I've been roleplaying for five years and it's the first time I see someone post a joke post IC.
Edit: It is a joke, right?
Yes, it's a big ole jape.
Lugubrious
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STATUS: Now running: World of Light: The Tale of the Dark Itself 26 days ago
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Bio
Current GM of World of Light. When it comes to writing, there's nothing I love more than imagination, engagement, and commitment. I'm always open to talk, suggestion, criticism, and collaboration. While I try to be as obliging, helpful, and courteous as possible, I have very little sympathy for ghosts, and anyone who'd like to string me along. Straightforwardness is all I ask for.
Looking for more personal details? I'm just some dude from the American south; software development is my job but games, writing, and trying to help others enjoy life are my passions. Been RPing for over a decade, starting waaaay back with humble beginnings on the Spore forum, so I know a thing or two, though I won't pretend to be an expert. If you're down for some fun, let's make something spectacular together.
Looking for more personal details? I'm just some dude from the American south; software development is my job but games, writing, and trying to help others enjoy life are my passions. Been RPing for over a decade, starting waaaay back with humble beginnings on the Spore forum, so I know a thing or two, though I won't pretend to be an expert. If you're down for some fun, let's make something spectacular together.
Most Recent Posts
Yes, it's a big ole jape.
Hah hah hah, what a funny thing. Oh man.
It's still Jvan week, right? I'll try and get something up tomorrow morning.
It's still Jvan week, right? I'll try and get something up tomorrow morning.
Thinly disguising his disinterest, Souta allowed Otsune to join Sevrin, Lady, and Mary with the paper-pushing, instead pulling out a sketchpad to get to work. Few but the manufacturers themselves knew the process of Devil Arm design, and it lived up to the mantle of professional blacksmithery in complexity of technique. Many imagined that a demon or angel’s soul could only be coaxed into a single shape that represented the original owner completely, but that did not have to be the case. When contained in a Soul Jar, the essence of the slain being could be maintained while frames for specific weapons could be built, which the souls would then serve as capstones for. The natural weapon-form of an angel or demon typically represented the best way it could function, but through careful analysis better still weapon-forms could be discovered, and in this particular instance Souta knew that a rocket launcher would suit his demonic subject perfectly. Even still, he could not afford to be lazy in the design of said rocket launcher.
So intently focused was he that it only seemed to be a few seconds before his sister roused him, and after packing up he joined her in departing. The two moved quickly through the downpour, though to the naked eye there only appeared to be one. Otsune patiently directed him toward the location where the other Gilgamesh operatives would be dropped in, and by the time they stationed themselves under an awning the sound of a helicopter could already be heard. The black vehicle crested the top of an incoming wall of mist and came to a stop almost directly overhead. Roping flew out of its sides like tentacles extending from a creature of the deep, and the reinforcements quickly made their way down.
The first, massive man received a chuckle from Souta. ”Hey, it’s Babyfingers! How are your little baby fingers, bro?”
Holding them up for a flex, the jolly giant laughed. “Small and puny, but just right for my cannon. I really hope that your nickname doesn’t stick. ‘Horace’ suits me much better.”
A woman in white landed next to him, and focused her attention on unslinging her mace, as if the demons threatened to invade just now. With her around, Souta saw no reason to continue conversation with Horace. Though a deadly warrior and a loyal comrade, Ell radiated shyness and social awkwardness, which combined with her obvious beauty to make Souta nuts for her. Ell said nothing, only looking around fearfully with her single visible eye. The next operative came just as quietly, save for the clunks of his weaponized left arm.
“Geronimo!” A shout rang out across the street as the last soldier of Gilgamesh leaped from the helicopter, ignoring the rope dropped for him. He landed heavily, but stood up instantly, and with a smile on his face. Directing it toward Otsune, he rumbled, “Atlas reporting for duty, ma’am. Ready to crack some skulls.”
Otsune blinked. She’d been staring at the horizon –or what little a view of it Barlour’s skyline could afford- with a pensive frown. ”Good,” she whispered after a moment. ”You may need to sooner than you think.”
Even as the rain fell unabated, a new front rolled through Barlour City. It prickled the skin, causing goosebumps to form in self-defense, and kissed with freezing lips the fingers and ears of every pedestrian. Mist followed dutifully on this new weather’s heels, sweeping steadily down the streets in great drifts like ethereal, crashing waves trapped in slow motion. To an ordinary person, nothing could be said to be unusual, yet this cold front felt not just unpleasant, but wrong.
With an unremarkable but nevertheless urgent haste the humans of Barlour City returned to their homes or places of work, and behind them they locked the doors. No extraordinary compulsion forced them to abandon the urban sprawl’s streets; they merely wished to escape the biting winds and stinging, chilled rain of the coming storm. Not a one knew how right he or she was: a storm was coming.
No…the storm had come.
As an ashen tide a new bank of nebulous black fog flowed in from the west. Rather than an all-enveloping shroud, it condensed into a large but singular mass, moving steadily across main street. The smoky fumes billowed over the hoods of cars, slithered around streetlights and signs, and scratched against windows as it passed. It moved, too ominous and deliberate to by anywhere near natural, toward the city center—Memorial Park.
Silky laughter escaped the malevolent cloud as it drew new Memorial Park. Within the swirling black, flickers of red and blue could be spotted, but nothing definitive. At its head walked a single distinguishable shape: a woman, clad in a revealing pink qipao and bearing in hand a sheathed swordblade. Through the pouring rain she strode, her features totally calm but radiating intense purpose nonetheless. Her hair swing from side to side and she brusquely strode forth, and her drenched flesh gleamed with a sultry luster in the light of passing buildings.
The core of Memorial Park, and the epicenter of Barlour City, was a monument dedicated to the city’s founder: Frederick Anatole, a man of legendary creativity and curiosity. It depicted him leaning against a tree, with his faithful dog sitting beside him, all out of bronze. Around it lay a ring of metal grates, through which little fountains of water would shoot upward, and in which children would play in warmer days. The woman in pink approached the statue, the dark cloud directly behind, and after a moment pointed her weapon toward the nearest grate. From the haze darted two floating shapes, their bizarre red heads resting on streaming black cloaks, and they extended spearlike fingers to reach through and then lift up the grate. ”Go,” she murmured, and the cloud belched forth a squad of Hideous, which rushed down into the dark tunnels to begin the descent.
The race for the second seal was on.
So intently focused was he that it only seemed to be a few seconds before his sister roused him, and after packing up he joined her in departing. The two moved quickly through the downpour, though to the naked eye there only appeared to be one. Otsune patiently directed him toward the location where the other Gilgamesh operatives would be dropped in, and by the time they stationed themselves under an awning the sound of a helicopter could already be heard. The black vehicle crested the top of an incoming wall of mist and came to a stop almost directly overhead. Roping flew out of its sides like tentacles extending from a creature of the deep, and the reinforcements quickly made their way down.
The first, massive man received a chuckle from Souta. ”Hey, it’s Babyfingers! How are your little baby fingers, bro?”
Holding them up for a flex, the jolly giant laughed. “Small and puny, but just right for my cannon. I really hope that your nickname doesn’t stick. ‘Horace’ suits me much better.”
A woman in white landed next to him, and focused her attention on unslinging her mace, as if the demons threatened to invade just now. With her around, Souta saw no reason to continue conversation with Horace. Though a deadly warrior and a loyal comrade, Ell radiated shyness and social awkwardness, which combined with her obvious beauty to make Souta nuts for her. Ell said nothing, only looking around fearfully with her single visible eye. The next operative came just as quietly, save for the clunks of his weaponized left arm.
“Geronimo!” A shout rang out across the street as the last soldier of Gilgamesh leaped from the helicopter, ignoring the rope dropped for him. He landed heavily, but stood up instantly, and with a smile on his face. Directing it toward Otsune, he rumbled, “Atlas reporting for duty, ma’am. Ready to crack some skulls.”
Otsune blinked. She’d been staring at the horizon –or what little a view of it Barlour’s skyline could afford- with a pensive frown. ”Good,” she whispered after a moment. ”You may need to sooner than you think.”
-=-=-
Even as the rain fell unabated, a new front rolled through Barlour City. It prickled the skin, causing goosebumps to form in self-defense, and kissed with freezing lips the fingers and ears of every pedestrian. Mist followed dutifully on this new weather’s heels, sweeping steadily down the streets in great drifts like ethereal, crashing waves trapped in slow motion. To an ordinary person, nothing could be said to be unusual, yet this cold front felt not just unpleasant, but wrong.
With an unremarkable but nevertheless urgent haste the humans of Barlour City returned to their homes or places of work, and behind them they locked the doors. No extraordinary compulsion forced them to abandon the urban sprawl’s streets; they merely wished to escape the biting winds and stinging, chilled rain of the coming storm. Not a one knew how right he or she was: a storm was coming.
No…the storm had come.
As an ashen tide a new bank of nebulous black fog flowed in from the west. Rather than an all-enveloping shroud, it condensed into a large but singular mass, moving steadily across main street. The smoky fumes billowed over the hoods of cars, slithered around streetlights and signs, and scratched against windows as it passed. It moved, too ominous and deliberate to by anywhere near natural, toward the city center—Memorial Park.
Silky laughter escaped the malevolent cloud as it drew new Memorial Park. Within the swirling black, flickers of red and blue could be spotted, but nothing definitive. At its head walked a single distinguishable shape: a woman, clad in a revealing pink qipao and bearing in hand a sheathed swordblade. Through the pouring rain she strode, her features totally calm but radiating intense purpose nonetheless. Her hair swing from side to side and she brusquely strode forth, and her drenched flesh gleamed with a sultry luster in the light of passing buildings.
The core of Memorial Park, and the epicenter of Barlour City, was a monument dedicated to the city’s founder: Frederick Anatole, a man of legendary creativity and curiosity. It depicted him leaning against a tree, with his faithful dog sitting beside him, all out of bronze. Around it lay a ring of metal grates, through which little fountains of water would shoot upward, and in which children would play in warmer days. The woman in pink approached the statue, the dark cloud directly behind, and after a moment pointed her weapon toward the nearest grate. From the haze darted two floating shapes, their bizarre red heads resting on streaming black cloaks, and they extended spearlike fingers to reach through and then lift up the grate. ”Go,” she murmured, and the cloud belched forth a squad of Hideous, which rushed down into the dark tunnels to begin the descent.
The race for the second seal was on.
<Snipped quote by Lugubrious>
I'm willing to do that. As you know, it's far from the first time that I've dumped chunks of writing at the drop of a hat so that this story makes sense- It's already happened with Toun and Teknall. I've already have the satisfaction of writing the thing; If it's no fun to read or respond to, there's no point in keeping it.
The only thing that makes me reluctant to do that is that it sends a wedge through my character's ability to interact with yours and keep making some pass at sense. My character is already full of contradictory actions and threats that quickly turned idle. If she ignores Allure and his very real threat, then all it does is add her previous interactions concerning Slough to that embarrassing list. This won't bother you too much, since you're probably tired of my bitching by now; I'll just regret allowing my mistakes to have screwed over my chances to play an actually protective character.
So I'll snip out that section, own up to the consequences and say Cheerio, deer-buddy and loincloth-dude, you guys are free to do as you like now. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Don't be too down on yourself. I'm a little super salto with the stress. The last thing I want to do is permanently mar your character's nature with contradictions. Since you're fine with getting rid of the incident, we can work together on something better to replace it, that would be appropriate for both characters. For instance, I'd be happy to collab a confrontation between Allure and an emissary of Jvan. With this, whatever problem there is has been resolved, and there's nothing for you to feel bad about. I know that I acted harshly and apologize for it.
<Snipped quote by Lugubrious>
Ah, fuck, yes I botched this again. Most of my reasoning was trying to overcompensate for having been kept in the dark about the collab, even though I asked explicitly to be kept informed, especially given how clear I've made my character's investment in Slough. The rest was just straight up negligence of the second rule again for yet another spectacular fuck up.
I know it doesn't justify what I did, and I'm sorry. There's still time to repair the situation, and if you shoot me a PM with details about how you'd like to make the curse milder and more mutually interactive, I'd be more than happy to listen, and revise into something appropriate.
I remembered your request, but I didn't think it worth contacting you because of two things: Allure didn't actually interact with Slough, and the speed of the encounter was so quick that any heaving Jvanic mass would have been hard-pressed to arrive on time and be much of any help against him. The entire thing took place in only a minute or two.
If you're not willing to entertain the possibility of retconning your godmodding out completely, instead only willing to make it 'milder and more mutually interactive', then there's no point in reasoning anything out. This curse is just something that so thoroughly disinterests me, and only has the potential to be an obstacle, not anything interesting. I'll just take it as it comes. He's stuck with Lifprasil now anyway.
@Lugubrious By the way, can we agree that Allure was cursed while he was still unconscious? That makes the most sense continuity-wise.
What would make sense would be running something by me before forcibly doing something I really don't like to my character without my approval, but yes, him being unconscious is the only way that would possibly work.
<Snipped quote by Lugubrious>
Oh, must have misread that then. Damn. Maybe I shouldn't keep doing these "three days straight of no sleep because I feel like it" excursions so I can get my brain to function properly.
Three days of no sleep? DO you like dying? Because that's how you get dying.
I'm glad I don't have to dither with all of these dozens of pages about gods socializing because mine's nonsentient and nonhuman.
You couldn't see it, but I had shifty eyes at Vulamera while writing this.
You couldn't see it, but I had shifty eyes at Vulamera while writing this.
Very nice, Narayan. Man, what's not to like about socially awkward, shy, attractive, and deadly?
She's alive bro.
So... who's going to break the news to Robert that Priscilla was alive the entire time but they failed to save her? Or I guess everyone on the Brewing Storm mission could just keep it a secret from him and make any future interactions with him extremely awkward.
She's alive bro.
In good company, Souta couldn’t roll his eyes at Otsune, so he settled for a dry sort of smile while she did her thing. As good a thing as a sense of identity is, he always thought that his sister tried too much to fit into the ghostly persona ascribed to her by others. Even though she endeavored to be the epitome of dead-seriousness and eerie tranquility, her behavior struck him as might a manga hero with some sort of theme. Of course, the experiences she’d gone through surpassed the empathetic understanding of most people—perhaps the Phantom constituted her real self, after all. Souta felt like he knew his sister, having grown up by her side, but her ghostlike manner never failed to make him ill at ease. In the Phantom, only the most cursory traces of the sibling he loved remained.
Regardless of their familial ramifications, though, personas seemed terribly common in the ‘lucid underworld’, as Souta called the community of people wise to the nature of existence. Take these people, for example. The woman called Mary, decked out in antiquated clothes and possessed of skin nearly as pale as Otsune’s, could have passed for some sort of mannequin easily. By and large, Souta knew little of individual demon hunters, but he could easily imagine this woman cutting down creatures of heaven or hell, expressionless as a doll come to life to kill. The smartly-dressed man sported no overt themes, but all the same he exuded a sort of confident slyness that extended to how he talked. Were this some sort of movie, Souta would have instantly pegged Sevrin for a backstabber. In truth, nobody could indict him for anything more out of the ordinary than yellow eyes. Lastly, Souta expected that the Lady who sat before him was nothing like this in real life. After all, one couldn’t exactly go around their daily routine in a white business suit more revealing than certain types of swimwear.
Unwilling to let himself grow bored, he paid close attention to Lady as she began to brief him on the situation. As usual, Otsune might as well have not been there for all the presence she brought to the room, large as she was. News of a surge in demonic activity did not exactly surprise him. Over the past few months, Gilgamesh had been in overdrive, which meant a steady stream of souls for Regalia to treat. Less than a week ago, Souta completed his latest Devil Arm: Escre, a warhammer crafted from the soul of a demonic lich, capable of summoning spectral green skeletons to aid him just as they had done their previous master. It pleased him to no end. Mention of the seven seals thrilled him less. Only in rumors and references had Souta heard of them, yet he knew enough to be unhappy that any of them might be broken. For a moment he feared, albeit incredulously, that all seven were no more, but Lady soon set him straight.
He spoke up when the opportunity arose. ”I’m up for busting a few heads. Got a new Devil Arm I’m dying to test. Well, not dying, but you know.” Reclining, he placed his hands behind his head and expected Otsune to speak for Gilgamesh.
The soft, wispy tones of his sister obliged immediately. ”Indeed, I am here because Gilgamesh anticipated something important. We have sensors of our own. I have already sent the confirmation signal; additional operatives from the Reclaimers will arrive shortly. One more thing: we can expect angels to arrive as well, if they have not already.” The mechanical flower on her head flared for a moment as she gazed into the distance. Little clicks and whirs from her augmentations filled the silence that followed as she waited for a reply.
Regardless of their familial ramifications, though, personas seemed terribly common in the ‘lucid underworld’, as Souta called the community of people wise to the nature of existence. Take these people, for example. The woman called Mary, decked out in antiquated clothes and possessed of skin nearly as pale as Otsune’s, could have passed for some sort of mannequin easily. By and large, Souta knew little of individual demon hunters, but he could easily imagine this woman cutting down creatures of heaven or hell, expressionless as a doll come to life to kill. The smartly-dressed man sported no overt themes, but all the same he exuded a sort of confident slyness that extended to how he talked. Were this some sort of movie, Souta would have instantly pegged Sevrin for a backstabber. In truth, nobody could indict him for anything more out of the ordinary than yellow eyes. Lastly, Souta expected that the Lady who sat before him was nothing like this in real life. After all, one couldn’t exactly go around their daily routine in a white business suit more revealing than certain types of swimwear.
Unwilling to let himself grow bored, he paid close attention to Lady as she began to brief him on the situation. As usual, Otsune might as well have not been there for all the presence she brought to the room, large as she was. News of a surge in demonic activity did not exactly surprise him. Over the past few months, Gilgamesh had been in overdrive, which meant a steady stream of souls for Regalia to treat. Less than a week ago, Souta completed his latest Devil Arm: Escre, a warhammer crafted from the soul of a demonic lich, capable of summoning spectral green skeletons to aid him just as they had done their previous master. It pleased him to no end. Mention of the seven seals thrilled him less. Only in rumors and references had Souta heard of them, yet he knew enough to be unhappy that any of them might be broken. For a moment he feared, albeit incredulously, that all seven were no more, but Lady soon set him straight.
He spoke up when the opportunity arose. ”I’m up for busting a few heads. Got a new Devil Arm I’m dying to test. Well, not dying, but you know.” Reclining, he placed his hands behind his head and expected Otsune to speak for Gilgamesh.
The soft, wispy tones of his sister obliged immediately. ”Indeed, I am here because Gilgamesh anticipated something important. We have sensors of our own. I have already sent the confirmation signal; additional operatives from the Reclaimers will arrive shortly. One more thing: we can expect angels to arrive as well, if they have not already.” The mechanical flower on her head flared for a moment as she gazed into the distance. Little clicks and whirs from her augmentations filled the silence that followed as she waited for a reply.
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