Kalleth

The Inhospitable Expanse

Payne unbuckled his seatbelt, slapped Gaz on the shoulder, chuckling heartily, and then kept his EVA helmet on, and went to look outside the pod's window.

"Do you think there are any tasty ingredients on this planet?" He asked, wondering if it was safe to open the pod yet.

Closed

Jordan followed Felix into his room, chuckling softly.

"You actually have a girl? Damn kid, who is she? I was just trying to get you to open the door. She must be twice as stubborn as you, nearly as headstrong as-" Jordan cut himself off, his demeanour souring a bit. "As Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons." Manilow looked around the dorm, smelling faintly of teenage boy as most dorms did. It was certainly small, though not, he remarked, as small as a military-regulation bunk. He took the opportunity to pull out a chair, and sit down, massaging his shoulder and stretching languidly.

"It's not a charitable act, kid, and I'm not asking you to be my punching bag. You were the one who wanted to take a teacher on, and so kindly left a note instructing me to do so. The reason I offer you a fresh change of clothes is because your fighting skill won't be at its height in those rags. How are you supposed to focus on the fight when you get undesirable drafts of air in certain... places..?"

The gym teacher shook his head and smiled. "It's good you don't take shit from anybody, but you've got to realize there's a difference between pity, and a genuine desire to help you succeed. I don't know what kinds of people you've known in your life, but as a soldier at least, you get the worst extremes of both kinds of person. Your squad, your unit-mates, they're your lifeblood, who you depend on when one of you takes a hit, the closest thing to family in the deepest circles of hell. And then there's the target, the enemy, the people we don't treat like people. We give them hell, and they give it back. Just the way things are. No sense to it all. They break you down, build you up, give you the strongest bonds you can make, those forged in combat. And then a day comes along where you make one bad shot, or the intel misses one key detail, and your whole life gets fucked. And so it starts again. All that really means, Felix, is that when it comes to people, the way you treat them is everything. It's good to be strong, to be fierce, to be proud. Don't let what's good about you keep you from acknowledging your weak points, or the fact that if your damned gym teacher wants to give you some help, it's not because he sees you as some inferior being, it's because he sees potential in you."

Jordan paused, realized how long he'd been talking, and wondered if the boy had heard any of what he'd just said. He had just tried to punch him after all. Wouldn't be the most promising candidate for a lecture, or a pep talk, but then, Manilow was surprised he'd strung so many words together into a coherent narrative. Most times he tried to do something like that, Cathy would point out all the contradictions and non-sequiturs that-

Jordan stopped that trail of thought, again, and just sat, chewing his lip.

"So who's this girl anyway?"

@Zelosse

Belwyn city of Gangs

The club was roaring. The waves of people throbbing to the music, and rolling as though in deep waves. It was as difficult to get from one end of the Rose Garden, as it would be for a person to swim through drying cement. And yet, the small elf who timidly squirmed through the crowd kept his pace, even when he had to duck under a flying elbow, or momentarily join a thrashing collective. He finally managed to reach the entrance to the VIP section, and surprised the guard there by giving the correct password, despite his relatively inconspicuous appearance.

He quickly dashed up the stairs, out onto the sleek floor where the people were far more calmly drinking, chatting, and enjoying the relaxation only Madam Tarvona's club could provide. The elf made his way over to the entrance to the Madam's office, and knocked on the door. He had to meet the Madam, and the business he had to meet for was most urgent indeed. Despite the almost uncanny amount of average drabness the elf possessed, there was a hint of defiance in his bearing, as though he were the one who ought to be having lowly minions knocking on his door. Not that anybody would notice this, as it was awfully well-concealed.

---

A few hours earlier...

Yethel of the Steel Lance glowered as he listened in to the mic that his underling was wearing. He continued to frown deeply as he heard the sorts of things this upstart was saying behind the Founder's back. Some of which bordered on treasonous. The high elf sat back in the luxe leather seats in his limo, as his chauffeur drove them around the city in a semi-regular patrol pattern. An array of screens had emerged from the floor and ceiling and were reading out lists of datapoints for Yethel's perusal, but he wasn't heavily focused on the stats concerning the stock prices on Steel Lance-owned appliance companies, or how well the reception to the latest line of Steel Lance-backed fashion was.

Rather, Yethel was listening intently to the conversation transmitted wirelessly to him via an earpiece connected to a microphone that all of his men wore. He told none of them about it, naturally. Not even his high-ranking officers, especially not them. That would destroy their illusion of privacy, their ability to let their guard down and unknowingly tell Yethel how they really felt. And normally, the founder of the gang ignored the common gripes and complaints of his crew. After all, that was what it meant to work under an authority, to feel the oppressive weight of someone's will pressing on your own. However, the things that this particular officer were saying were actually causing Yethel to weigh whether he should hire out a hit on the elf. Totally un-connected to him of course, it would merely be an unfortunate accident. With propitious rewards for a very ambitious killer for hire. Namely, he'd "track" this goon down and kill him himself, destroying all evidence of any foul play. Though indeed, foul play in the criminal underworld was practically kosher.

However before he could pull up one of his burner cell-phones and arrange for a killer to receive a target, he heard a commotion over the com-line. After barely three minutes, there was nothing but silence, and the sound of boots crunching faintly on broken glass. Yethel sat, bemused that fate could bow to his whims so quickly. No, that wasn't the case. Although by no means a grave concern, somebody had laid a hit on his men. The Steel Lance had an enemy, who thought it stood a chance at bringing them to their knees. "We'll see about that," Yethel murmured, "Driver! Take me to this address!"

---

Yethel stood across the street, leaning against his limo, the driver patiently waiting in the parked car. He was completely invisible, as was his custom. As long as he maintained a reasonable amount of stillness, as when standing idle, he was completely see-through. Make a deliberate motion that disturbed the air, or take much more than a step in any direction, and his cloak of non-visibility evaporated. Of course, he kept the cloak up by force of habit, as much as due to the concern that he might be spotted. The limo would be a dead giveaway to anybody with half a brain in their skull that somebody important was dipping their fingers into this incident. That said, from what Yethel saw, the police were doing a fine job of mucking up the evidence, and generally obscuring any trail the killer might have left. If he didn't know better, and yet he did, he would conclude they were trying to sabotage the investigation.

No, the police were just that incompetent. Greedy too, considering a substantial percentage of his gross income was immediately set aside as dividends for the bastards. A secondary, even more substantial portion beyond the regular hush money was maintained in order to have hired men in the office itself, who could keep the other less malleable members in line. It hadn't taken long to slip his fingers into the police, but Yethel had certainly had his share of headaches keeping his grip on them. When the high elf felt he'd seen enough, he slipped back into the limo, and began conjuring a plan.

"Take me to the The Rose Garden."

@TheDarkTemplar @Spriggs27

Belwyn city of Gangs

Join the Steel Lance yeh bastards

Belwyn city of Gangs

Trayethell of the Steel Lance

Wielder of the Steel Lance

Appearance:

Name:

Trayethell "Yethel" Argentae

Age:

227 Years (Arrival in the Human World as as fully matured member of his race.)

Gender:

Male

Race:

High Elf

Personality: Highly conscientious, possessing the ability to manage and organize things to an almost robotic degree. Is terribly vain, but utterly hostile to those that try to flatter him. Demands perfection from everybody, most of all himself. Reviles ugliness, and has a personal dream of making the entire world beautiful, in his own image.

Pretends to greatness, but most of his bravado is sheathed in the veiled constructs he inhabits. Rarely allows others into his inner circle, and those whom he does allow must first be brought there at gunpoint. Has terrible trust issues, considering the past of the Steel Lance, and what he has gone through.

The calculating, analytical side of him dominates his personality, with the petty vain and emotional side surfacing in his private goals, and his deliberate mistrust of others. Is a very fragile being, emotionally, but cloaks his vulnerabilities in the coldest of steel.

Bio:

Writ small, Yethel founded the Steel Lance Elves alongside his brother Margus, in order to cohere the Elvish community on Belwyn. Founded mere years after their arrival on Earth, the Steel Lance quickly rose to prominence as a masterful gang of exploitative bastards.

However one day, the unthinkable happened. Margus tried to scam his brother, and Yethel saw through it. At such blatant betrayal, Yethel knew he would have to kill his brother. He couldn't bear to do it himself, and so he ordered some underlings to do the deed for him. Perhaps in the back of his mind, Yethel hoped that Margus would talk his way out of an execution, and escape to return someday. Either way, he has not seen his brother since, and would prefer to think him dead.

The day to day of the Steel Lances does not concern Yethel, whose organization runs with the smoothness of a well-oiled machine. Currently he is interested in a particularly ambitious scheme which would result in him being capable of extorting not only Belwyn, but the entire planet. Ambitions which could possibly carry Yethel's Steel Lances into a new age of prosperity, and finally free them from the prison that is Belwyn, that ugliest of Purgatories.

Gang affiliation or Other affiliations:

Co-Founder, Leader of the Steel Lance Elves Gang

Stuff:

Smartphone encrypted with all the records, activities, and means of controlling/communicating to the Steel Lances. Has three security levels, and is designed to self-destruct should the phone be tampered with.

Gentleman's Cane-gun, a long rifle hidden in Yethel's cane, which he obviously does not need to walk. Is military-grade, and Yethel's training with the weapon is equally dangerous. Can also be converted into an umbrella.

Full access to the resources and funds at the disposal of the Steel Lance gang.

A combat-proofed Italian suit, complete with bulletproofing, knife-proofing, and fire-retardation.

A twelve metre limousine, black, with all the amenities to hold a private conference while on the move. Naturally, also militarily reinforced.

Magic:

Static Invisibility (minor)

Charismatic Glamour (major)

Illusion Projection (minor)

Other:

Fine Wines

Fine Art

Fine Women

(All of which, make him the Finest of all.)

((Anything that makes him look better.))

Let's B!tch. I feel it's a healthy release for our roleplay annoyances 2.0

<Snipped quote by Kalleth>

No idea. I was not informed as to the why.

@Terminal

That sucks troll schlong....

Could we do something independent of the sub forum, just because it's fun? You've done some before in the past right? Is it a lot of work?

Let's B!tch. I feel it's a healthy release for our roleplay annoyances 2.0

What the hell, it's been three months. That's probably a sufficient waiting period.

The writing contest subforum is dead.

@Terminal

Son of a bitch.

Why?

I wanted to do more of that, damn it.

Belwyn city of Gangs

Completed and ready for review!

Trayethell of the Steel Lance

Wielder of the Steel Lance

Appearance:

Name:

Trayethell "Yethel" Argentae

Age:

227 Years (Arrival in the Human World as as fully matured member of his race.)

Gender:

Male

Race:

High Elf

Personality: Highly conscientious, possessing the ability to manage and organize things to an almost robotic degree. Is terribly vain, but utterly hostile to those that try to flatter him. Demands perfection from everybody, most of all himself. Reviles ugliness, and has a personal dream of making the entire world beautiful, in his own image.

Pretends to greatness, but most of his bravado is sheathed in the veiled constructs he inhabits. Rarely allows others into his inner circle, and those whom he does allow must first be brought there at gunpoint. Has terrible trust issues, considering the past of the Steel Lance, and what he has gone through.

The calculating, analytical side of him dominates his personality, with the petty vain and emotional side surfacing in his private goals, and his deliberate mistrust of others. Is a very fragile being, emotionally, but cloaks his vulnerabilities in the coldest of steel.

Bio:

Writ small, Yethel founded the Steel Lance Elves alongside his brother Margus, in order to cohere the Elvish community on Belwyn. Founded mere years after their arrival on Earth, the Steel Lance quickly rose to prominence as a masterful gang of exploitative bastards.

However one day, the unthinkable happened. Margus tried to scam his brother, and Yethel saw through it. At such blatant betrayal, Yethel knew he would have to kill his brother. He couldn't bear to do it himself, and so he ordered some underlings to do the deed for him. Perhaps in the back of his mind, Yethel hoped that Margus would talk his way out of an execution, and escape to return someday. Either way, he has not seen his brother since, and would prefer to think him dead.

The day to day of the Steel Lances does not concern Yethel, whose organization runs with the smoothness of a well-oiled machine. Currently he is interested in a particularly ambitious scheme which would result in him being capable of extorting not only Belwyn, but the entire planet. Ambitions which could possibly carry Yethel's Steel Lances into a new age of prosperity, and finally free them from the prison that is Belwyn, that ugliest of Purgatories.

Gang affiliation or Other affiliations:

Co-Founder, Leader of the Steel Lance Elves Gang

Stuff:

Smartphone encrypted with all the records, activities, and means of controlling/communicating to the Steel Lances. Has three security levels, and is designed to self-destruct should the phone be tampered with.

Gentleman's Cane-gun, a long rifle hidden in Yethel's cane, which he obviously does not need to walk. Is military-grade, and Yethel's training with the weapon is equally dangerous. Can also be converted into an umbrella.

Full access to the resources and funds at the disposal of the Steel Lance gang.

A combat-proofed Italian suit, complete with bulletproofing, knife-proofing, and fire-retardation.

A twelve metre limousine, black, with all the amenities to hold a private conference while on the move. Naturally, also militarily reinforced.

Magic:

Static Invisibility (minor)

Charismatic Glamour (major)

Illusion Projection (minor)

Other:

Fine Wines

Fine Art

Fine Women

(All of which, make him the Finest of all.)

((Anything that makes him look better.))

Closed

@Zelosse

When the door was thrown open and Felix came out swinging, Jordan was less than surprised. What did surprise him, was that the boy still looked as though he'd just gotten clear of a war zone. Why hasn't he changed into clean and untorn clothing? Jordan hoped that the kid wasn't eternally pissed off just because he didn't have enough clothes. He could fix that problem in an instant.

Oh yeah, and Felix had thrown a real haymaker at Jordan's face. The kid's inexperience with earth elementalists was clear, or maybe just masters of earth elementalism, because he didn't have anything on his fist as he swung it. But of course, it was second nature to Manilow at this point, that advanced technique where an earth elementalist hardens themselves like the stone and minerals that they can control utterly.

Punching Jordan's face while it was like this would be like punching a brick wall. Furthermore, Manilow gave no ground, and his head remained locked in place right where he'd left it. Basic training, for an elementalist like himself, had involved being punched repeatedly in the face by a man wearing steel knuckles until he no longer let the punch move him.

When the punch connected, Jordan realized his instinctive reaction was a mistake, and quickly softened himself and jerked backward, hoping the kid's hand wasn't broken. He hadn't seen those bloody knuckles before. Had he done that?

"Shit kid, I thought you wanted to do this with steel," Jordan said, hefting his fencing foil. "And do you need some clothes? I've got plenty of old training outfits down at the gym. Old, but clean. And mostly intact."

Mistborn (Era 1 or 2)

I've read every published cosmere story of Brandon's, except for Bands of Mourning, and I've read some of his unpublished stuff. I'm a Sanderfan, but not a superfan. I haven't read the Steelheart stuff, or the Rithmatist, or the Alcatraz novels.

Here's my working Character Concept;

Name: Stanley Tarfinger
Appearance: Jeffrey Dean Morgan
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Allomantic or Feruchemical ability and type: Suppressor "Blindfighter" Twinborn; Burns Pewter, Stores Tinminds
Role: Railway Magnate (Skaa/Noble)
Background: Stanley rose up through the ranks of a rail company, because of his uncanny ability to manage people, all while managing to somehow keep up with incomparable quotas. Despite having little to no connections at the beginning of his career, Stanley is considered a rising star on the noble stage, and is currently looking to marry into a noble family. He especially has his eye on the Lekal Family, considering their lucrative railroad connections. Also, while definitely not something that is in the public sphere of knowledge, Stanley runs a underground fighting ring where it is rumored that the victor of one hundred consecutive bouts is given the right to challenge the proprietor for primary shares in his company. As far as anybody in the already small circle knows, Stanley has yet to be challenged by a fighter of the necessary caliber.