, springboarding off of the monster's chest and leaving the fresh scent of ozone in his wake. His leap carries him clear over my vision, the same direction he came, and I hear a pair of feet return to earth with a slight skid as he bleeds off momentum. Outside the firing line Bekah's revolutions had set from the sound of things, which then begged the question— Where was she headed?

As I track with my ears, tendrils of shadow rise from the boundaries and wrap themselves around "Shadow's" limbs while he staggers back towards the rift, now closing in on its boundary. Restrained. That has to be one of the Nyx kids. Dunno who, but the assistance is welcome. Gives me a moment to think. Now, the staccato rhythm of Bekah's footfalls has ramped up two or three notches. My guess is she's building up speed for another charging all-or-nothing shot, same in principle as Liam and I. That this now-constant drone of pounding footfalls is near my venerable vehicle is...

Look, don't you dare touch my truck, okay?

The rattle of metal concerns me, but I can name the sound— chains. If nothing else, I know the end product. That narrows down a few things about the situation. I don't know what plot of hers specifically involves a small length of the stuff— but I can name a few potential ones, and I'm in a good position to read them all. Nothing has changed. I can handle whatever is thrown at me.

The black, corded ropes compress upon the lanky sihlouette's extremities, who all the while I've been eyeing as he struggled against these bonds to no avail. They tighten further and further, before with a final and sharp tug, the creature's arms and legs give out beneath the pressure. They are torn roughly from their beginnings, leaving it with... stumps, really. It teeters over the edge, with nothing left to dig into the earth with or brace itself against. The battle is by all means won. One solid hit would be all we need.

A cornered animal.

In a panic, it summons what little free mass is left and lashes out with a final tendril, based from the stump of its left arm. It doesn't look like a true attack so much as desperately reaching out to grab the closest thing it can— In this case me. Does it want to use me as an anchor? Is it trying to make me with it?

Is there any point in trying to know, when there's a fair chance the thing itself doesn't?

No.

There's not.

Whatever it's trying to do to me, I will not allow.

A thick ebon mass rushes towards me, desperation propelling it faster than any other. The last vestige of its power, so boldly spoken of as eclipsing our own. Almost pitiful now.

"Is this all you have to show? Pathetic."

I bat its own words back in its face behind a smirk. Haluk's aura of courage must have me feeling myself after all— I've been pretty taciturn until now. It's a welcome feeling— something different than my own innate warrior's steel. Where I usually was simply able to cordon off any fear or concern in my mind to some safe spot far and away from the parts that let me plan out a win, this was emboldening. Invigorating. Before, I could set off to take on the world with a calm, clear head.

Now? I can take it on and know in the deepest pits of my soul that I'll win.

In the instant the tentacle splits into a seven-pronged net to encompass me in those inky tendrils, my right hand handles the quarter ton heft of Eckeseaxe without complaint as I swing it back across myself, straight through the base of the web. The weight still more than doubles my own, so a necessary shift in stance to compensate for the change in balance occurs—

And several things happen at once.

Firstly, much like the hounds that originally made up the creature, the chunk that had been lopped off like a branch beneath a machete did not retain its shape. It bursts into a cloud of inky smoke, one quickly dispersed by violent waves of wind in the wake of my weapon.

Or what's left of it. That second strike was evidently the limit for the tenuous grasp reality had upon the concept I had asked of my father's armory. After all, such was a reflection of the limited understanding I myself had upon the legend. I knew of it, and I knew enough based on the context alone to understand what I was looking for, but that is not enough to keep it around. The blade I once held in my hands has met a fittingly similar end to what I tore it through, shattering and returning to nothingness with the resounding crash of glass breaking. Such was not an alarming sound— many an Eidolon has given out on me before, and I knew this one would do so quickly.

Speaking of quick.

Third, a raven-haired blur far faster than the tendril I just dealt with rockets past me, towards the creature. In an instant, my eyes adjust— and in that instant, she has completed ten more strides and is long gone, only thing in her wake the chain I'd heard, hurtling towards me.

Well, not being red means I probably still have transportation. That's good.

Towards my face—

My left hand, free from the fading hilt of Ecke's emblematic weapon, reflexively catches hold of it as I would an arrow, out at arm's length as my eyes play catch-up to the one who'd thrown it at me.

She's gotten faster again, then?

Great.

Awesome.

Good for her.

I can't ever take it easy.

But now I see, as she bounds through the air towards the thing's skull, the length of it that's wrapped around her hand and wrist. A simple gambit— given how the onyx giant is a second away from falling on its ass, and her own ridiculous speed, it's pretty clear that she doesn't believe she'll have the ability to fully replicate Liam and I's little spring board routines.

"Shadow" is teetering and recoiling from several critical strikes in the span of seconds. When she crashes into it with all that speed and momentum, it'll certainly knock it into the rift— but for the precise reason it will, she's in danger without this precaution. It cannot brace against this attack. It'll fall over far too soon. Won't absorb the totality of her force, so there's a good chance she'll still be moving forward after it enters the void. Even if she does manage to catch a rebound off of the jaw, I can feel from out here that it might not be enough to clear away from the tear in reality.

If such a thing comes to pass, I'm insurance to prevent her falling in after it.

I just need to wait for the right moment. Too soon, and she'll be caught between her force and my own.

I don't want to rip the girl's arm out of its socket. I'll catch hell from Dana and Haluk.

Not to mention, I'll feel awful about it.

I need to pull her in right at the moment where her forward momentum is neutralized— that crucial instant of hang time. That's when I bring her back to terra firma. I just need timing. She more than anyone knows my gift for it. Nobody else would be able to catch that instant in the heat of things.

She collides, hitting the far end of the pendulum with a thunderous force akin to a car crash. Kinetic energy was the weapon we both shared and adored, but her application of velocity may have just beat out mine of mass for this one. The argument for placement, however, isn't even close. I forced it back from its center mass— she knocks it over from the top.

And over it falls.

Knowing that her opportunity is rapidly fading away, Rebekah Cross uses her momentum to, recklessly and gratuitously, fall in for fractions of a second with the creature as she twists herself fully in the air, chain doubling as an axis.

A relative eternity to her and I compared to most. And judging from that manic grin of hers— enjoying every moment of it.

She needs a few more inches to optimize the connection. More distance to fall, to drift precariously close to certain death in the air. Against all reason, I lean forward, adding just enough slack to the links of metal that serve as her lifeline. I know what you wanna do. It's stupid. It's really dumb. It's needless.

Fortunately, you and I get along for a reason.

Her feet find its jaw, and she pushes off.

It does not carry her far.

It barely carries her at all, as her increased strength within the radius of her brother proves useful in pushing his mass down— but even we do not ignore Newton's Third.

She and the screaming torso of darkness accelerate away from eachother equally— it alongside the force of gravity, and her against.

She inches upward, mouthing something with an absolutely churlish grin on her face.

...Nani?

For an instant, a space between milliseconds, she floats as that momentum bleeds off against the ever-present pull towards the center of the earth.

Go time.

I step my left leg deep behind me and wrench the chain from out in front of me into my ribs, accelerating sharply over the distance once I see that she's braced her arm after feeling and recognizing tautness. It's not maximum power, but I'm certain it's more than enough. I'm not so dim-witted as to hurt my main training partners while we sparred, let alone when we're cooperating.

And no matter what happens to a girl's weight over the summer, she flies to safe territory.