Lugubrious

Dungeon Keepers

Collab, huh? Never done that before. I think i'd be up for it...as soon as I figure out exactly how to do it. I assume we simply work on a single, big post together in PMs until one of us posts it?

Dungeon Keepers

If you want to be a human corrupted into a Keeper, perhaps I could help in that regard. Say your human was a strong-willed character in Virens, and I send my Keeper Clotho on another miscellaneous mission there. Your human discovers her and tries to stop her, and she injects him with mutagen. Rather than turning him into some grotesque abomination, his mutations react with his innate magic to transform him into your own design, awakening new abilities within him like the capacity to summon imps and imbue his energy into a Dungeon Heart. However, the transformation leaves him unconscious, and Clotho tosses him into Saploya river, which washes him downriver. Once he reawakens and makes his way to shore, he can start doing his own thing in the new area.

Just an idea.

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

Not at all.

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

For a split second Greg was silent, obviously aware of the person beside him but unsure how to react. He recognized this guy from school, but that wasn't to say the two were the best of friends. Doing his best to avoid any awkwardness, Greg slid his hand into Kanos and shook it limply, without sincerity. “Ah...yes, I think I know you,” he spoke carefully. What little Greg did know about Kano was limited to his some cursory knowledge and a lingering first impression: he was effeminate, joking, audacious, and had no small amount of disregard for personal space. He had also assumed he was gay, but naturally he had no proof. The reason they'd never spoken before was because Greg had avoided doing so. Despite his general hospitality and openness, in-your-face people with a flamboyant attitude rubbed him the wrong way--made him uncomfortable. Greg wasn't one to just give someone the cold shoulder, however. “Hate to disappoint but my hair's always been this blond.” He hoped that this Kano would take the subtle hint of dissociation. “Natural as the day is long.” Though his neutral tone masked it somewhat, Greg's Australian accent was pretty obvious in his speech.

-=-=-

Ironclad found his solemn trek suddenly interrupted by Scarlet Thorn. He knew this alter ego by reputation only, but that was more than enough for him. As he approached, the androgynous being's catlike, playful eyes and attempt at stealth were met with only an uncaring orange glare over his shoulder. Ironclad made no other acknowledgment of the other's presence than to follow it with his gaze. When Thorn spoke, Ironclad made no reply, though he stopped moving forward. It was the grabbing of his arm and the nauseating giggle that finally evoked a response. The blazing eyes narrowed, and for a second there was an almost inaudible grinding sound from within him.

A sharp, sudden scraping noise rang out into the trees as metal spikes and blades erupted from the grim alter ego's armor. At their touch, Scarlet Thorn was forced to recoil. Depending on how quickly Thorn moved out of Ironclad's cold embrace, he would suffer either minor piercings or full-on impalement. Immediately afterward, Ironclad took two steps back and planted his feet.

“I am, actually,” he intoned in a metallic drawl, warped by heavy accent, that resounded through the autumn woods. “A little freak that I can cut to little pieces.” The spikes all over his body slowly retracted back into their usual concealed positions, though the huge metal claws on his wrists swiveled forward into battle mode with a chuk-chik. “You want a fun time?” His tail cracked like a whip, and the scytheblade slammed into a cobblestone with a reverberating clang “Fine by me.” He crouched low to the ground, pantherlike, gathering himself, and leaped toward Scarlet Thorn with claws gleaming in the dappled sunlight. If Thorn didn't defend himself, Ironclad's strike could very well open him up from neck to navel.

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

Alrighty then.

Pokemon: The Spectre Conspiracy

At the mention of a battle, Jess perked up. Instantly she was afire. Zubat had been hers for only fifteen seconds, but already the duo was faced with a chance to show their mettle. First impressions were everything, after all. "Count me in!" she declared with a peppy smile, and she reached to to her cap to touch her new Pokemon. At first it recoiled from her touch, but when her finger landed between its ears and began to scratch, its mouth opened wide in a gesture of pleasure. "Whaddya say, little guy?", she crooned, and transitioned to rubbing its warm, fuzzy back with a thumb. "Think you're up for a fight?" The Zubat simply squeaked happily, distracted by its new trainer's petting. It released its grip on her hat and clung instead to Jess's palm, so she could scratch it with all four fingers at once. Jess sat back down at the table and continued, "Maybe I'' think up a proper name for you."

Her thoughts returned to battling, and for the first time she actually considered the prospect. What did trainers do in a battle? They stand behind their Pokemon, and...and...uh...call out moves, yeah. What moves, though? Jess inclined her head to the Professor, never relenting the scratching of her joyful Zubat. "Mrs. Apple, uh, is there some sort of way I can find out my buddy's moves, abilities, that sort of thing? Some kinda index, maybe?"

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

Ah, nutty, we were posting at the same time and so I missed your opportunity for social interaction. Good idea, though. I should have done something similar, but I guess there's still room for someone to potentially talk to Greg on the bus. I figure a blond Australian guy in Japan would make for an interesting person to chat with.

Living Reflection: A Psychological Alter Egos RP

Black hair, strewn over the cold, hard, fake wood desk...eyes half-open and glazed over, mouth ajar and leaking saliva...all of it hung as freshly in Gregor's head as if he was still seeing it. It was an image, painted in his mind's eye and maintained their by his concern. He couldn't fathom why a girl would just go limp and slip into unbreakable unconsciousness out of the blue. Sure, she'd been a little off-kilter as of late, but what high school student wasn't on edge at this time of the year? Greg had convinced himself that it was simply some heart condition, probably genetic in origin. Now to think of it, he'd read a dozen articles on some website or another detailing the very same phenomenon, probably. To some degree Greg knew he was trying to reassure himself that all was well, but he was also aware that in traumatic time a level head is a must. No use obsessing after all--if he couldn't do anything, why worry? Still, Greg couldn't forget the haunting image of his friend suddenly and inexplicably silenced.

As the bus ran over a bump in the road, Greg's reverie vaporized and he was simply another kid on the way home from school. He shifted in his seat, trying to forget his mental discomfort by seeking more physical discomfort. Naturally, no amount of fidgeting could rid him of the number-one issue plaguing him: the cold. Ever since he came to Japan the generally cooler weather perturbed him, especially since he loved the heat. Back in Australia as a little kid he would be outside playing on days that any reasonable human being would panting in front of an air conditioner. And so, despite his fleecy jacket, Greg King was chilly. Another fifteen minutes remained on the bus ride (more due to traffic than distance) and so he'd have a while to shiver. Since his seat was empty but for him, he had the rare opportunity to stretch out. "Aah," he sighed, finally settling in.

-=-=-

They were watching, but the warrior wasn't afraid. He walked alone through a forested path, spattered with dappled sunlight leaking through the foliage. To either side of the faintly cobbled autumn road, however, the sunbeams did not penetrate, and it was there that the monsters lurked. Ironclad took his time, moving with deep, measured strides, almost mechanically. Only his tail belied that he was no automaton; it twitched back and forth, sweeping across the bright, fallen leaves and gritty cobblestones. Every now and then the little scythe blade on the lash's tip would drag across one of the stones and gouge it, making a slight grinding noise and scattering sparks. Though the alter ego's orange eyes, glowing like metal heated to melting point in a forge, eternally pointed forward, he was well aware of the creatures, For all of the response he gave, however, he could have easily been oblivious.

Ironclad paid the shadowy entities no mind because he knew they wouldn't attack. The unknown, creepy shapes were fierce, but he was fiercer. Their dark teeth and tendrils could crush, tear, and puncture; his blades had yet to encounter flesh they couldn't sever. They were monsters, feared by many and hated by all. Unless he showed weakness or provoked them, they would keep their distance. Yes, they were monsters...but so was he.

Heavy, rhythmic footfalls continued to break the forest's silence. Once in a while the song of a bird would resound through the dense woods, breaking the beat. Ironclad's tail ceased its catlike whipping and simply trailed behind him. In ten minutes he would be out of this place. leaving the watchful eyes behind.

Unlikely Heroes

I figured after accidentally making little sand constructs and pouring sand out of hands for a good while a little stretchy limb won't phase him too much. I agree that interaction is one of the most fun things about roleplaying.

Dungeon Keepers

Anyone familiar with the riverfront of Anicetus could attest that it completely contrasted the city proper. While the rest of the desert city was dry, dreary awash with drab browns and whites and already indicative of a ghost town, the riverfront was a bustling hive of transportation and commerce rivaling some of the greatest wharfs of Moltuspons. The shops, inns, and other various buildings clustered against the piers at the brown water's edge like books in a shelf, forming a lively but cultured shantytown. Made rich by foreign goods and heavy taxes alike, this distract witnessed an eternal stream of people, coming or going or conducting business. Among fishmongers, antiques, weatherbeaten hunters from Altearx, and red-robed Paterdoman fire mages, three mysterious beings could move comfortably an anonymously.

Currently, the old man and the pit duchess sat together in a booth in the Amber Tide, a beer-hall situated on the pier itself renowned for its abundant liquor. While Eris was only too happy to partake heavily in the drinking, courteously extending part of the contents of her ample purse to her companion so that he could enjoy a small meal, the old man imbibed only water to keep a clear head. After some time, Moros appeared, newly clad in a lightweight puce cloak paid for by Eris. When he had requested the loan, she had marveled that someone of his alleged stature could want for something as basic as clothing. He seated himself at their table, comber and gaunt as ever despite the jovial atmosphere. “'Nam,” he began in a low voice, addressing the old man, ”she's got her aura suppressed, yeah?” Aeternam nodded his wrinkled head stiffly and picked at a greasy sausage on his plate. Once he had chewed it slowly, working it with infirm teeth, he replied. “This place hardly needs a malignant aura to start a brawl. It's full of sailors, salesman, rogues...most uncouth of men. And that is saying something. What have you found out?”
Moros took a deep draft of Eris's mug before he cupped his chin, resting the hand on the table. Eris became wrathful and attempted a right hook that might have dislocated Moros's jaw had she not drunkenly crumpled onto the table. “There is much warlike talk among those from Paterdomus. Be it fire or water, they've got trouble all around. Might be one of us, stirring mage and barbarian alike to conflict. Then again, we've got you and Fury here, so options are limited. Might be a Keeper.” His splotchy yellow eyes glanced left and right, trying to spot anyone who might be listening in. Over the collective roar of the floating tavern's patrons, however, little could be discerned. Aeternam cut in. “We're in no position to tackle a Keeper yet. First we must be united.”

At that moment, the doors slammed open, and in strode a man who looked every inch a seafaring captain in his regalia. Those in the building familiar with the area guessed he was fresh off the boat, stopped on his path through the Elysium interior. Judging by his obvious ill temper, he had just been taxed by the Anicetus officials, and was seeking to drown his discontent. Flanking the captain were three of his underlings, among them perhaps the first mate, and the bosun. This late in the day there was nothing the crew could do but depart on shore leave while customs searched the ship. While the noisy entrance of the captain and his entourage created a momentary disturbance, it took less than a minute for the bard to resume his song and the patrons their various activities. After waving over a barmaid and relaying their orders, the new arrivals found a table not far from Eris's and sat down without comment. Soon their drinks arrived and they began a private discussion that definitively set them apart from the tavern's general mood.

Instinctively, Moros -the closest- shifted to better hear what the mariners had to say. His cloak helped to disguise his movement and make him seem unimportant, so the seafarers did not cease their conversation. “Looks like ye had the right idea, bosun,” the mate was saying in a congested drawl, “A liddle storm damage mighda been far bedder den dievin' bureaucrads. An' dere's da deadlands t'worry about too. We shoulda gone by sea.' In reply, the bosun -a beefy, sideburned man with a squashed nose- spat onto the floor. “The deadland's just a myth, Snotty. The eastern forest's too sunk in to just keel over like that. You've been obsessin' over that rumor ever since we got outta Ruhig Basin, prattin' on about black grass and will o' wisps. All that's happened is some damned fool come up after a forest fire and run off flappin' his mouth. Ya hear me?”

The conversation didn't end there, but Moros scooted discretely away, having heard all he needed. He roughly tapped Eris on the shoulder to get her attention before declaring with a skeletal smile, “I think we ought to hitch a little ride with the captain there on his way down Myra. First convenience we've gotten in a while. Seems like little Escre might be trying to set up shop again, Keeper-style.”

Status

4/5 second creature
Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Bugs called Macula infest it, functioning as living security cameras and alarms. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner. Living Foundry, Apothecary, Macula infestation
Forces: 24 Drone Imps, 63 Myrmidons, imp construct Scutra