Lemons

Lem's Stash

Character sheets, post drafts, etc. etc. etc.

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

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"We shouldn't need to have a job from Pris to talk with them," Alja huffed out. "You've heard everything that's going on. Wayfarers aren't the most well-liked group right now, so the more of us there are, the better chance we have to make it right. Keeping a line of communication open is a lot easier than reopening a broken one." She walked up to the door, hesitating in front of it.

If she was honest, she was scared of going into Mystic Prophecy herself. Every time she'd been in this guild hall before, it had been like a home. Now, as the silence yawned, it felt more like a tomb. But there was no point in running away. Kazuki was only half the reason she'd been so insistent on coming here. There were people here that she liked, like Pris. People she borderline needed, like Leaves. And somewhere back there was Luci, surviving on anger and spite. Maybe, just like after Arnaakus, she couldn't do anything to help her. But, just like after Arnaakus, damn sure she was going to try. Rael and Benkei could could come if they wanted; she rather hoped they would. But Kazuki wasn't getting out of here without going in. He might have visited Prophecy post-glitch before. He might not have; she wasn't sure. But if he had, then it hadn't. Been. Enough.

So she couldn't give him an out. She couldn't give him any way to avoid this, or else it would never happen. He might hate her after this. That was fine. He could hate her all he liked. But she knew very well what desperate guilt gone unaddressed turned into, and she wasn't keen on turning him over to it.

She turned to the three behind her, judging the distance from her to Kazuki. "Come if you're comin', we don't have all day!"

Then, with one swift motion, she yanked the door open, snatched Kazuki's wrist, and pulled him inside with her.

Pariah Online: A Voyage into the Intangible Aether

Lol

@Supermaxx

I still haven't forgiven you for this
And I never will

Septima Strikers (Super Powers/Social Turmoil) [High Casual] [Gunvolt]

Kana whirled around at the sounds of a scuffle, awareness ratcheted up as high as it could go. A man with an accent yelling. The sound of harpoons striking the walls. And a very, very faint noise that she couldn't quite parse, but reminded her of violence all the same. She closed her eyes tightly.

There are so many better things to worry about right now. There could be something very bad happening down with the engine. You could go up like you planned and deal with the leader. Can you really afford the time to go help whatever's going on?

Before the thought had even finished, she knew the answer. Not a chance she was going to stand there as more people got hurt. Not when she could do something about it. Damn everything else, she'd been 'gifted' with these goddamn legs; might as well use them for good for once. She took a long, calming breath. I didn't want to hurt anyone tonight. I really didn't. But just because they started the fight doesn't mean I can't end it. It's different this time. You're helping people. The breath heaved out. Eyes still closed, "Keep going towards the engine room. I'll catch up with you soon." For just a moment, she was very grateful that she was wearing her mask.

Her eyes snapped open, and she blasted towards the fight, Edgedancer surging out of her at its full strength. In the space between heartbeats, the calm and slightly wobbling tink of her footsteps was replaced with the shrieking sound of metal crashing into metal at high speed as she blazed down the narrow corridor. The world moved in slow motion around her, and the sound of fighting came into clear focus. A distant corner of her brain hissed in dissatisfaction at the British man. You're making too much noise. Just asking to get hurt. Shut up. She wanted to hate him for being in such a place that she needed to do this. She wanted to find a vessel for her pent-up anger and frustration. Someone that she could blame, and blame harmlessly. But she couldn't bring herself to hate him. He was stuck here like everyone else. Nobody was making her do this but her.

A corner in the hallway loomed ahead of her; sounded like whatever was going on was just around it. Even if she wanted to, she didn't have the time or space to slow down. So instead she sped up as much as she could. And jumped.

She struck the wall, and with all the speed and power that her Septima brought her, she kicked it. With one more jagged, metallic screech, she launched herself forward and twisted in midair, whizzing past the Englishman and a...man? Woman?...person in a haori, of all things—and aiming a flying scissor kick at the closest frogman.

And, as all her pent-up frustration boiled over—her quiet time ruined, her guards off, her legs being used against a human being again—she axed downwards at him with a furious scream.

Steal Away The Light

_______________________________________________ // INFO P E R S O N A L D E T A I L S Full Name - Quinnlash Loughvein (Don't call her Quinn. She hates that.) Age - 28 Gender - Female Vocation - Caster Nationality - Midnos // PERSONALITY P E R S O N A L I T Y Emotional Quinnlash is boiling with emotion. Even if she could bottle it up anymore, she wouldn't, and it flows freely out of her. Most of her emotions are...less than charitable much of the time, but she has a greater range than that, certainly. While uncommon, it's not impossible to see a wide smile on her face after a stressful situation has resolved in her favor. Most of the time, though, it's anger. Lots of anger. Reckless Just like emotions, Quinnlash boils with energy. She has issues with thinking things through. Exacerbated by her emotional nature, it's all too common for her to shoot first and ask questions later, or to run headlong into certain and overwhelming danger. She does put a bit of thought into controlling this impulse, but it's always there, and usually controls her instead. Critical A vestigial remnant of an ignored past, Quinnlash is very critical, both of herself and others. While this can be useful, as she never throws around criticism unless she means it, it's often misunderstood. Her often hostile emotions can conspire to make genuinely constructive criticism sound a whole lot like "just be better." // GIFT G I F T Soul Ablaze The burning soul-ember that Quinnlash received erupted against her innate pyromancy. When the two settled, she found that in the process, her magic had become unstable and volatile, allowed her to break pieces of her soul off and wield them. Though each one created reduces how long her magic can last, these fragments become flames that never fade, never waver, never die, until the magic within them burns out and returns to her. They can be reabsorbed at will, restoring her splintered soul with a flash of light from her eye; or fed from her magic, renewing them ad infinitum. Notably, her soul does not immediately mend itself when she reabsorbs a soul flame. It takes some time for it to fully rejoin. Still, nobody else can fracture their own soul this way. Nobody but Quinnlash. This is her Gift. // EQUIPMENT E Q U I P M E N T Undying Light Quinnlash's weapon of choice against the Void is an enormous rifle-cannon. Created with one of her broken-off soul flames at its core, she can stoke it until it destabilizes and erupts, raging at its constraints until the trigger is pulled. When it is, the magic is released, launching an explosive barrage of scorching fire from the barrel. It takes time for Quinnlash to feed the fire to its fullest extent, but when the furnace is fully stoked, Undying Light is a force of nature and a sight to behold.

Physical Description A woman of perhaps 5'5" with an extremely average build, Quinnlash can melt into a crowd of people with relative ease as long as she pulls a hood over her head. Not only imbued with a pyromancer's ember but a pyromancer herself, her single eye gleams with a brilliant yellow light. Her hair is very long, kept in a tight braid that trails down her back. Though most if it is the dark gray it always was, bits and pieces of the fringes around her face have begun to bleed the same vivid hue as her eye. While her body certainly isn't unfit by any stretch, it's not to the same standards that many other Hunters have trained to. Her tendency to keep her distance means that much of her evasive skills in combat rely on creating space between her and enemies as fast as she can. She's nimble enough, of course, needs to be in order to avoid being struck by any return fire, but not very strong. The most obvious place to see this is in her musculature. It is very apparent that she's not a frontline fighter by any means. What she lacks in strength, though, she makes up for in consistency. Though her muscles aren't overly strong, they are filled with a seemingly unnatural endurance and surefootedness even for a hunter. Bought and paid for with each backwards step taken while lining up a shot, that manifests in confident and easy movement, even in the most perilous situation. She wears long, baggy, thick clothes with many layers, worn and tattered by now, as she travels. She no longer feels the cold now, heated as she is with an ember from deep inside. But deep within her, in a part that she despises, there is a fear that one day, she will lose what makes her human. That perhaps she already has. That her soul, already so fragile, will shatter like a pane of glass, and she'll lose something very, very important. Character Conceptualization Quinnlash was a scholar once. A books-in-a-library-in-Midnos, dyed-in-the-wool scholar. She'd been raised to be one her entire life. Ever since she could read, her parents—both reputable scholars themselves—had inundated her, drowned her, with diagrams, carvings, and so many books. Some as heavy as she was and varying widely in topic, the only way for her to keep her head above water was to swim. And swim she did, meekly accepting her parents' demands and doing her work, kept totally isolated in her room within the small but lavish house in the capital of Midnos. She grew very knowledgeable for her age as she simply read. Not that she could understand most of what was in the books. But what else was she to do? With nothing else around her, all the time she could ever want, and the only two people in her world constantly telling her to study at such a young age, what could she do but eat, sleep, and read? She didn't want to go outside. Her parents told her that it was dark. It was dark, and scary, and filled with things that wanted to hurt you. Best to just stay inside studying, right? She could go outside when she was older. But when she was seven, she was allowed to leave the house. Just once, with her father close beside her. She clung tightly to him, looking fearfully at the dark world, as he took her to see a strange woman. The two of them spoke seriously in low voices for some time. What little she could hear, she didn't understand. Words like "magical affinity," "innate talent," "potential for phenomenal things." She had no idea what was going on, and flinched away, clutching to her father's clothing, when the woman reached her glowing hand out to her. She averted her pale violet eyes from her and closed them tightly, terrified. But no touch came, only a faint warmth that soon faded entirely. She opened her eyes in time to see the woman nod gravely at her father and then turn to walk towards her. And no matter how Quinnlash struggled, no matter how she screamed or cried—the pyromancer took her. The last things she ever heard from her family were two words from her father, as she tearfully begged him to take her back home with mama, please, whatever she did she was sorry, she'd be a good girl from now on, she'd never ask to go outside again: "Goodbye, Quinn." From then on, she studied different topics, in different ways. How to conjure flame. How to use it to defend yourself. How to exercise fine control over it. How to channel it for sustained periods. The work was grueling—mentally and physically exhausting. Months bled into years and years bled together, as she studied and trained as a pyromancer, first from a small group of skilled pyromancers and then—as her prodigal once-in-a-generation skill became apparent—by Ezlineia Aldos, the Pyromancer-Queen of Midnos, whom she became very close to. She even started calling her Mom. Still, the habits ingrained into her by her parents held. Whenever she had time to spare, little enough of it thought there was, she would plod her way into Ezlineia’s library and find the book that Ezlineia told her to sink her brain into to distract her from the crippling fear she felt of the outside world. In reference tomes and manuals of pyromancy, the world was categorized. Understandable. Dissected. But whenever she stepped outside, it all bled together into a mess of darkness and confusion that she fled from time and again. She'd heard the stories of the Void. She'd heard tales about what lurked out there in the darkness. And she was, as ever, afraid. So she buried herself with scholarship and training, distracting herself from the terrifying world around her. She was a perfect piece of moldable clay: quiet, meek, obedient, desperate to be loved, and hopelessly eager to please. Time ticked by, revealing Quinnlash, now a very powerful—if very inexperienced—pyromancer of 24 years, still lurking in Ezlineia’s libraries, reading about the world that she was ever and always too scared to explore, even past her doorway. There was a hidden, growing part of her that wanted, that desperately yearned, to see what was out there. But it was crushed beneath something far more meaningful that had bubbled up beneath her of late. Studies had been done in Midnos on how to fight the Void. How to resist their corruptive influence. She should know, she’'d read them all. But nothing she'd ever found in her mentor’s library knew what they were. And with that realization, the deep-rooted anger reared its head. She had been shut up her entire life, first of her parents' will, then Ezlineia’s, then her own. And now, 24 years into her life, what did she have to show for it? An exhausting fear. A horrible feeling of being trapped. And not a fragment of new knowledge to contribute to anything. She knew how to wield fire, but what did that matter if she didn’t even know what she was fighting? Angry. Angry. Angry. Angry at the entire world. But she didn't let it out. She couldn't let it out. She closed in again. And she let it fester. It simmered beneath her for a year and a half, during which time she grew increasingly desperate to find out more about the Void. To find out something, anything, about the Void. A way to justify to herself the decades spent in isolation. But she never did. And nearing the tail end of her twenty-fifth year, the caldera of rage had swollen within her, growing more and more misplaced tremors of anger. Anger at her parents, who locked her in one room for years, and instilled deep within her the fear of the unknown that still dogged her feet. Anger at that damned pyromancer Elan for taking her away from her family when she was scarcely old enough to understand what was happening. Anger at Ezlineia, for her obsessed devotion to training her to become the next Queen. But most of all? Most of all, she was so furious it made her sick to her stomach at herself. If all the Midnosian studies on the Void were useless, what was she? Hiding in the library walls, never daring to take more than a few steps outside? Her whole life...what did any of it mean? No more. No more calculating decisions for weeks before taking a single action. No more staring silently at the ceiling, unable to sleep, eyes fearfully darting about the room for hours. No more suppressing her emotions, crushing them down until they boiled her alive. No more books. No more. No more useless scholarship. No more being groomed to take the throne by Ezlineia. After all, a queenship was just another, shinier cage. Never again. No more. She needed to leave this place. To escape. To throw herself into something else, something so singular and savage that she could only ever think of it. Her brain screamed for it. The caldera burst. The volcano erupted. With barely a conscious thought, she found herself strapped to a table as a willing volunteer, with Mom standing above her. "Are you really sure you want to do this, Quinnlash?" "Fucking yes! Hurry up already! The Queen sighed almost mournfully. And then came the pain. Her pyromancy warred with the ember growing within her, violently rejecting this foreign flame. Her skin peeled off and regrew. Her blood seethed and boiled. Her muscles were shredded, rebuilt, and shredded again. She vaguely remembers her bones snapping like brittle burnt twigs under their own weight. And her eyes incandesced, searing themselves white hot and bubbling within her skull. One of them ran out of her face, dripping like magma to the floor and collecting in a smoking, ruined pool. Only the other made it through the transformation from scholar to something far more dangerous, and it was forever dyed with a baleful yellow light. In the years since, she's changed so much from the her that hid from the world that she doesn't even recognize what she was anymore. She's a different person now. The life of a Huntress was one that she'd only come upon through reckless abandon and overpowering emotion—sheer blinding anger—and so that is who she became. She barely even remembers the old Quinnlash. The Quinnlash that she left behind. And for that she is thankful, as she embraces a new Quinnlash. The Quinnlash who fights the darkness. Who embraces the constant pain. Who does all she can to not feel fear. Because if she does, then the rest of her—the one she's tried so hard to forget—may come creeping back. Never again. Fight for the sake of fighting. Never again. Move on. Never again. Don't ever look back. Other Information TBD

Kōkyo | Anime Survival Horror RP [Interest Check]

It's going to be a bit before I can properly dig into a character, I've got some nerve damage to deal with. If it goes on too long, don't hesitate to move without me.

Kōkyo | Anime Survival Horror RP [Interest Check]

I, on the other hand, love the shit out of the classic zamboni no matter where. I'm into this tbh.

Gamblers of Vox Fortuna

Good lord, I love Mox so much
She senses the psychopathy

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

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As Pythia turned away, Etoile sagged back against the tree trunk in adrenaline-debt exhaustion. Her eyes slid shut, almost of their own volition, and a powerful vertigo overtook her. Only the rough back biting into her back grounded her, reminded her that she was still upright, that she was still there. She allowed herself a smile, then: a small, mirthless, bitter smile.

An injured wolf, hmm?

How apropos that was. A wolf—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—so wounded it could no longer hunt. Could no longer fend for itself. Abandoned by the pack to wither away to nothing. It had no illusions of recovery, no impossible dreams of hunting again. It knew that, without hunting, it was useless. It knew it was doomed the moment it had failed in its task. And yet still, it snapped slavering jaws at anything that came near it; a vain, broken guise to hide its desperation from the world.

An Inquisitor—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—on the run from her former comrades, all support stripped away. All of that power, gone. All of that privilege, gone. Smoke on the wind, blown away with a single gust. Forced now to make a life for herself on the road, never comfortable, never safe, never stopping long enough to do more than eat and sleep for a night. Acting like she could still wield something of her old power. Anything to do away with the fear that hung over her head like the sword of Judas.

And a woman—one that, once upon a time, was a fearsome force of nature—with no idea what to do anymore. Her life's work was gone. Her ideals were torn to shreds. They hung in tatters behind her as she struggled to make sense of what was happening all around her. She wanted her cool, quiet room back. Everything was happening far too quickly for her. Too much was going on. The strange sense of familiarity she'd felt behind Pythia on the barge. The mismatch of Lazulin's words and actions. Clara's cold, cautious glare after shoving her away. The slow, creeping unease that she felt every time Zestasia or Pagonia spoke of their home. The maleficarum that they'd fought. Anníbas on the barge. It was all far too much. Was it too much to ask to be allowed to stop and think?

She opened her eyes, staring up at the faint sunlight filtering through the massive Ifrise trees. Then, a moment later, she looked at Zestasia. Poor kid. He didn't deserve any of what had happened to him.

"...Zestasia." Her voice carried none of its usual harshness. It was distant; quiet, soft, and sad.

"I'm...sorry for what happened to you."

In Search of Gaea A Seafaring Fantasy Adventure (REBUILD)

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The Sharkfin, Top Deck | South Seas Ocean

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Slowly straightening from where she'd braced, Tella let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

She'd never seen anything like that before. Sure, she'd had lessons in storm sailing. Of course she had. But the storms in the Imperial Sea were tame squalls compared to the utter madness they'd just flown through. Hands shaking on the railing, she leaned over the gunwale, squinting at the storm that screamed behind them as her eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden bright sunlight. The thunder, though no longer deafening enough to crack the skies, was certainly still loud, and she could see the muted flash of lightning within the clouds every other second. Yet now the water was calm and placid as she'd ever seen it. Little waves rocked the boat gently as all the speed went out of it. She turned her head to follow the line of the storm. It really did ring the rock, didn't it? She sucked in a breath as she realized that, with no break, they were going to need to punch through it again to get out.

With a slow shake of the head and a resolution to not cross that bridge 'til it came to it, she left off her storm watch. Running her hands through her hair to try and get some of the rainwater out of it, she cracked her neck, then hurried to do as Captain Gale ordered. As she reached the stairs to the lower decks, she paused a moment with her hand on the door jamb and took a long, slow breath to calm her still-racing heart. Then she plunged down into the dark.

Still instinctually afraid of an officer berating her for moving too slowly, she nearly ran through the lower decks, only slowing when she arrived where their belongings were stored. With a careful hand, she unhooked her earring, placing it delicately beside her saber. Snatching up her rebreather, she gave it a few puffs to make sure it was clear before she hung it around her neck in prep. Her knife went on her belt next, slid around to the back. Never knew when you'd need to pry something open, cut an entangling rope or weed, or stab something that was giving you trouble. Giving everything one last once-over, she removed her low boots, shoving them in with the rest of her things and slipping on a pair of lightweight shoes much more suited to swimming. Wouldn't do to cut her feet down there, after all.

Then, with a sigh, she propped herself against the wall. Leaning her head back, she stared at the ceiling. It still didn't feel right. It still didn't feel natural for her to be here. She still didn't belong. She stuck out, and she knew it. She'd been working for divers—as a diver, she reminded herself—for two years. Mostly in Makrus as an acolyte, but two years nonetheless. But it still wasn't enough. Two years wasn't enough to clean the Imperial stink off. And perhaps no amount of time ever would be. In the brief quiet before the rest of the crew arrived to reclaim their things, punctuated only by the creaking of the wood and the gentle hum of the aether engine, she closed her eyes and muttered to herself: "What the hell is wrong with me?"