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2 yrs ago
Current I want to see things - that no one else can see
2 yrs ago
I'll judge you with my Stand! 「Greased Lightning」!
2 yrs ago
At maximum overbork
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2 yrs ago
Are you tired of peel, peel, peeling potatoes? Stop!
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2 yrs ago
You are the ocean's gray waves, destined to seek life beyond the shore just out of reach. Yet the waters ever change, flowing like time. The path is yours to climb.
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Bio

I am currently managing the Crucible, an extradimensional tournament with a unique combat system, and have managed several Dungeon Keepers roleplays in the past along with a RWBY RP I left in more capable hands. Forgive me for melodrama as I say: I can't promise I'm a good man, but I'll do the best I can.

Most Recent Posts

Fuchigami Momoko


Try as it might, the rays of early sunlight could not rouse the bedraggled woman asleep from her straw bed. The landlady from whom she rented a night's rest indoors, anxious to have the last guest out of the house, had checked in several times. Initially it had taken some self-convincing that her temporary tenant was alive at all, but no, she was just asleep, albeit the deepest, most oblivious slumber the landlady had ever seen. The state the woman had been in when she arrived explained why, but after a time -when it became clear the sun and birdsong would not be sufficient- the landlady lost her patience.

Entering the room, she laid her hand on the sleeping woman's shoulder, and when that provoked no response began to shake. Only when the landlady joined her wake-up call to the shaking did the other woman begin to stir. Her eyelids slid open to reveal strange, pale irises that stared dully around the room, her vision bleary and indistinct. “Please wake up, miss!” The landlady was saying. “I am sorry, but you have to go! I need the room for the day! I'll give you ten minutes to get up and out.” With a final prod, she turned and vacated the room, leaving Momoko to wonder who she was, where she was, and how she got here.

Oh, yeah...

She sat up against the wall, rubbing her eyes. Bit by bit, the details got back to her. Five days ago she had been minding her own business, half-drunk and wistfully watching the festivities. A spell of spiritual peace had overtaken the area as of late, and money had grown short, though her spending habits were more than likely just as much to blame. The next day, she knew, she would have had to choose between food and lodging, meaning another miserable night nestled against a tree. Out of the blue, however, a messenger had appeared. An ordinary boozer would not have been able to converse with the stranger, much less read the scroll he proffered, but Momoko was no ordinary boozer. In a matter of moments she'd digested what the message had to say and told its courier that she agreed to its proposition, then pocketed the promised gold. After that, the festival days had been very enjoyable indeed, though Momoko found herself able to recall precious little of it.

Shrugging off the stupor that still clung to her, she rose from her bed and dressed herself. A look through the shutters revealed a port town, not too shabby but by no means upscale, which meant she'd managed to reach her destination. Good... she concluded, relieved, and she went to dress herself. As ferocious as her binges might be, she paid special attention to her kimono, since it was not only her favorite but also part of her popular image, so she was glad to confirm no more than the odd wine stain as she slipped it on. From there, she fingered through her satchel to find her comb, then used it to tidy up her hair. It's getting pretty long, she mused, though she wasn't thinking of cutting it, since it posed no real issue. She knew she'd been drinking last night, not as much through memory or deduction as self-knowledge, but nary an ache troubled her head. In fact, despite the cheap lodging, she felt pretty good.

Her eyes widened, and she searched through the satchel again. As the second passed, her mouth turned into a disbelieving smile. “No way I spent it all...whole gold bar's wortha cash...” At the bottom, she turned up a handful of coins, and sighed. Better than she would have thought, but worse than she would have hoped. After putting her things away, including the basin and pipe she'd hidden under her bed, she stood up to straighten herself out.

A knock at the door made her jump, yelping in surprise. “It's been ten minutes! Get out of my house!” Sheepishly, Momoko finished tying her belt, put on her sandals, and slunk past the disapproving landlady out the front door.

Once back on the road, she looked left, then right. Wonder if there's anywhere for breakfast. She glanced at the basin dangling from her satchel-strap. “Ah, who am I kiddin'. Got breakfast right here.” Undoing the latch with a single, practiced motion borne of extreme familiarity, she lifted the bowl to her lips. By the time it got there, it had a few cups' worth of plum wine in it, and she drank the lot in less than a second. She licked her lips, a tingling sensation running through her mind, and exhaled. Good thing I don't get tired of that taste, huh? A second drink came to pass while she tried to remember where to go, then gave up and fetched the letter to reread. “Silver crescent,” she murmured aloud before returning the basin to its strap. The end of the summons bade her look at the sky, where the sun was moments away from leaving the horizon behind, and she gave another sigh. “Hope they don't mind...me bein' a little late.” With as much of a spring in her step as she could muster, she hurried down the road.
Things are going well. I'll have a post coming before long, and I anxiously await the others'.
With calculating eyes the Margrave watched as the heroes and villains began their fight. Around him the chaotic tumult roared, but he remained firm, standing like a lone bastion upon a mountain peak until an invader threatened his domain. How exactly the Rocker mistook his new fan for himself when he himself stood not only near but also in front of her, the Margrave could not imagine, but it was hardly the cur's last mistake. The vagabond stretched his arms out to the side like a child pretended to be a helicopter, his unwieldy, top-heavy weapon -dual wielded like an absolute tool- straining his arms to even be kept at such an angle, then executed a pincer attack from either side aimed at the little girl.

The pickaxes' metal heads never struck their intended target. A grin of dark delight upon his face, the Margrave lobbed his baseball bat upward, then took a quick step forward with his forearms held out and up like goalposts to block. He intercepted the pickaxes' harmless shafts with those forearms, and the instant he made contact the crude weapons began to shrink. Baffled as to where this dashing interloper had appeared from, and what exactly he did to his weapons, the Rocker reeled back for a brutal headbutt, but the Margrave was at the ready. "You FOOL!" Though his arms ached from the initial impact of the former pickaxes' wooden grips, he had no trouble popping the thug in the face with his fists, one after another. Stunned for a split second—it was more than enough.

Slipping his scarf off, the antihero strafed behind his adversary, made a loop, then wound it around the Rocker's neck. The next moment he recovered and began to struggle, threatening to hurl the smaller, more fascinating man to the stone-strewn floor, but the Margrave's talent was already at work. "Wriggle if you like!" he sneered. "You are already done for." His scarf began to tighten and harden, squeezing the man's throat as it tried to turn toy, and after only a few seconds the hapless goon blacked out.

The Margrave yanked his scarf off and replaced it around his neck, then like a showman offered a bow to the slack-jawed child who'd just witnessed her hero at work. “Have no fear, little miss; much more dire enemies have tried. Let's get you out of here. As much as he wanted to reduce Ceramix's golem to a collectible figurine, there were other heroes on the case, and the civilians needed shepherding. With a parting glance at the action, he placed a hand on the kid's shoulder and began to escort her out. Any other people he met on the way to the main exit, hiding or trapped, he hurried to help.
Seeing all the interest and activity has got me pumped. I hope you find this character acceptable!


This looks very interesting! I'm already brainstorming a potential Monk.
Azura
Level 2
Day 3
Location: The Land of Skyrim
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||| (4/20)
Word Count: 506


Whispered words sifted through the night, filtering into the tent and into the dreamless sleep of the woman in white. At first Azura took them to be figments of her imagination, or mistaken whistles of a wandering wind, but the more she ruminated upon them the realer they seemed, until she could have sworn some mysterious visitor was beckoning to her from beyond the flaps of the tent. Yet, at the same time she knew her caller to be neither conjuration of the night nor hidden stranger. Earlier in the day she heard that voice, and soonafter had she heard it denied to her. This voice came from far away and from on high, neither malicious nor enigmatic, but rather like a grandfather calling his grandchild to an important talk.

“The Greybeards,” she breathed, eyes blinking open. Finding herself plagued by stiffness when she tried to move, she rolled her neck and stretched her muscles with gritted teeth until the soreness passed, and stood. In a moment she stood outside, staring into the night. Her thought did not lay upon the dreariness of her habitation or the less-than-pleasant company she kept, but upon the distant summit silhouetted against the moon. Dim visions of stone walls and arches, bathed in snow and awash in wind, slipped through her mind, and with a shiver she wondered if this was a dream after all.

But her surreal fixation on the call did not abate. Danger waited out in the darkness, and more noises than the biting breeze interrupted the night's tranquility, but she had been chosen. Lance in hand, she made her wait through the camp, a silent white wraith in the torchlit dark. When she reached the walled camp's perimeter, she slunk toward the wooden wall away from the nearest brazier, for she saw several figures standing guard. They were talking in low tones, she realized, and after a short time one moved away on patrol, leaving the other behind to stare out into the night. The remaining sentinel's silhouette struck Azura as familiar, and after a few moments she came to a conclusion and approached.

”Captain Piper,” she began, her voice soft. ”I should have expected you here. I must confess that I do not have much knowledge of beings such as you, but the magical constructs of my world have no need of things like food or sleep.” She fell silent for a time, then leveled the tip of her Blessed Lance at the mountain not too far off. ”A short time ago, I was called again. They called me 'the chosen one'. I feel...like I have to go there. Not rational, but a sort of...deep-seated urge.” She gave the machine a slight, rather woebegone smile. ”I am glad it is you that I met here. You will not, I don't think, try to stop me. If you are especially charitable, I would be grateful for accompaniment as well, but I ask nothing more than your leave.” Azura offered a bowed head as if begging permission.
When traveling, one tended to take advantage of local events to get a good grasp of the culture. For his part, Harold felt that he knew the culture plenty well already, and that it did not become of a member of society's upper strata to spectate glorified blood sports, but he couldn't deny that a tinge of wonder nibbled at him. How barbaric could those of Kheris' dominion possibly be? If nothing else, he wanted to satisfy that morbid curiosity.

An obvious foreigner with his complexion and clothing, he drew his fair share of stares as he wound his way through the excited throng, searching for a lofty place to call his own within the colosseum seating. A number of the people he squeezed past treated him none too gently or considerately; were it not for his frame and awareness, he suspected with a dry smile that he might be bearing several bruised ribs already. Having reached the upper perimeter, he banished the idea of making his way any higher and contented himself with leaning on the low wall, figuring he would not remain long.

Sure enough, the two fighters in the great ring tore one another to pieces before long. One stood victorious, but what was victory to a slave? A mere continuation of suffering, Harold supposed. His attention shifted to a twinge of movement in the royal box, and into a position of prominence strutted nothing less than the sovereign himself. “So that is Kheris,” he murmured, his disdain voiced in such a way that the average man wouldn't realize. “A god made flesh.” Kheris unleashed his vaunted voice, impossibly making his everyday tone heard in every seat in the arena. The smallfolk, hearing their emperor, might be touched by his appealing words, but having seen his fair share of politics Harold felt he could see right through them. “He has charisma, I'll give him that...” Aware of the rising drums, he listened with an amused smile as Kheris promised a battle of demons -the condemnation his government applied to Evokers, more than likely as an act of suppression against any potential challengers- with redemption on the line. Not a chance. The show must go on, and any danger must be stomped out. More than before, he felt justified in his choice earlier that day leaving the Standard leaning against the wall in his inn room like the walking stick it was supposed to be. Overhead, the sky had grown dark, and a sudden bolt from the cloud made him jump in surprise. Irked, he crossed his arms and watched as gladiators spilled from the dark to drench the sand in blood.

I've just about seen enough for this cultural experience. Though perhaps I should stay and see if I could learn anything. Pushing off from the low wall, he cast about to find a place to sit. Whether or not he liked it, things were happening here today, and it wouldn't pay for a man on a mission to let personal taste get in the way of his objective.
Slayer
Level 5 || Day 3 || King Boo's Castle
@Zarkun @Majoras End @Tenma Tendo @ONL
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (20/50)
Word count: 520


A warm smile overcame Slayer as Heavy expressed his gratitude, prompting him to repay the large man in kind. ”I am delighted to hear it!” Akira, meanwhile, managed without his help. In fact, the young man ended up putting on a display of both alacrity and altruism as he helped ferry little Six across the gap. Though so far things seemed to be going well, the task at hand was hardly over. One at a time the team of heroes made its way across the platform-profuse void, and while progress came slowly, no difficulties presented themselves until -upon reaching the yawning pit's far side- a new menace arose. Turning up his nose, Slayer took note of the specters' more nebulous coloration, and of the fierce glint in their eyes. He did not expect one to start talking, but took it in stride when it did, first badmouthing its more reticent forebears and then promising a tougher obstacle. Even before the Dark Boo finished his challenge, the group could guess that their first real foes lay before them. Slayer did not miss that the Dark Boo's words seemed to imply that King Boo would not be far away.

Violet flames flared to life, illuminating the eerie paintings that lined either wall, their subjects' pallid faces contorted by the unnatural light into twisted, wicked leers. Unlit candle sconces stood against the walls, and cobwebs clung to every corner. Behind the heroes remained the abyss they just crossed, a lingering threat preventing retreat. Slayer did not think, however, that they intended to. The otherworldly flames flooded forward, but the vampire did not flinch. Though no pyromancer, he knew well certain sepulchral flames of purple and fuchsia, for they radiated from his stronger attacks as a mere side-effect. He stood tall and, when the time came lashed out with a great revolving kick whose own burst of displaced air and ghostly fire carved an arc through the onrushing wall. While simply teleporting at the right time did occur to him, he figured that his allies might be less prepared to deal with such an assault than he, and thus resolved to protect them as best he could.

Whether or not he volley of flames washed over him, Slayer took a brief moment to consider his enemies. Though not very threatening, and more like mischievous entities than vengeful spirits of the departed, these Boos did seem to be ghosts and function as such. While his flames might ward them off, they were after all nothing more than accentuating byproducts of his physical attacks, so neither they nor said attacks really be used offensively. Fearsome as Heavy's minigun was, the gentleman did not anticipate his comrade being able to do much, either. Six, who he assumed to still be holding on to Akira's back, looked to be at a disadvantage as well—how could one drain the life of one who harbored none to begin with? Akira might, he reflected, end up being the star of this little episode. Nevertheless, he raised his hands in boxing stance, preparing to retaliate against the boos as best he could.
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